The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1912-11-16
4 STORY OF WoLE1 {;

tions each hurrying face.
A London street, it's rows of gaunt
houses; the heavy atmosphere, suf
fused with faint veil of gray fog
the dull, monotonous rumble of traffic
the weary feeling OF struggling human
ity, the sound OF anxious footsteps has
tening along the paved road OF life
The only color In this dim picture a
patch OF violets-violets heaped In
profusion on the fower-glrl's tray. VI
Diets. whose breath, laden with thou
sand memories. floats on the sitting
air and creeps unbidden, II may be un-
welcome, into the very heart OF every
passerby
The city man, his mind running In
figures, pulls up short to buy a, bunch
\ of the flowers whose sweet scent stirs
his dull memory into activity, telling
I him that he still possesses heart
Emotions, long stllled, memories bit
ter-sweet, youthful dreams awakened
! by the fragrance OF those volets, rise
persistently all day long, following
him, Juggling at his sleeve, even in the
midst of the all-abiding worship of
Mamman.
Poor little modest flower!" A
youth, battling with the harder side
of life, looks down with pity on the
bunch of violets in his hand. Like a
soft caress their breath touches his
sensitive heart, raising him above the
hum OF city life into the fools par
adse" of fancy
Two girls approach; one is richly
dressed. The fower-girl steps eagerly
forward. her monotonous cry chang
ing to a note OF earnest interrogation.
The elder of the two waves aside the
modest English flower; the more ex-
pesive Parma violet Is selected-they
remind her Of Nice and of the Carni-
val. Her companion, in the plain
brown dress, scarcely hears these flip
pant remarks. Bending over the tray
of English violets, she has become UNI
conscious of her surroundings. The
violets whisper In her ear of babblng
brook and the song of birds. She
sees her home-the tiny cottage, her
mothers smile; her little brother, for
whose sake she has left that simple,
happy life to live in the glare OF Lon
don society, where she must silently
endure thousand yelled insults that
only a dependent can understand.
When she turns away violet glistens
In the feeble sunshine-a tear from
lonely, sympathetic heart lies, like
a dewdrop, on the violets breast.
All day long the violets pour out
their fragrant life on the sullen air,
growing fainter, fading away as the
day wears on. Hundreds hurry past.
Few allow themselves to catch the
sweet thoughts that hover round the
flowers; fewer still have time to stop
and buy. The fower-girl knows moth
ing Of this magic fragrance. The
scent of tray full of fresh violets
brings back the picture of cold,
bleak morning, noisy market, the
beginning of a hard days work and
vague, uneasy questionings prompt
ed by pangs of hunger Far dearer to
her heart than the fairest flower is
the sight of little heap of dirty cop
pers, counted out on an empty tray.
A acknowledges couple stop
before the fower-grl. The man Of
fers his companion bunch OF Eng
lsh violets, but as before, they are
scornfully declined.
Parma violets look so we'll on fur;
English violets are so. common!" she
explains.
The man puts the rejected bunch of
violets in his buttonhole, his thoughts
leap back to a forsaken memory-the
street fades; the sound of traffic grows
less; he answers his companion me-
chanically; his thoughts are far
away.
Violets, violets, nothing but violets.
There at least in the cold solitude of
the wood that shy, most modest of fow-
ers was not afraid OF being seen. The
ground was carpeted with them, the
air was filled with their fragrance. A
girl sat on the stump of a tree, with
violets In her hands, in the basket
4