The herald. [volume] (New Orleans, La.) 1905-1953, 1912-10-10
A STORY OF VIOLETS

tions each hurrying face.
A London street, its rows of gaunt
houses; the heavy atmosphere, suf-
fused with a faint veil of gray fog,
the dull, monotonous rumble OF traffic,
the weary feeling Of struggling human
lily, 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 flower-girl's tray. VI
Diets, whose breath, laden with a thou
sand memories, floats on the sitting
air and creeps unbidden, 1t may be I'M
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
him that he still possesses a heart.
/ Emotions, long stilled, memories bit
ter-sweet, youthful dreams awakened
| by the fragrance of those violets, rise
persistently all day long, following
J him, Juggling at his sleeve, even in the
midst of the all-abiding worship Of
Mamman.
Poor little modest fower!" A
| youth, battling with the harder side
Of life, looks down with pity on the
! bunch OF violets In his hand. Like q
soft caress their breath touches his
sensitive heart, raising him above the
hum of city life into the fools par.
adise" of fancy.
Two girls approach; one is richly
dressed. The flower-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 I'M
conscious of her surroundings. The
violets whisper in her ear of babbling
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 a thousand yelled insults that
only a dependent can understand.
When she turns away violet glistens
in the feeble sunshine-a tear from
! O hot art EA
a dewdrop, on the violet's 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 fiower-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 acknowledgement couple stop
before the flower-girl. The man of.
fers his companion a bunch of Eng.
lish 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 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 violetsi
There at least in the cold solitude OF
the wood that shy, most modest of flow.
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 tree, with
violets in her hands, in the basket
at her side; violets profusely at her
feet; violets, soft and dark, in her
eyes. AS some one drew near her
color deepened, an expectant smile
lowered round her lips.
They come to a more crowded part
/ of the street. The man draws closer
to his companion; the isidious scent
of the Parma violets she is wearing
penetrates into the very heart of the
enchanted wood. Forbidden dreams,
forbidden thoughts, thousand regrets
rush for a moment through his brain.
but he has deliberately scorned the
modest country flower, he had chosen
her rich, her more precious rival. In
the press of the crowd something falls
to the ground; 1t Is his bunch Of Eng
lish violets-they lie in the mud. For
a moment he hesitates, then he goes
on his way-not daring to pick them
up.
"Vi'lits, Willis, only a penny q
bunch!"
The Summer Girl Again.
! Mavor pacharach of Atlantic Cifv