The Third Violet

The Third Violet, by Stephen
Crane

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Third Violet, by Stephen Crane
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: The Third Violet
Author: Stephen Crane

Release Date: October 20, 2006 [eBook #19593]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD
VIOLET***
E-text prepared by Janet Blenkinship and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) from page
images generously made available by Internet Archive/American
Libraries (http://www.archive.org/details/americana)

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet
Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/thirdviolet00cranarch

THE THIRD VIOLET
by
STEPHEN CRANE
Author of The Red Badge of Courage, The Little Regiment, and
Maggie

New York D. Appleton and Company 1897
Copyright, 1897, by D. Appleton and Company. Copyright, 1896, by
Stephen Crane.

THE THIRD VIOLET.
CHAPTER I.
The engine bellowed its way up the slanting, winding valley. Grey
crags, and trees with roots fastened cleverly to the steeps looked down
at the struggles of the black monster.
When the train finally released its passengers they burst forth with the
enthusiasm of escaping convicts. A great bustle ensued on the platform
of the little mountain station. The idlers and philosophers from the
village were present to examine the consignment of people from the
city. These latter, loaded with bundles and children, thronged at the
stage drivers. The stage drivers thronged at the people from the city.
Hawker, with his clothes case, his paint-box, his easel, climbed

awkwardly down the steps of the car. The easel swung uncontrolled
and knocked against the head of a little boy who was disembarking
backward with fine caution. "Hello, little man," said Hawker, "did it
hurt?" The child regarded him in silence and with sudden interest, as if
Hawker had called his attention to a phenomenon. The young painter
was politely waiting until the little boy should conclude his
examination, but a voice behind him cried, "Roger, go on down!" A
nursemaid was conducting a little girl where she would probably be
struck by the other end of the easel. The boy resumed his cautious
descent.
The stage drivers made such great noise as a collection that as
individuals their identities were lost. With a highly important air, as a
man proud of being so busy, the baggageman of the train was
thundering trunks at the other employees on the platform. Hawker,
prowling through the crowd, heard a voice near his shoulder say, "Do
you know where is the stage for Hemlock Inn?" Hawker turned and
found a young woman regarding him. A wave of astonishment whirled
into his hair, and he turned his eyes quickly for fear that she would
think that he had looked at her. He said, "Yes, certainly, I think I can
find it." At the same time he was crying to himself: "Wouldn't I like to
paint her, though! What a glance--oh, murder! The--the--the distance in
her eyes!"
He went fiercely from one driver to another. That obdurate stage for
Hemlock Inn must appear at once. Finally he perceived a man who
grinned expectantly at him. "Oh," said Hawker, "you drive the stage for
Hemlock Inn?" The man admitted it. Hawker said, "Here is the stage."
The young woman smiled.
The driver inserted Hawker and his luggage far into the end of the
vehicle. He sat there, crooked forward so that his eyes should see the
first coming of the girl into the frame of light at the other end of the
stage. Presently she appeared there. She was bringing the little boy, the
little girl, the nursemaid, and another young woman, who was at once
to be known as the mother of the two children. The girl indicated the
stage with a small gesture of triumph. When they were all seated

uncomfortably in the huge covered vehicle the little boy gave Hawker a
glance of recognition. "It hurted then, but it's all right now," he
informed him cheerfully.
"Did it?" replied Hawker. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, I didn't mind it much," continued the little boy, swinging his long,
red-leather leggings bravely to and fro. "I don't cry when I'm hurt,
anyhow." He cast a meaning look at his tiny sister, whose soft lips set
defensively.
The driver climbed into his seat, and after a scrutiny of the group in the
gloom of the stage he chirped to his horses. They began a slow and
thoughtful trotting. Dust streamed out behind the vehicle. In front, the
green hills were still and serene in the evening air. A beam of gold
struck them aslant, and on the