Violets and Other Tales | Page 2

not yet known, when all is new, And
all is lovely."
There is much in this book that is good; much that is crude; some that
is poor: but all give that assurance of something great and noble when
the bud of promise, now unfolding its petals in the morning glow of
light, will have matured into that fuller growth of blossoming flower
ere the noonday sun passes its zenith. May the hope thus engendered by
this first attempt reach its fruition, and may the energy displayed by
one so young meet the reward it merits from an approving public.
SYLVANIE F. WILLIAMS.

VIOLETS.
I.
"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair."
She sat in the yellow glow of the lamplight softly humming these
words. It was Easter evening, and the newly risen spring world was
slowly sinking to a gentle, rosy, opalescent slumber, sweetly tired of
the joy which had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect
morn, it had arisen, stretched out its arms in glorious happiness to greet
the Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird,

and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.
There was a letter lying on the table, it read:
"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token.
Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you.
Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced
things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then
they signify that thought which passes always between you and me.
The orange blossoms--you know their meaning; the little pinks are the
flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of
our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and
pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my
bosom, and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always
lived in my memory. The violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore
to-day, and when kneeling at the altar, during communion, did I sin,
dear, when I thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I
wore Friday night; you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie
these flowers with them--but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap
them with a bit of ribbon, pale blue, from that little dress I wore last
winter to the dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in that
forgotten nook. You always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles
away from the throat and bosom,--you called me your little
forget-me-not, that night. I laid the flowers away for awhile in our
favorite book,--Byron--just at the poem we loved best, and now I send
them to you. Keep them always in remembrance of me, and if aught
should occur to separate us, press these flowers to your lips, and I will
be with you in spirit, permeating your heart with unutterable love and
happiness."
II.
It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news of
the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in field
and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and the heavy
perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring
fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the
white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping

face. Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined
casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known rest;
locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in her soft,
brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown; violets and
tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the air was
filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some whispered
that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young form, and
that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender sunbeam.
To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago she had
communed at an earthly altar.
III.
Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some
papers, turned over a faded bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon
and a lock of hair. He paused meditatively awhile, then turning to the
regal-looking woman lounging before the fire, he asked:
"Wife, did you ever send me these?"
She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable
disdain, and replied languidly:
"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such
sentimental trash to any one? Throw them into the fire."
And the