Violets and Other Tales | Page 3

Easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly
licked up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or
did the husband really sigh,--a long, quivering breath of remembrance?

THREE THOUGHTS.
FIRST.
How few of us In all the world's great, ceaseless struggling strife, Go to
our work with gladsome, buoyant step, And love it for its sake,
whate'er it be. Because it is a labor, or, mayhap, Some sweet, peculiar

art of God's own gift; And not the promise of the world's slow smile of
recognition, or of mammon's gilded grasp. Alas, how few, in
inspiration's dazzling flash, Or spiritual sense of world's beyond the
dome Of circling blue around this weary earth, Can bask, and know the
God-given grace Of genius' fire that flows and permeates The virgin
mind alone; the soul in which The love of earth hath tainted not. The
love of art and art alone.
SECOND.
"Who dares stand forth?" the monarch cried, "Amid the throng, and
dare to give Their aid, and bid this wretch to live? I pledge my faith and
crown beside, A woeful plight, a sorry sight, This outcast from all
God-given grace.
What, ho! in all, no friendly face, No helping hand to stay his plight? St.
Peter's name be pledged for aye, The man's accursed, that is true; But
ho, he suffers. None of you Will mercy show, or pity sigh?"
Strong men drew back, and lordly train Did slowly file from monarch's
look, Whose lips curled scorn. But from a nook A voice cried out,
"Though he has slain That which I loved the best on earth, Yet will I
tend him till he dies, I can be brave." A woman's eyes Gazed fearlessly
into his own.
THIRD.
When all the world has grown full cold to thee, And man--proud
pygmy--shrugs all scornfully, And bitter, blinding tears flow gushing
forth, Because of thine own sorrows and poor plight, Then turn ye swift
to nature's page, And read there passions, immeasurably far Greater
than thine own in all their littleness. For nature has her sorrows and her
joys, As all the piled-up mountains and low vales Will silently
attest--and hang thy head In dire confusion, for having dared To moan
at thine own miseries When God and nature suffer silently.

THE WOMAN.

The literary manager of the club arose, cleared his throat, adjusted his
cravat, fixed his eyes sternly upon the young man, and in a sonorous
voice, a little marred by his habitual lisp, asked: "Mr. ----, will you
please tell us your opinion upon the question, whether woman's
chances for matrimony are increased or decreased when she becomes
man's equal as a wage earner?"
The secretary adjusted her eye-glass, and held her pencil alertly poised
above her book, ready to note which side Mr. ---- took. Mr. ----
fidgeted, pulled himself together with a violent jerk, and finally spoke
his mind. Someone else did likewise, also someone else, then the
women interposed, and jumped on the men, the men retaliated, a wordy
war ensued, and the whole matter ended by nothing being decided, pro
or con--generally the case in wordy discussions. Moi? Well, I sawed
wood and said nothing, but all the while there was forming in my mind,
no, I won't say forming, it was there already. It was this, Why should
well-salaried women marry? Take the average working-woman of
to-day. She works from five to ten hours a day, doing extra night work,
sometimes, of course. Her work over, she goes home or to her
boarding-house, as the case may be. Her meals are prepared for her, she
has no household cares upon her shoulders, no troublesome dinners to
prepare for a fault-finding husband, no fretful children to try her
patience, no petty bread and meat economies to adjust. She has her
cares, her money-troubles, her debts, and her scrimpings, it is true, but
they only make her independent, instead of reducing her to a dead level
of despair. Her day's work ends at the office, school, factory or store;
the rest of the time is hers, undisturbed by the restless going to and fro
of housewifely cares, and she can employ it in mental or social
diversions. She does not incessantly rely upon the whims of a cross
man to take her to such amusements as she desires. In this nineteenth
century she is free to go where she pleases--provided it be in a moral
atmosphere--without comment. Theatres, concerts, lectures, and the
lighter amusements of social affairs among her associates, are open to
her, and there she can go, see, and be seen, admire and be admired,
enjoy and be enjoyed, without a single harrowing thought of the baby's
milk or the husband's coffee.

Her earnings are her own, indisputably,