"You're Mis' Orme, ain't you? This here's for you."
The little white-cheeked maid hovered at the
threshold while I lifted the box cover and revealed the
perfection of the American beauty buds that lay there,
all dewy and fragrant. The eyes of the little maid
were wide with wonder as she gazed, and because I had
known flower-hunger I separated two stately blossoms
from the glowing cluster and held them out to her.
"For me!" she gasped, and brought her lips down to
them, gently. Then--"There's a high green jar downstairs
you can have to stick your flowers in. You ain't got
nothin' big enough in here, except your water pitcher.
An' putting these grand flowers in a water pitcher--why,
it'd be like wearing a silk dress over a flannel
petticoat, wouldn't it?"
When the anemic little boarding-house slavey with the
beauty-loving soul had fetched the green jar, I placed
the shining stems in it with gentle fingers. At the
bottom of the box I found a card that read: "For it is
impossible to live in a room with red roses and still be
traurig"
How well he knew! And how truly impossible to be sad
when red roses are glowing for one, and filling the air
with their fragrance!
The interruption was fatal to book-writing.
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