Violets and Other Tales
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,
16golden 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 stain-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 flutted 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.