m7 
 

 iiSSiiiiWil^ 
 
 
 fiNAHEL fiNDREWS. 
 
. /f3^fs- 
 
 Capyright IBBB by 
 
 GEO, E. HfiGLEY, 
 
 Nashua, N. H, 
 
^ontents. 
 
 Frost Flowers. 
 Apple Blooms. 
 A White Lily. 
 Baby May. 
 Wild Asters. 
 
 Golden Rod. 
 Mignonette. 
 When the I^aisies BlooiM A(;ain. 
 
 Sunset. 
 At Rest. 
 
TO MY HUSBAND: 
 
 The best and truest friend I ever had. 
 I dedieiite with love this little posey : composed of the simple 
 tlowers he likes best. 
 
 The Author. 
 
jl|[nost 1| 
 
 rlOLDOPS. 
 
 i-^liP '^^If^^^l^^^US I'attlino; of the grate, and a few disconneot- 
 
 fW^i ed words uttered in an eqnallv visiorous tone of voice. 
 
 "^""i^ floated up through the open register to Daphne's ears as 
 
 she finished dressing, her teetli fairly chattering with the cold. 
 
 '•'I declare I never Ivnew it to be so cold in this room ! Dear 
 me, the water is frozen too ; tlie cold wave has struck us at last, 
 surely. Now what in the world is the reascju Ton) is smashing 
 things 'round so, down stairs?" 
 
 A patter of feet down the stair-way. then the door swung 
 to and Daphne spi'ead her little blue lingers out toward the 
 stove : wondei'ing why it should he so cold, and why there 
 should be such a litter of shavings and kindlings, when Tom 
 came in and tossed some more wood into tlie stove, slannning 
 the dooi- with a force which sent a whiff of ashes afloat in every 
 direction. 
 
 ''It is just awful cold, Tom I" 
 
 ''Oh, is it? Well now, I'm ever so much obliged foi' tli" in- 
 formation : how long since you made that interesting discovery?" 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't make so much litter; it really doesn't 
 seem to me that there's any need of it." 
 
 "Course there isn't I If you came down and found the fire 
 all out and everything frozen solid, you'd pick out a shaviug 
 
and a, half, and, after having carefully arranged them, you 
 would pile on the kindling with equal care, I suppose," and an- 
 other stick went in with a slam. 
 
 "1 wouldn't talk as you did ; I heard a word or two now :uid 
 then and I know you didn't talk very proi)erly. liesides I 
 should think you'd be ashamed to he so cross just Viecause the 
 tire went out ; you couldhave stayed in the kitchen while this tire 
 was starting," and with a most superior and dignified look 
 Daphne opened the door and passed out. 
 
 The kitchen she found U) be n few degrees colder than the 
 sitting-room, so came back. Tom looked up :ind inciuiied if 
 the temperatiu'e was so tcjrrid she couldn't bear it, and iKJvered 
 a little closer over the stove. 
 
 ''How did it happen that both these tires shouhl go out, and 
 such a coltl night too? I don't believe yon took care of tliem 
 [)roperly when you came home last night." 
 
 "Course Ididn't. I never do auythiug properly. Say Daphne, 
 did yon know I was to blame for the Hood?" 
 
 But Daphne deigned no I'eply. ami at once began her pre- 
 parations for breakfast, while neithei- spoke Mgain until the meal 
 was ready. Daphne sat straight and stitf and poured coffee, 
 while Tom sat straight and stiff' opposite ; each using the utmost 
 politeness in speaking when it was absolutely necessary. 
 
 When it was time for Tom to go to the stoi'e he even button- 
 ed his overcoat before saying anything, and Daphne's poor fool- 
 ish heart sank neai'ly into the tiim little !)Oots which Tom had 
 brought home only the day before ; but she made no sign and 
 kept on clearing away the breakfast dishes as though thtie wiis 
 nothing else in the world which occu[)ied her mind at that pre- 
 cise moment. Tom took his cap from its i)eg and stood irreso- 
 lute an instant, then the pietty monogram inside — the work of 
 Daphne's dainty fingers — caught his eye, and tucking the cap 
 under his arm he called, "Daphne !" 
 
''Yes sir," and she stood deiinirely, just in the door-way, 
 •'Did yoii want anything?" 
 
 'sStuffy little ininx, she deserves a shaking!" thought Tom ; 
 
 l)ut the pink eheeks and dewy eyes eaused liis heart to relent 
 
 and he said : "■Only to have you look at these l)eautiful frost- 
 tlowers here on the window." 
 
 Well enough she knew that was only a ruse to lure her over 
 to the window, where he would kiss h"r and "■make u^) :" but 
 she wanted him t(j say tiist that he was sorry for havirig teasetl 
 her; so she answei^ed iu a very dignified manner: ••! havn'tthe 
 time now, thank you ; ami. judging from the temperature of 
 this room, I can look at tiiem at my leisure durinu' the day." 
 
 '•Yes; you will have to thaw out cousiderahly liefoie any tire 
 will make an impression where you are. I never knew hefoi-e 
 how mueh your disposition de|)ended for its sweetness on — '" 
 l)ut Dai)hne was gone. Tom waited a few minutes, half hop- 
 ing she would return, then elai)ping on his cap he started toward 
 the door. 
 
 Daphne, anxious for a reeonciliation, had reaehed there tirst 
 by going another way. and was now giving hei- whole time and 
 attention to rolling up the hall mat i)ri'paratory to siiaking it — 
 a thing which Tom never allowed her t() do, by the way. lie 
 shook the mat, laid it at her feet and, lifting his cap. bowed i:i 
 his most killing manner, said -"(iood morning" and was gone. 
 Then Daphne locked the door, seated herself in a miserable 
 heap on the rug in front of the now glowing tire, and cried, nn- 
 till her eyeli<ls were swollen and smaiting. Then, as a siiov^er in 
 summer clears the air and makes the returning sunshine even 
 brighter, so her tears washed away her vexation, and, rising, 
 she said : •■() dear I I was a little dunce. Itut I'll go this in- 
 stant and make a lemon ci'eam for dinner and say I'm sorry ; 
 but to think he should go away with such a cool goodbye !" and 
 the tears broke forth afresh. 
 
Just as everything was done for the day and ail preparations 
 
 made for the seven o'cloclv dinner — when Tom would come and 
 
 all things be peaceful once more — a ring at tlie door called 
 
 Daphne from her musings. She found a small boy, who handed 
 
 her a note, and saying there was no, reply, took himself, his 
 
 veiy small hat, and his very large trousers out of the way. 
 
 The note was from Tom, and thus it ran : 
 
 Mrs. T. H. Tannaut : 
 
 Dear madam — 1 am unexpectedly called ro 11 
 
 on business for the tirm, and shall begone to-night. Doubtless 
 vou will be able to manage the fires more to your satisfaction, 
 and will be glad of the opportunity. 
 
 Very respectfully, 
 
 T. H. Tannant. 
 
 "The idea, when he knows how 1 hate to touch a fire ! I'll 
 just go right straight home to mother, and there I'll stay till he 
 says he is sorry." 
 
 An hour later a very resolute looking little lady took a seat 
 
 in the cars for D ; and this is the note Tom found awaiting 
 
 him on his return next night. 
 
 T. H. Tannant : 
 
 Sir — Doubtless I might be able to manage 
 
 the fires beautifully ; but not caring to do so 1 have gone to 
 
 mother's where I shall be warm, comfortable and well treated. 
 
 Hoping that you may have an opportunity of enjoying all the 
 
 fi'ost flowers you core to, 
 
 I am, very respectfully, 
 
 nai)hne Tannant. 
 
 To find a note like this in a cold house, when the mercury in 
 the thermometer was hunting the bulb, was not calculated to 
 make a man feel very pleasantly I must admit. Tom had come 
 home penitent : eager for a chance to make his peace, and 
 stowed away in his pocket was a little peace-offering that Daph- 
 ne had mentioned as so beautiful in Silvern »& Go's window a 
 few days before ; now, however, he was angry. He tossed the 
 note down, exclaiming : "Well, if you wait for me to come after 
 you, you will wait quite a little season !" and fell to work at the 
 fires. 
 
While he was rattling and smashing round everything went 
 pretty well ; liiit after the fires were all running finely, his coffee 
 made and di.s[)osed of, together with the very lemon cream into 
 which Daphne had mixed so many pleasant and unpleasant 
 thoughts that it is a wonder it didn't give him his death of indi- 
 gestion — his cigar lighted, himself comfortaWy composed in his 
 easy chair, he missed something. Daphne's kitten mewed and 
 riil)hed Mgainsl his legs, am' the dog kept running to the foot 
 of the stairs, barking excitedly and running back again. He 
 fed them, but still they refused to be comforted ; so finally he 
 made Cud. lie a l)eil of Daphne'.s shawl, into which she at once 
 nestled contentedly, and gave Si)ider a slipper, then everything 
 was quiet. How still it was ! What made it so still? Some- 
 how Tom didn't like it. 
 
 Into the stillness troublesome thoughts began to inti'ude ; 
 thoughts of the busy hands always so ready to do anything for 
 his comfort or pleasure ; the sweet, clear voice which chattered 
 so pleasantly always ; the little snatches of song; the swish 
 of feminine draperies. -"Heigh ho ! 1 was downright mean to 
 the dear little thing I At home she was waited on and idol- 
 ized — guess she never knew what it was in her life to come 
 down and prepare breakfast till she married me. Spent a 
 whole year learning about housework so we shouldn't be obliged 
 to keej) a girl — then'. Tom 'I'annant. you ought to b;^' kicked to 
 death by (•ri[)ples I if 1 live till to-morrow I'll go after her !" 
 
 Unt you know, my reader, that in this little world occasionally 
 affairs have l)een known to turn out very differently from what 
 the parties most interested would have wished ; and although 
 Tom survived till the next day, he did not go after Daphne, 
 because inunediately on reaching the store he was informed of 
 the illness of the senior partner, so, of coui'se, he could not be 
 spared. Leaving Tom to fret and worry out the day inside, 
 while outwardly he was as sereue as a May morning, we will 
 go where he would like to go — to visit Daphne. When that 
 
youDg lady presented herself befoi-e her mother and annonneed 
 that she had come home for a visit, Mrs. Deering at once 
 mistrusted the reason ; but being gifted with unusual prudence, 
 she said nothing, and waited developments. 
 
 Toward night Dai)hne began to grow I'estless ; would start 
 nervously at the sound of the bell, and at last, pleading fatigue, 
 went to her own room. Next morning she came down 
 early, and in her old seat by a south window began diligently 
 to work at a small painting. As it grew rapidly under her 
 fingers the family all exclaimed : ^'How queer! How did yon 
 happen to think of that?" Beside a win<low covered with 
 flowers and ferns traced by the delicate fingers of the frost, a 
 woman sat with head bent low on her hands ; her face was 
 concealed from view ; but sorrow was expressed in every line 
 and curve of the figure which was Dai)hne's own. She only 
 said: ''It is an idea I happened to have, and I want to get it 
 on canvas as soon as possible while I nm here; the details I 
 can put in at my leisure." The second day she finished what 
 she intended to do, and placed it to dry ; her mother watched her 
 face anxiously awhile, then said : "Do yon remember once, 
 Daphne, when you were a wee girl, of disputing with your 
 playmate, Amy? I said: 'Why, Daphne, yon mus'n't do so — 
 it is wrong to quarrel with Amy.' Yon turned your head one 
 side and said : 'But I didn't qiiarl with her, she (jaarled with 
 me !' You always fancied Amy did the 'quarling.' " Daphne 
 came swiftly to her mother's side, and saying "How did you 
 know ; what shall I do?" hid her face on her mother's lap. 
 
 "Send him the picture, as you intended ; it will bear varnish- 
 ing by night, and you can retouch it at your leisure." 
 
 Then followed some words of motherly counsel and loving 
 warning : to all of which a most subdued little Daphne listened. 
 
 Just after she had placed the painting carefully in its box 
 and tied the last string, she went to prepare for a walk to the 
 express office, for she would trust it to no hand save her own. 
 
She heard her mother's voice as she ran down the stairs, and 
 that worthy lady came to meet lier, saying : "You must remove 
 your cloak and bonnet, for you have a caller waiting for you." 
 
 "O dear ! I didn't mean a soul should know I was at home !" 
 she exclaimed impatiently, tossing her wraps on the hall table 
 and walking into the parlor, to see 1)y the south window the 
 bronze-brown curls and moustache of her own Tom. 
 
 Hesitating in the centre of the room, she was met by that 
 young man, who picked her up bodily, carried lier to the Sleepy 
 Hollow, where he enthroned her on his knee, and addressed her 
 us follows : 
 
 "I was a brute and a fool to treat you so, Uaffy-dowu-dilly, 
 though you were pretty spiteful. However, that's no excuse 
 for me, since you are the weaker vessel, and I should have set you 
 a better example, which, if you will come home, I will at once 
 proceed to do. Spider and Cuddle are extremely lonely Avith- 
 out you, and I am unable to take my usual comfort in the even- 
 ing because they tease me so. Will you come?" 
 
 And, like all the rest, she "clasped her hapi)y hand in liis nud 
 went content." Did he ever see the painting? I am surpi-ised ! 
 Of course she at once took measures to hide it, and congratulated 
 herself on the fact that he needn't know anything about thut. 
 Equally of course, next evening, in the sanctity of their own 
 home — after the delicious dinner to which poor, starved Tom, 
 Spider and Cuddle did ample justice — she at once produced the 
 picture, told its destination, and was loved and petted to her 
 heart's content by the i-epentant Tom. 
 
^pple ||loom5. 
 
 jHE fragrant flakes are falling, May : 
 ^1^^ I wait your coining here 
 
 Beside this mossy, gnarled old seat. 
 With daisies nestling at its feet — 
 Why do yon linger, dear? 
 
 Ah, me! Whene'er the apples bloom 
 
 I miss your presence, May ; 
 I cannot think you gone, my own, — 
 Lo I am waiting here alone, 
 While you in Heaven stay ! 
 
 Ten times the apple-trees ha\e borne 
 
 A perfumed wealth of snow, 
 
 Since, darling, you lay down to rest, 
 
 With apple-blossoms on your breast. 
 
 And o'er your grave so low ! 
 
 And yet I always wait you here, 
 
 In our old trysting place ; 
 Half hoping, love, that I shall see 
 Smiling from out the blooms at me 
 Your own sweet, happy face. 
 
4 W^^^ t^'H- 
 
 A long, old-fashioned kitchen, and by one of the windows a 
 woaian stood ironing. A hasty glance at the clock, and the 
 iron flew swifter than before. Out doors the great elm at the 
 em] of the house cast long, cooling shadows on the grass, and 
 the weary woman at the table sighed as she looked out from her 
 work. A light footfall at the door, and theu a child's eager 
 voice crying : 
 
 '<), mama ! the white 'ily is all b'ossomed ! tan I have it to 
 put in my hat?" The tired mother's answer was quicker, and 
 sharper than she knew, as she exclaimed : 
 
 ''No! no! Minnie mustn't dare to touch the lily ! There are 
 lots of wild ones by the lower fence which I'll get you sometime. 
 Run away and play now, and don't come in again to trouble 
 mama. Dear, dear, child, how dirty your hands and apron 
 
 are ! ' ' 
 
 The little face clouded over, and the little feet crept slowly 
 oui over the doorstep, and then toddled along to the lovely 
 white lily. Three beautiful white blossoms, and as many buds 
 bent gracefully from the slender stalks,— how the blue eyes 
 looked at them, and how the bal)y fingers longed to hold them ! 
 ''1 does want a f'ower for my hat detfully, and I wants it now ; 
 1 tan't wait till 'sometime,' " murmured the baby. 
 
The moments sped away, until, in the kitchen, the ironing 
 hung speckless and spotless on the bars ; the table was laid for 
 dinner, and the mother rang the bell, then went out under the 
 elm to rest a moment and wait for Minnie. The men came up 
 from the field tired and heated and Mrs. Evans went in to wait 
 upon them. 
 
 "Where is Minnie?" questioned the father. 
 
 "Out doors," she answered, calling from the door, "Minnie ! 
 Minnie !" 
 
 After waiting a few minutes she said uneasily : 
 
 "it's very strange she doesn't come," and went out followed 
 by her husband, calling "Minnie !" No eager voice answered 
 "'Es, I is a tumin' ;" and they went on to the orchard, expect- 
 ing to find the little maiden asleep under a tree. As they passed 
 the white lily, a sudden thought smote the mother, and with 
 white, set face she ran toward the lower fence, the father fol- 
 lowing. When they reached the brook, a tiny slioe lay on the 
 bridge ; iwinting to it she gasped : "The lilies — by the pool — 
 Arthur!" 
 
 Comprehending, he dashed along the mossy path as it wound 
 among the alders, until he reached the pool. A little hat, with 
 gorgeous lilies stuck among its blue rib))ons, lay there; just 
 beyond, the mossy bank had newly caved away, and underneath, 
 with hands tightly clasping a brilliant cardinal floweV, lay little 
 Minnie. The tiny hands were clean now, the wilful golden 
 curls were washed away from the sweet blue-veined brow, and 
 the lips wore still the smile that had wreathed them wlieu she 
 spied the flowers. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Very fair and sweet the waxen image looked in the white 
 casket, among its satin cushions. In the tiny hands bloomed 
 
a royal lily, and a brilliant cardinal pink. Over the casket were 
 strewn the flowers she loved best, until it was nearly hidden 
 from sight ; but the broken hearted mother knew nothing of all 
 this ; she lay quietly in a darkened room, saying only to those 
 who spoke to her : "It was so much to pay for a lily !" 
 
Ph $ 
 
 ay. 
 
 |pi| AM sitting by your grave, baby May; 
 The golden rod is blooming royally, 
 The very stalks that always pleased you ;■ 
 And, as the breeze flits to and fro, 
 
 Above your bed tliey wave, bal)y May ! 
 
 Nodding purple asters, baby May, 
 Bend low their tassels to the harebell's head. 
 Whose blue is like your bonny eyes, my pet; 
 Daisies whose golden eyes are wet — 
 Methinks they weep for you, baby May. 
 
 r have lain you here to rest, baby May, 
 While I worK out Life's busy, weary day ; 
 AjkI when the night shall kindly come at last. 
 When shadows cluster thick and fast, 
 I then shall sleep beside you, ba])y May. 
 
 Till then sleep sweet, ray own dear baby May, 
 The perfumed breeze will sing your lullaby ; 
 At sunset birds vyrin sing your evening hymn. 
 And when the light grows faint, and dim. 
 Your mother's thoughts are here, baby May. 
 
f ild 4 
 
 skns. 
 
 MT was fi very charming little shopping bag, and Sadie had 
 
 ^ wanted such an one for a long time. When she discov- 
 
 'ivr ei-ed it on lier dressing-table her birthday morning, it 
 pleased her more than all her otiier pj-esents combined, though 
 some were far more valnable. 
 
 Later in the day she said to her mother : 
 
 "Now mother, you know — and if you don't, I do — that the 
 very first time 1 carry this bag I'll leave it somewhere, as sure 
 as sin." 
 
 "Yes; but, Sadie, you're old enough to be more careful." 
 
 ^■■Very true, mother, but then I'm not ; and never shall be, I 
 very much fear." 
 
 "Perhaps if you lose this it will be a lesson you will remem- 
 ber." 
 
 "But I don't intend to lose it, even if I do leave it ; for I 
 mean to have my full address engraved on this silver plate 
 instead of simply initials." 
 
 She had it engraved that afternoon, and displaying it in 
 triumph, said : 
 
 "There mother : see that! Now 'he who runs may read:' 
 
'Nadie M. Farnham, Pleasantville, Maine.' " 
 
 "Yes, perhaps somebody will read it whom you won't wish 
 to," responded the mother sagely. 
 
 ''O 1 shall keep that side toward me when I carry it." 
 
 The last of September she went to visit her most intimate 
 friend, Laura McQuesteu, lately married, and living in Ohio. 
 Lauia's former home had been in tSadie's own village ; and 
 knowing her fondness for the wild purple asters which bordered 
 all their road-sides, nestling beside the golden-rod, .Sadie gath- 
 ered a large bunch of them to cany to her friend, with but one 
 gorgeous spray of golden-rod in their midst. Her brother Harry 
 found a pleasant seat for her in the car, and handing her the 
 bag and flowers, he said : "There ! these are almost equal to the 
 'big box, little box, bandbox and bundle.' " 
 
 "Now Harry ! you know father says that I'm a finished 
 traveler. I never burden myself or anyone else with luggage." 
 
 "Yi.u'll get sitk enough of those flowers before you get 
 there ; they'll be all withered, anyway." 
 
 "No, they won't; for I shall put fresh water on the cotton 
 every little while." 
 
 "Here are your tickets. Take care of yourself, and don't 
 get into any scrapes. Good-bye, little sis ; remember me to 
 Laura." 
 
 The car was empty save for a few passengers behind Sadie, 
 whose faces she could not see. 
 
 She loved dearly to study faces, herself unobserved, and began 
 to wish the car would fill up. It did with a rush at the next 
 station, every seat soon being full. Just as she was wondering 
 who would occupy the seat with her, a rather elderly lady, with 
 a slighty trou1)led expression, entered the car and looked anx- 
 iously up and down the rows of seats. She approached Sadie 
 somewhattimidly ; but Sadie lifted the flowers from the seat beside 
 her and said brightly, "You can sit here if you like, madam." 
 
The lad}' — tliut she was a hidj was written all over her, though 
 evidently unused to travelling alone — thanked .Sadie with a very 
 relieved face and sat down beside her. The lady's eyes fell 
 upon the flowers at once and lingered there. Sadie, wlio was 
 watching her new travelling companion, saw from the half- 
 sad, half-tende: smile which curved her lii)S, and the abstract- 
 ed, dreamy look on her face, that she was far away fiom her 
 present surroundings and busy with memories which the asters 
 and golden rod had stirred. 
 
 As she looked up with a half sigh, Sadie said : 
 
 '•'You love flowei's?" 
 
 "O very much! Wild ones particularly. 1 used to trim my 
 sun-hat with them, and up by the old school-house on the hill 
 my girl-hood's friend and I had a plot of them walled round 
 with stones. I hav'n't seen them in years before, my liouje 
 having been in the far West." 
 
 "•I am taking these to a friend whose favorite flowers they 
 used to be ; but you must please accept half of them." 
 
 The lady thanked her but declined the gift, saying she could 
 not rob her of them. "You will not rob her, for I can send her 
 a box full," separating the flowers as she spoke. 
 
 The lady's lips quivered, aud her eyes grew moist as she 
 gratefully accepted them. She told Sadie that she was on her 
 way back to her home in the West, having made a huriied trij) 
 to the East to see her son, who had been quite ill, but was now 
 convalescent. Her immediate presence was required at home 
 aud she was obliged to return alone, the friend with whom she 
 had come not returning for some weeks. "•! am so unused to 
 travelling alone that I am quite timid," she said, with a depre. 
 eating look and smile. 
 
 Sadie did all in her power to make her comfortable as far as 
 their ways lay together, and enjoyed her companionship, sint-e 
 she was very intelligent aud cultured, as further conversation 
 
revealed. Wlieii they reached K they parted with real re- 
 gret ; Sadie wishing the lady, whose name she did not know, a 
 safe and pleasant journey. 
 
 Laura was delighted with the tlowers, which had kept won- 
 derfully fresh ; more than delighted to see her friend ; and in 
 the happy, busy days which followed, all remembrance of the 
 lady with whom she had shared the flowers gradually faded frou) 
 Sadie's mind. 
 
 One day there came a letter from home in Harry's handwrit- 
 ing which contained the following paragraph : 
 
 "The other day the expressman brougiit a box addressed to 
 you. Mother was dying with curiosity to know what was in it. 
 Of course, 1 had none, being a man ; I)ut at her solicitation 1 
 opened the box. It contained a beautiful panel in oils, <^f 
 wild asters, with a si^ray of goldeu-rod. Underneath lay a 
 card on one side of which was inscribed : "Geo. L. Cranstonu, 
 Boston, Mass.' On the other: 'Will Miss Farnham please ac- 
 cept as a slight token of gratitude for the kindness shown by 
 her to my mother while travelling.' 
 
 "••I w^rote to Chirlie Livingston, inquiring in a casual way if 
 he knew this Cranston. When he replied, he spoke very enthu- 
 siastically of him, and asked where 1 had met him. So father 
 wrote to young C, acknowledging receipt of l)ox, with thanks 
 for contents. 
 
 "Now I should like to know, altho', as you know, I've no 
 curiosity, what you've been up to. Wasn't my last charge to 
 you a solemn warning not to get into scrapes?" 
 
 Laura said it was most romantic, and quite like a story ; and 
 when Sadie left for home declared she knew her departure was 
 hastened by a desire to see that panel. 
 
 Sadie had no adventure during the homeward journey, having 
 a seat to herself most of the wa}'. The remainder, it was oc- 
 cupied by an old gentleman who took snuff and had catarrh ; 
 
saying '-urn ! um !" in Uie most emphatic manmT after each 
 application of his handkerchief. 
 
 The panel was almost the first thing shown Sadie on her ar- 
 rival. 
 
 ''And iiow did you happen to give your name and address to 
 an entire stranger?" chorused the family. 
 
 "Why I didn't " 
 
 "■How did she know" it, theti?" 
 
 Just then Harry's eye happened to fall on the pretty bag with 
 its silver plate. In a voice brinnning with mischief he read 
 '• 'IMiss Sadie M. Fai'iiham, Pleasantville. Maine,' " and ad- 
 ded : "I siii)pose you labelled yourself with that all the way 
 didn't yon Sadie, like a package sent by express?" 
 
 "The ideal I kept the plate out of sight all the way; but I 
 left it on the seat once when 1 went out to get some lunch." 
 
 "It's wonderful to me" said Harry, ''that you didn't leave it. 
 somewhere altogether, that being your usual custom." 
 
 Autumn passed away, and early Winter. With Christmas 
 came another package by express to Sadie in care of hei' father. 
 The box when oi^ened was found to contain a l)eantiful lace pin. 
 the design a spray of asters, fi'om Mrs. Craustonn, Later came 
 a veiT charming letter from the lady, begging Sadie's accept- 
 ance of the gift. 
 
 By this time all the young readeis are saying, "Why 
 doesn't she hurry up and tell when Mi'. C'ranstonn came to see 
 Sadie, made love, and was acce})ted?" 
 
 My dear girls, I leave you to imagine that part, and T will 
 simply tell you that Mr. C. came up with Charlie Livingstone 
 at New Year, and when the asters bloomed again there was a 
 quiet wedding in which Sadie Farnham and Geo. Craustonn 
 were central figures. 
 
 And the bride wore asters instead of orange-blossoms — how 
 odd! 
 
golden |(od. 
 
 liP^EAll shadowed sunshine, 
 Goldeu-crowued and fair : 
 By dusty roadside, 
 Or in shaded lanes. 
 You lift your blossoms everywhere. 
 Who does not love your 
 Graceful, golden spear? 
 Like sunshine shadowed 
 By a passing cloud — 
 Who would not miss your presence h 
 
 You ask so little, 
 
 And repay so much ! 
 
 Give ever of your 
 
 Best, whate'er your place — 
 
 In life how many lives are such? 
 
 The purple aster 
 
 Follows where you lead. 
 
 Perhaps she knows her 
 
 Dainty dress is just 
 
 The color that your blossoms need. 
 
 To show their beauty 
 
 Clearer. As the gold 
 
 Of stars gleams brighter, 
 
 When across the heav'n 
 
 Dark azure curtains are unrolled. 
 
||ignonetle. 
 
 J;i|i|i HE thermometer was prancing around in the nineties 
 '.^^ and all the air had gone to the mountains or seaside — 
 there wasn't a breath left in the city. 
 A young clerk in the dead letter department of the postal ser- 
 vice sat perched on a high stool before his desk, looking quite 
 wilted and limp, and tore open the next envelope in the pile be- 
 fore him in a decidedly wilted and limp manner. Glancing at 
 thesignature, he read, "•Mignonette." '"Well, that's refresliing 
 to-day, but why didn't »he have sense enough to sign her nan)e ?" 
 Turning the letter over in order to find some clue — which he 
 didn't — he glanced down the tii'st page. When nearly to the 
 bottom he stopped, went back and read the letter carefully from 
 beginning to end ; then drawing paper toward him cojjied it en- 
 tire, and placed the copy in his pocket. Then straightening up, 
 went at his pile of letters in a new and brisk fashion. He wrote 
 a letter that evening to his only living i-elative, who n);idc her 
 home in a little Maine village, and this is what it said : 
 ''My dear little sister : 
 
 "1 am out of the slough of despond forever, I think. 
 I have an idea you will be as rejoiced as I am. 
 
' ' Will give you a few extracts from tlie lecture which was like 
 a pole exteuded by some friendly hand to help me out. 
 
 '' 'Discontent is a good thing. Every great achievement in 
 this world lias been the result of somebody's discontent with 
 the then present state of affairs ; but there is discontent and dis- 
 content. That which spends itself in fruitless wailings against 
 surrounding circumstances and half or wholly neglects the work 
 it has, is not the kind that ever amounts to anything.' 
 
 ''Then further on in the same discourse : 
 
 "■ 'I know your work is notconaenial, and that you have brains 
 enough to fill a higher and more responsible position ; but. since 
 it doesn't show itself today, wouldn't it be better, while keeping 
 a bright out-look for the golden opportunity, to see that every 
 duty of your present position is faithfully and cheerfully per- 
 formed, than to go through each day half-heartedly? You will 
 forgive me, I know, if I say that this is not the way to show 
 yourself worthy of i»romotion.' 
 
 ^'By this time you will wish to know the lecturer's name ; well. . 
 it is .Mignonette— ever hear of her? Shan't tell you anything 
 more in regard to it now. 
 
 "I am in my usual health, and when I seat myself at my 
 landlady's bouutiful( ?) board. 1 feel thankful for cast-iron di- 
 gestive powers if for nothing else. She beats the world on new 
 and execrable dishes— a certain pudding in particular. Tom 
 Campbell took a mouthful of it yesterday, and then remarked, 
 oiving .Mrs. Kutch a most benevolent h)ok, that he was irresist- 
 ably reminded of a story. Of course, we all called -story.' and 
 he proceeded : 
 
 '^ -A young reporter was sent to a small country town where 
 a murder had deen committed, to write it up. The hotel was 
 poor, beds poorer, and table poorest. While smoking after 
 dinner with the landlord, the reporter remarked that the place 
 would be an excellent one in which to die.' 
 
'' 'All,' beamed mine host, 'how so?' leauiug ti little uearer 
 to meet the compliment he felt sure was coming.' 
 
 " 'Well,' replied the reporter, 'a man could leave it with less 
 regret than any other.' 
 
 "Then in his blandest manner Tom looked down the tlible 
 and said : '8ee?' 
 
 "We saw Mrs. K.'s face if we didn't see anything else. I'll 
 bet he doesn't get any extra towels after that. 
 
 "Take care of yourself, little sis, and don't get tired to 
 death preparing to become Mrs. Randall. 
 
 •'I send with this, by express, a little 'tilthy lucre,' with 
 which to buy a handlierchief or quart of peanuts. Acce[)t it 
 with my love and wishes that it were a thousand dollars. 
 
 "Expect nie the week before the wedding. O ! I forgot to 
 say that I'm doing a little copying for the boss, and he was 
 pleased yesterday to compliment my penmanship and accuracy 
 — •Great aches from little toe corns,' etc. 
 "As ever, your loving brothei', 
 
 Jim." 
 
 Our Jim devoted himself to business witii a will, and — con- 
 trary to story-books — came across n(^ more letters signed 
 Mignonette; and instead of l)eing prouK^ted himself, sat by and 
 saw the clerk on his left told to "couie up higher." Hut he 
 kept on ; paid his bills, laid up a little something, and kept a 
 sharp look-out for a change and — Mignonette. At last came 
 his two-weeks' vacation, when he [)acked his little all, bade his 
 fellow-boardero and the pudding good-bye, and started for 
 Maine to attend his sister's wedding. All the way he watched 
 for Mignonette, Init found nothing save the tlower for which he 
 had suddenly developed a remarkable fondness. Arrived there, 
 he found his future brother-in-law a genial whole-souled fellow, 
 with a keen business ability. Young- Randall made our Jim a 
 fair, manly offer, to go into partnership with him in an orange 
 
grove in Florida. Tnrniug to liis sister, lie said : 
 
 "Do you think this is the opportunity. P'.lsie?" 
 
 "I certainly do. And, Oh ! Jimmie ! I'll give you something 
 to eat that's decent !" 
 
 "That settles it; I'll go, Randall. Thank you for the offer 
 now, and when we get there, I'll show you that my thanks 
 mean something." 
 
 "I know you will," and the two young men clasped hands. 
 
 The wedding over and good-byes said, the little party set 
 their faces toward their new home. Jim had closed his connec- 
 tion with the department and was ready for his future and — 
 iMignonette. 
 
 "Fll never tind her way out there, Elsie," he said to hissister, 
 to whom he had told the whole story. She didn't look dubious 
 but said brightly : "O, yes, you will ; 1 feel sure of it." 
 
 When nearly halt-way to their destination they stopped to 
 visit a dear friend of Elsie's, and in the evening Jim strolled off 
 for a walk, feeling something like the fifth wheel of the coach. 
 
 After about an hour's ramble he turned into another street 
 which he judged would take him somewheie near his stopping- 
 place. He paused before a little wood-colored cottage under 
 some large spreading trees. There was a border of mignonette 
 each side of tiie tiny graveled walk, and under the rose bushes, 
 beneath the win. lows, it lifted its odonnis panicles wafting its 
 perfume abioad until the air was heavy with its fragrance, 
 (.'lose beside the little gate were two round beds of it. He 
 noted the name of the street, and taking his bearings found his 
 way back. 
 
 In conversation that evening, he remarked on some of the 
 pretty grounds he had noticed, and mentioned this one, asking 
 if they knew who lived there. 
 
 "O, yes. Widow Bohannon and her daughter, Cora. She 
 has a little property and Cora writes for the press." 
 
"Does she ever give lectures?" asked Jim, giving his sister a 
 queer look. 
 
 "•Why, no ; or, at least, I never heard that she did. Did 
 you ever see such quantities of mignonette as they have? and 
 it is quite a romantic story. She, Cora, has one brother, and 
 some ten years ago he ran away from home with a wild idea of 
 making his fortune and supporting his mother and sister. He 
 obtained a good place and fair salary, but wasn't contented with 
 it. Cora used to tell me that he was all the time fretting for 
 something better. About two years ago her letters began re- 
 turning to her and now they have lost all trace of him. He 
 used to be very fond of mignonette, and always called Cora Mig- 
 nou or Mignonette. So now she raises quantities of it, hoping 
 that if he ever seeks the old home repentant, he will feel sure 
 of a welcome when he sees his favorite blossom everywhere. 
 
 Ellsie, like the dear little girl she was, came at once to her 
 brother's help l)y saying : 
 
 "How I would like to meet her ! Can't we call on her?" 
 
 "Certainly ; to-morrow, if you like." 
 
 So to-mor'-ow it was. They found her busy among her flow- 
 ers, with a basket beside her nearly filled with mignonette. 
 She led the way to the house, the interior of which our friends 
 found quite as attractive as the surroundings outside. Mr. 
 Claxtou was charmed with Miss Bohannon, and enjoyed the call 
 if no one else did. 
 
 As they were saying good-bye after a very pleasant hour, 
 our Jimmy asked if he might be allowed to call in the evening, 
 adding, "I have something to tell you which I think will in- 
 terest you . ' ' 
 
 Her thoughts flew instantly to the al)sent one, and she gave 
 him cordial permission. 
 
 Jim felt, to state it mildly, quite awkw^ard, when he found 
 himself once more in Cora's cosy little parlor. She waited for 
 
him to speak, though there was an eager look in her eyes which 
 belied her quiet manner. 
 
 "Until quite recently," he began, "I have been a clerk in the 
 dead-letter department, and was anything but contented with 
 my position and salary. I got through each day as easily as 
 I could, and was glad when it was over. One day, while feel- 
 ing more disgusted and despondent than usual, I opened a let- 
 ter the penmanship of which held my attention. I glanced it 
 over to find some clue, turned back and read it from beginning 
 to end, then co))ied it entire. It made a man of me, and per- 
 haps you would like to see it." 
 
 She nodded, her cheeks painfully flushed, and held her hand 
 for the letter. 
 
 After reading a little, she said, '"Yes; I remember it well. 
 It is one I w-rote to Bennie, poor, dear Bennie." They talked 
 of him ; of her literary work and kindred subjects ; Jim's new 
 home in the south, till the clock struck ten. Rising to go he 
 asked if he might write her of his arrival, and if she would rei)ly . 
 
 "Why — yes," she said after a pause, "and if you ever meet 
 Bennie, tell him not to delay his return any longer. Tell him 
 his mother misses and mourns for him daily." 
 
 "I will," he replied, almost reverently, and said good-bye. 
 
 The letters sped back and forth some months, and one day 
 there came to Claxton a joyful one from Cora, announcing Ben- 
 nie's return ; and, contrary to the story-books again, not in the 
 role of the prodigal, but with a competency and a wife. To 
 which Jim made a sympathetic reply ; and asserted that Elsie 
 was bound up in her husband, that now she, Cora, was bound 
 up in her brother, and what he was to do was an open question. 
 Could she, and would she, give him any encouragement to come 
 North and see if he could get some mignonette to help him bear 
 his loneliness better. 
 
 Her mother would be pleased to see him she replied demurely ; 
 
also that the mignonette was in full bloom in boxes in the house, 
 and she would gladly give him some plants to carry back. ' 
 
 He went. 
 
 When he returned not only the plants, but a lovely bride 
 who answered to the same name, accompanied him. 
 
 In the course of two years, Bennie and his family, including 
 the dear mother, had gone to live near them in their Florida 
 home. The last I knew they were discussing the name of their 
 new town. Jim declared it should be Mignonette, and I sus- 
 pect he will have his way ; though I think it a queer name for 
 a town. 
 
'$l>en tlie faisics |! 
 
 00 m n qciin. 
 
 ?HEN the daisies bloom again 
 ^Lifting their sonsy face 
 5^^ From out the old time places 
 Like sunshine gleaming on the snow ; 
 I shall not pluck their starry blooms, 
 To deck these dear familiar rooms— 
 Ah me, I love them so. 
 
 When the daisies bloom again 
 
 The Merrimac will still flow here ; 
 
 Yoa mountains pierce the ether clear. 
 
 But I shall see their turrets not. 
 
 I shall not see the sinking sun 
 
 In golden glow, when day is done, 
 
 Gild all this peaceful spot. 
 
 When the daisies bloom again, 
 A stranger hand will loose tlie gate 
 Where Bes.sie, Cream and Clover wait 
 For me to drive them home to-night. 
 And stranger feet will cross the the sill 
 Where nightly sings the vvhip-po-will, 
 When fades the soft twilight. 
 
 When the daisies bloom again, 
 
 Lifting their smiling faces 
 
 From these familiar places, 
 
 In golden-hearted, snowy masses — 
 
 I shall not see the dew-gemmed stars, 
 
 Which nestle by these time-worn bars, 
 
 Amid tlie whispering grasses. 
 
^unset. 
 
 ?LOW sinks the sun behind tlie purple hills; 
 
 The crickets' chirp the quiet evening Alls ; 
 
 The air is hazy with a languor sweet, — 
 The very zephyrs move with noiseless feet ! 
 Great waves of crimson roll from out the West 
 And break upon the gray, each glitt'ring crest 
 The sun's last rays have burnished into gold — 
 Day's dying glory : new, and yet so old. 
 
 Slowly the sunset splendor fades away, 
 
 One golden star shines out upon the gray. 
 
 The new moon's silver crescent just below, 
 
 Across which fleecy cloudlets come and go ! 
 
 A perfumed breeze comes dancing from the South 
 
 And whispers to the leaves with dainty mouth. 
 
 Of shaded rills ; of forests cool and green. 
 
 Where mosses grow, with brimming brooks between. 
 
 The distant whip-po-will begins his song — 
 "Whose melancholy notes to night belong." 
 Nearer, he wings his flight with circling sweep. 
 His perch at last — in shadow cool and deep — 
 A clump of roses by the garden walk. 
 Or by the royal lilies' drooping stalk. 
 "Whip-po-will! cluck! whip-po-will! whip-po-will 
 He sings, till in your di'eams you hear him still. 
 
4* t^^t- 
 
 ILEEP, darling, sleep ! 
 
 f The purple harebells swing like censers to and fro : 
 'llf The long grass whispers to the roses white as snow. 
 Blooming upon the lowly bed, 
 That pillows soft thy sunny head ! 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
 The perfumed south wind sighs among the cypress treeir 
 Rocked in the lily-cups drowsily hum the bees ; 
 
 Softly, sweetly, sleepily sing 
 The l)onny birds, with quiet wing. 
 Sleep, darling, sleep! 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
 The shadows lengthen, and the hylas sings his song; 
 The hidden cricket chirps, and beats her tiny gong; 
 
 The dreamy, drowsy, zephyrs pass 
 Gently over the fragrant grass. 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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 015 785 310 7 
 
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