FLOWERS AS A LIFE RESOURCE 



291 



path is a parallel of human life. We 

 can see only the immediate present, but 

 where will that path lead us in its rami- 

 fications, what of the uncertainties that 

 surround it, what are its surprises, 

 what its entanglements, yes, what the 

 disappointments? There is ever the 

 charm of exploring the unknown. 



These thoughts must necessarily 

 come to one who rambles through the 

 forest and Mr. A. A. Falls, who took 

 the accompanying photograph is evi- 

 dently a path lover. For the cut we are 

 indebted to "Photo-Era" of Boston. 

 Do not give this merely a hasty glance. 

 You cannot see it even in the first five 

 minutes of close examination. Sit for 

 twenty minutes and gaze intently at 

 that path, coupling it up with your own 

 life. It is only when one puts human 

 nature, one's own personality, into sur- 

 rounding nature that it really becomes 

 one's own. 



Only a wood path but if ten thousand 

 people gaze intently and personally up- 

 on that path there will be ten thousand 

 different versions as to its meaning. 

 Nature, after all, is a mirror of our- 

 selves. 



The Heralds of Spring. 



March winds are heralds, to proclaim 



The coming of the spring: 

 They do not bear a charmed name, 



Yet vistas sweet they bring, 



That open out, through April's gate, 

 To flowery meads and bowers; 



The alchemy we now await, 

 Of sunshine and of showers. 



"And when the finished work appears, 



Behold a vision bright! 

 No purer joy through all the years, 

 Than this transcendent sight. 



— Emma Peirce. 



Flowers as a Life Resource. 



{FROM A CHICAGO DAILY PAPER IN GAR- 

 DENERS' CHRONICLE.] 



Folks who went to the La Salle 

 Theater last night saw a comedy. In 

 the office of Nat Royster, the manager, 

 a tragedy was being enacted. 



Several days ago Royster received 

 complaints from Joe Daly, property 

 man, that artificial roses used in one 

 of the sets were being stolen. The 

 flowers were not taken in large num- 

 bers. But every other day or so three 

 or four would be missing. Detectives 



worked on the case for a few days. 

 The roses continued to disappear. 



Yesterday the detectives arrested 

 Sophie Korab, a theater scrubwoman. 

 When the detectives and Royster ques- 

 tioned her she sobbed violently, but 

 would not talk. Finally she found a 

 champion in Miss May Dowling, of the 

 theater staff, who pleaded for her re- 

 lease. Then Mrs. Korab broke down 

 and told her story. Six months ago her 

 husband, Anton, joined the army, leav- 

 ing her to take care of the two children, 

 John 2 years old, and Mary, 3. 



A few weeks ago little John contract- 

 ed an ailment. There was no money 

 for adequate medical attention and he 

 died. The day of the burial Mrs. Ko- 

 rab appeared as usual to do her scrub 

 work at the theater. She saw the roses 

 and purloined a couple of them. Next 

 day she went to the cemetery and put 

 the artificial flowers on John's grave. 



The detectives made an exit. Miss 

 Dowling slipped out and returned with 

 a handful of real flowers. "For John- 

 ny," she said, and wiped her eyes. 



The scrubwoman fearfully asked if 

 she could go. Royster requested her 

 to stay. He left the room for a few 

 minutes and he saw Daly, the property 

 man ; Charlie Heede, in the box office ; 

 Bob Corning, the superintendent; the 

 stage hands, the ushers, the doorman, 

 the cigar store man next door, and the 

 cafe man next to next door, and when 

 he returned he handed $60.35 to Mrs. 

 Korab. 



"For Mary," he said. 



After reading this little tragedy 

 woven around the disappearance of a 

 few artificial flowers, who will declare 

 that the beautiful flowers, the best that 

 Nature produces, have no place in this 

 careworn world of ours? 



The Swedes have recently establish- 

 ed a society for collecting and diffusing 

 information concerning their great 

 naturalist, Linnaeus. Its first presi- 

 dent is a descendant of Linnaeus, 

 whose name, oddly enough, happens 

 to be Tycho. 



The eye may well be glad that looks 



Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall; 



But he who sees his native brooks 

 Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. 



— Whittier. 



