der care. One day — how well I remem- 

 ber it ! — it was a day in sunny, coquet- 

 tish April — when I heard voices ap- 

 proaching. Nearer and nearer they 

 came, until I felt the presence of my dear 

 Louise with her dark haired friend. I 

 could not see them, for one of my sister 

 pansies held her head so high and 

 haughty that a little pansy such as I 

 could not see or be seen. 



This day Louise was more tender 

 than usual. Alas ! why is it ever true 

 that dearest love is bought at the price 

 of death and separation? 



She bent down, half hesitatingly, and 

 kissed me, touched my petals lovingly, 

 and whispered so gently — only I could 

 hear: ''My beauty, my golden-hearted 

 pansy, shall I — must I — give you to my 

 friend ?" 



The wind gave back my answer. I 

 was sacrificed on the altar of friend- 

 ship. 



Then I felt my heartstrings slowly 

 tugged at, and quivering and wounded 

 and bleeding I was taken from my home, 

 the home Louise had made for me, and 

 placed in a basket with my cousins, the 

 violets, to be carried to a new home. 

 to meet new faces and perhaps make 

 new friends. 



Louise and this friend loved each 

 other very dearly. Alas ! for me, they 

 loved pansies, too. 



Perhaps it was an honor for Louise to 

 have chosen me from among a hundred 

 others, for to her a pansy was the dearest, 

 the daintiest and most coquettish of all 

 the flowers that bloom and die. But, 

 though I felt the honor, I would a thou- 

 sand times rather have lived to lift my 

 petals to the breezes in my native land 

 without glory and without pain ; or better 

 still, death on Louise's breast, with her 



smiles and caresses, was preferable to 

 honor and glory in a stranger's land. I 

 say this was preferable, but how foolish I 

 am ; we pansies have no preference. We 

 of the flower family must take what you 

 of the human family choose to give us. 



This friend of Louise's, I knew not her 

 name and cared not to know, carried me 

 very gently with the violets, protecting 

 me from the sun and dust as we went ; 

 and when I awoke from my misery and 

 my long, long journey, I found myself 

 an exile, with my kindred, in the far 

 south-land where the birds are always 

 singing, and the flowers are ever bloom- 

 ing, and youth and beauty and old age 

 go hand in hand. 



It was a beautiful home to which I 

 was brought. Here I was surrounded 

 with all that a pansy's heart should long 

 for; but I was not happy. I was not 

 content. Soon my face looked sad ; my 

 shining green leaves began to wither and 

 droop, and the breath of the south wind 

 became so hot I felt as though I could 

 not live. Then the battle against death 

 began. I longed to live that I might see 

 Louise once more. Then I tried to live 

 for her to whom she had sacrificed me. 

 I made a brave struggle for life, but all 

 in vain. It was the battle of the weak 

 against the strong. 



Since life has left me and I have be- 

 come a spirit flower with my earthly 

 body caged between the pages of a 

 musty old book, which my spirit may 

 enter at will, Louise's friend often holds 

 communion wnth me. It is then I ask, 

 "Does she love me, or is it Louise, of 

 whom she thinks, for whom she longs 

 when she looks at me so lovingly and 

 talks to me of the old days? 



Laura Cravens. 



169 



