air that fans their petals a new spicy 

 sweetness which they yield up in 

 death. 



In the old cathedral town of 

 Canterbury, England, in a small by- 

 street, is a quaint shop where is made 

 a perfume called " Wood Violets." 

 Crowned heads vie with each other 

 to buy this essence, which is distilled 

 in small quantities after the formula 

 of an old receipt, the secret of which 

 is jealously guarded. So great is the 

 demand for the amount made that it 

 is almost as costly as attar of roses, 

 but it is indeed as sweet as violets 

 which have blown in the shadow of 

 the woods. 



Would you really pluck violets in a 

 place lovely enough to have been the 

 spot where they first bloomed for 

 Juno's sake, walk some mild spring 

 morning in the sheltered paths of the 

 Boboli Gardens at Florence, and see 

 63 



