 section zero of violets and other tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by James K. White Chula Vista violets and other tales by Alice Moore section zero introduction and preface introduction in this day when the world is fairly teeming with books good books books written with a motive books inculcating morals books teaching lessons it seems almost a piece of presumption too great for endurance to foist another upon the market there is scarcely room in the literary world for amateurs and maiden efforts the very worthiest are sometimes poorly repaid for their best efforts yet another one is offered the public a maiden effort a little thing with absolutely nothing to commend it that seeks to do nothing more than amuse many of these sketches and verses have appeared in print before in newspapers and a magazine or two many are seeing the light of day for the first time if perchance this collection of idle thoughts may serve to while away an hour or two or lift for a brief space the load of care from someone's mind their purpose has been served the author is satisfied a RM preface these fugitive pieces are launched upon the tide of public opinion to sink or swim upon their merit they will float for a while but whether they will reach the haven of popularity depends upon their enduring qualities some will surely perish many will reach some port but time alone will tell if any shall successfully breast the ocean of thought and planted standard upon the summit of fame when one enters the domain of authorship she places herself at the mercy of critics were she as sure of being commended by the best and most intelligent of her readers as she is sure of being condemned by the worst and most ignorant there would still be a thrill of pleasure in all criticism for the satisfaction of having received the praise of the first would compensate for the harshness of the latter just criticism is wholesome and never wounds the sensibilities of the true author for it saves her from the danger of an excess of pride which is the greatest foe to individual progress while it spurs her on to loftier flights and nobler deeds a poor writer is bad but a poor critic is worse therefore unjust criticism should never ruffle the temper of its victim the author of these pages belongs to that type of the brave new woman who scorns to sigh but feels that she has something to say and says it to the best of her ability and leaves the verdict in the hands of the public she gives to the reader her best thoughts and leaves him to accept or reject as merit may manifest itself no author is under contract to please her readers at all times nor can she hope to control the sentiments of all of them at any time therefore the obligation is reciprocal for the fame she receives is due to the pleasure she affords the author of these fugitive pieces is young just on the threshold of life and with the daring audacity of youth makes assertions and gives decisions which she may reverse as time mellows her opinions and the realities of life force aside the theories of youth and prosy facts obscure the memory of that happy time when the heart overflowing with the joy of young ideas painted on the mind in the warm glowing colors fancy spreads on objects not yet known when all is new and all is lovely there is much in this book that is good much that is crude some that is poor but all give that assurance of something great and noble when the bud of promise now unfolding its petals in the morning glow of light will have matured into that fuller growth of blossoming flower ere the noonday sun passes its zenith may the hope thus engendered by this first attempt reach its fruition and may the energy displayed by one so young meet the reward it merits from an approving public sylvan e f williams end of section zero recording by James K. White Chula Vista section one of violets and other tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by James K. White Chula Vista violets and other tales by Alice Moore section one violets one and she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair she sat in the yellow glow of the lamp light softly humming these words it was Easter evening and the newly risen spring world was slowly sinking to a gentle rosy opalescent slumber sweetly tired of the joy which had pervaded it all day or in the dawn of the perfect morn it had arisen stretched out its arms and glorious happiness to greet the saviour and said its hallelujahs merrily trilling out carols of bird and organ and flower song but the evening had come and rest there was a letter lying on the table it read dear I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning so I'll tell you violets you know are my favorite flowers dear little human faced things they seem always as if about to whisper a love word and then they signify that thought which passes always between you and me the orange blossoms you know their meaning the little pinks are the flowers you love the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of our affection the tube roses I put in because once when you kissed and pressed me close in your arms I had a bunch of tube roses on my bosom and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in my memory the violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore today and when kneeling at the altar during communion did I send dear when I thought of you the tube robes and orange blossoms I wore Friday night you always wished for a lock of my hair so I'll tie these flowers with them but there it is not stable enough let me wrap them with a bit of ribbon pale blue from that little dress I wore last winter to the dance when we had such a long sweet talk and that forgotten nook you always loved that dress it fell in such soft ruffles away from the throat and bosom you called me your little forget me not that night I laid the flowers away for a while in our favorite book Byron just at the poem we love best and now I send them to you keep them always in remembrance of me and if ought should occur to separate us press these flowers to your lips and I will be with you in spirit permeating your heart with unutterable love and happiness two it is Easter again as of old the joyous bells cling 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 sensed the golden atmosphere with inspiring fragrance one long golden sunbeam steals silently into the white curtain window of a quiet room and lay a thwart a sleeping face cold pale still its fair young face pressed against the satin line casket slender white fingers idle now they that had never known rest locked softly over a bunch of violets violets and two broses in her soft brown hair violets in the bosom of her long white gown violets and two broses 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 flutter in that still young form and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender sunbeam today she kneels at the throne of heaven where one year ago she had communed at an earthly altar three far away in a distant city a man carelessly looking among some papers turned over a fated bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon and a lock of hair he paused meditatively a while then turning to the regal looking woman lounging before the fire he asked wife did you ever send me these she raised her great black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable disdain and replied languidly you know very well i can't bear flowers how could i ever send such sentimental trash to anyone throw them into the fire and the easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly licked up the faded violets was it merely fancy on the wife's part or did the husband really sigh a long quivering breath of remembrance end of section one recording by james k white chulavista section two of violets and other tails this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox dot org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tails by alice more section two three thoughts first how few of us in all the world's great ceaseless struggling strife go to our work with glad some buoyant step and love it for its sake what ere it be because it is a labor or may have some sweet peculiar art of god's own gift and not the promise of the world's slow smile of recognition or of mammon's gilded grasp alas how few in inspirations dazzling flash or spiritual sense of worlds beyond the dome of circling blue around this weary earth can bask and know the god given grace of genius's fire that flows and permeates the virgin mind alone the soul in which the love of earth hath tainted not the love of art and art alone second who dares stand forth the monarch cried amid the throng and dare to give their aid and bid this wretch to live i pledge my faith and crown beside a woeful plight a sorry sight this outcast from all god given grace what ho in all no friendly face no helping hand to stay his plight saint peter's name be pledged for i the manza cursed that is true but oh he suffers none of you will mercy show or pity sigh strong men drew back and lordly train did slowly file from monarch's look whose lips curled scorn but from a nook a voice cried out though he has slain that which i loved the best on earth yet will i tend him till he dies i can be brave a woman's eyes gazed fearlessly into his own third when all the world has grown full cold to thee and man proud pygmy shrugs all scornfully and bitter blinding tears flow gushing forth because of thine own sorrows and poor plight then turn ye swift to nature's page and read there passions immeasurably far greater than thine own in all their littleness for nature has her sorrows and her joys as all the piled up mountains and low veils will silently attest and hang thy head and dire confusion for having dared to moan at thine own miseries when god and nature suffer silently end of section two recording by james k white chulavista section three of violets and other tales this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox dot org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section three the woman the literary manager of the club arose cleared his throat adjusted his cravat fixed his eyes sternly upon the young man and in a sonorous voice a little marred by his habitual lisp asked mr blank will you please tell us your opinion upon the quest then whether woman's stances for matrimony are increased or decreased when she becomes man's equal as a wage earner the secretary adjusted her eyeglasses and held her pencil alertly poised above her book ready to note which side mr blank took mr blank fidgeted pulled himself together with a violent jerk and finally spoke his mind someone else did likewise also someone else then the women interposed and jumped on the men the men retaliated a wordy war ensued and the whole matter ended by nothing being decided pro or con generally the case in wordy discussions moa well i saw it would and said nothing but all the while there was forming in my mind no i won't say forming it was there already it was this why should well salaried women marry take the average working woman of today she works from five to ten hours a day doing extra night work sometimes of course her work over she goes home or to her boarding house as the case may be her meals are prepared for her she has no household cares upon her shoulders no troublesome dinners to prepare for a fault finding husband no fretful children to try her patience no petty bread and meat economies to adjust she has her cares her money troubles her debts and her scrimpings it is true but they only make her independent instead of reducing her to a dead level of despair her days work ends at the office school factory or store the rest of the time is hers undisturbed by the restless going to and fro of housewifely cares and she can employ it in mental or social diversions she does not incessantly rely upon the whims of a cross man to take her to such amusements as she desires in this nineteenth century she is free to go where she pleases provided it be in a moral atmosphere without comment theaters concerts lectures and the lighter amusements of social affairs among her associates are open to her and there she can go see and be seen admire and be admired enjoy and be enjoyed without a single harrowing thought of the baby's milk or the husband's coffee her earnings are her own indisputably unreservedly undividedly she knows to a certainty just how much she can spend how well she can dress how far her earnings will go if there is a dress a book a bit of music a bunch of flowers or a bit of furniture that she wants she can get it and there is no need of asking anyone's advice or gently hinting to john that mrs so-and-so has a lovely new hat and there is one ever so much prettier and cheaper down at thus in companies to an independent spirit there is a certain sense of humiliation and wounded pride in asking for money be it five cents or five hundred dollars the working woman knows no such paying she has but to question her account and all is over in the summer she takes her savings of the winter packs her trunk and takes a trip more or less extensive and there is none to say her nay nothing to bother her save the accumulation of her own baggage there is an independent happy free and easy swing about the motion of her life her mind is constantly being broadened by contact with the world in its working clothes in her leisure moments by the better thoughts of dead and living men which she meets in her applications to books and periodicals in her vacations by her studies of nature or it may be other communities than her own the freedom which she enjoys she does not trespass upon for if she did not learn at school she has acquired sense habits of strong self-reliance self-support earnest thinking deep discriminations and firmly believes that the most perfect liberty is that state in which humanity conforms itself to and obeys strictly without deviation those laws which are best fitted for their mutual self-advancement and so your independent working woman of today comes as near being ideal in her equable self-poise as can be imagined so why should she hasten to give this liberty up in exchange for a serfdom sweet sometimes it is true but which too often becomes galling and unendurable it is not marriage that i decry for i don't think any really same person would do this but it is this wholesale marrying of girls and their teens this rushing into an unknown plane of life to avoid work avoid work what housewife dares call a moment her own marriages might be made in heaven but too often they are consummated right here on earth based on a desire to possess the physical attractions of the woman by the man pretty much as a child desires a toy and an innate love of man a wild desire not to be ridiculed by the foolish as an old maid and a certain delicate shrinking from the work of the world laziness is a good name for it by the woman the attraction of mind to mind the ability of one to complement the lights and shadows in the other the capacity of either to fulfill the duties of wife or husband these do not enter into the contract that is why we have divorce courts and so our independent woman in every year of her full rich well-rounded life gaining fresh knowledge and experience learning humanity and particularly that portion of it which is the other gender so well as to avoid clay-footed idols and finally when she does consent to bear the yoke upon her shoulders does so with perhaps less romance and glamour than her younger scoffing sisters but with an assurance of solid and more-lasting happiness why should she have hastened this was lost by the delay they say that men don't admire this type of woman that they prefer the soft dainty winning mindless creature who cuddles into men's arms agrees to everything they say and looks upon them as a race of gods turned loose upon this earth for the edification of woman kind well maybe so but there is one thing positive they certainly respect the independent one and admire her too even if it is at a distance and that in itself is something as to the other part no matter how sensible a woman is on other questions when she falls in love she is full enough to believe her adored one a veritable Solomon cuddling well she may preside over conventions brandish her umbrella at board meetings tramp the streets soliciting subscriptions wheel the blue pencil in an editorial sanctum hammer a typewriter smear her nose with ink from a galley full of pied type lead infant ideas through the torturous mazes of c-a-t and r-a-t plead at the bar or wheeled the scalpel in a dissecting room yet when the right moment comes she will sink as gracefully into his manly embrace throw her arms as lovingly around his neck and cuddle as warmly and sweetly to his bosom as her little sister who has done nothing else but think dream and practice for that hour it comes natural you see end of section three recording by james k. white chula vista section four of violets and other tales this is a leber vox recording all leber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leber vox dot org recording by james k. white chula vista violets and other tales by alice more section four ten minutes musing there was a terrible noise in the schoolyard at intermission peeping out the windows the boys could be seen huddled in an immense bunch in the middle of the yard it looked like a fight a mob a knockdown anything so we rushed out to the door hastily fearfully ready to scold punish console frown bind up broken heads or drag wounded forms from the melee as the case might be nearly every boy in the school was in that seething swarming mass and those who weren't were standing around on the edges screaming and throwing up their hats in hilarious excitement it was a mob a fearful mob but a mob apparently with a vigorous and well-defined purpose it was a mob that screamed and howled and kicked and yelled and shouted and perspired and squirmed and wriggled and pushed and threatened and poured itself all seemingly upon some central object it was a mob that had an aim that was determined to accomplish that aim even though the whole azure expanse of sky fell upon them it was a mob with set muscles straining like whip cords eyes on that central object and with heads inward and sturdy legs outward like prairie horses reversed in a battle the cheerers and hat throwers on the outside were mirthful but the mob was not it howled but howled without any cacanation it struggled for mastery some fell and were trampled over some weaker ones were even tossed in the air but the mob never deigned to trouble itself about such trivialities it was an interesting nervous whole with diverse parts of separate vitality in alarm I looked about for the principal he was standing at a safe distance with his hands in his pockets watching the seething mass with a broad smile at sight of my perplexed expression someone was about to venture an explanation when there was a wild yell a sudden vehement disintegration of the mass a mighty rush and clutch at a dark object bobbing in the air and the mist cleared from my intellect as I realized it all football did you ever stop to see the analogy between a game of football and the interesting little game called life which we play every day there is one far-fetched as it may seem though for that matter life's game being one of desperate chances and strategic moves is analogous to anything but if we could get out of ourselves and soar above the world far enough to view the mass beneath in its daily struggles and near enough the hearts of the people to feel the throbs beneath their boldly carried exteriors the whole would seem not but such a maddening rush and senseless looking crushing we are but children of a larger growth after all and our ceaseless pursuing after the bobbles of this earth are but the struggles for precedence in the business playground the football is money see how the mass rushes after it everyone so intent upon his pursuit until all else dwindles into a ridiculous non entity the weaker ones go down in the mad pursuit and are unmercifully trampled upon but no matter what is the difference if the foremost win the coveted prize and carry it off see the big boy in front he with iron grip and determine compressed lips that boy is a type of the big merciless man the grad grind of the latter century his face is set towards the ball and even though he may crush a dozen small boys he'll make his way through the mob and come out triumphant and he'll be the victor longer than anyone else in spite of the envy and fighting and pushing about him to an observer like an intelligent about the rules of a football game and the conditions which govern the barter and exchange and fluctuations of the world's money market there is as much difference between the sight of a mass of boys on a playground losing their equilibrium over a spheroid of rubber and a mass of men losing their coolness and temper and mental and nervous balance on change as there is between a pine sapling and a mighty forest king merely a difference of age the mighty seething intensely concentrated mass and its emphatic tendency to one point is the same in the utter disregard of mental and physical welfare the momentary triumphs of transitory possessions impress a casual looker on with the same fearful idea that the human race after all is savage to the core and cultivates its savagery in an inflated happiness at own nearness to perfection but the bell clangs sharply the overheated nervous tingling boys fall into line and the sudden transition from massing disorder to military precision cuts short the ten minutes musing end of section four recording by James K. White Chula Vista section five of Violets and Other Tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by James K. White Chula Vista Violets and Other Tales by Alice Moore section five a Plaint and In Unconsciousness a Plaint Dear God Tis hard so awful hard to lose the one we love and see him go afar with scarce one thought of aching hearts behind nor wistful eyes nor outstretched yearning hands chide not Dear God if surging thoughts arise and bitter questionings of love and fate but rather give my weary heart thy rest and turn the sad dark memories into sweet Dear God I feign my loved one were near but since thou willest that happy thence he'll be I send him forth and back I'll choke the grief rebellious rises in my lonely heart I pray thee God my loved one joy to bring I dare not hope that joy will be with me but ah Dear God one boon I crave of thee that he shall never forget his hours with me in unconsciousness there was a big booming in my ears great heavy iron bells that swung to and fro on either side and sent out deafening reverberations that steeped the senses in a musical melody of sonorous sound to and fro backward and forward yet ever receding in a gradually widening circle monotonous mournful weird suffusing the soul with an unutterable sadness as images of wailing processions of weeping empty armed women and widowed maidens flashed through the mind and settled on the soul with a crushing or pressing weight of sorrow now I lay floating arms outstretched on an illimitable waste of calm tranquil waters far away as I could reach there was not but the pale white flecked green waters of this ocean of eternity and above the tender blue sky arts down in perfect love of its mistress the ocean sky and sea sea and sky blue calm infinite perfect sea heaving its womanly bosom to the passionate kisses of its ardent son lover away into infinity stretched this perfectability of love into eternity I was drifting alone silent yet burdened still with the remembrance of the sadness of the bells far away they told out the incessant dirge grown residedly sweet now so intense in its infinite peace that a calm of love beyond all human understanding and above all earthly passions sank deep into my soul and so permeated my whole being with rest and peace that my lips smiled and my eyes drooped in access of fulsome joy into the illimitable space of infinity we drifted my soul and I born along only by the network of auburn hair that floated about me in the green waters but now a rude grasp from somewhere is laid upon me pressing upon my face instantly the air grows gloomy gray and the ocean rocks menacingly while the great bells grow harsh and strident as they hint of a dark fate I clasp my hands appealingly to the heavens I moan and struggle with the unknown grasp then there is peace and the sweet content of the infinite nirvana then slowly softly the net of auburn hair begins to drag me down below the surface of the sea oh the skies are so sweet and now that the tender stars are looking upon us how fair to stay and sway upon the breast of eternity but the net is inexorable and gently slowly pulls me down now we sink straight now we whirl and slow eddying circles spiral like while at each turn those bells ring out clanging now and while crescendo then whispering dread secrets of the ocean's depths oh ye mighty bells tell me from your learned lore of the hopes of mankind tell me what fruit he beareth from his strivings and yearnings no not ye why ring ye now so joyful so hopeful then toll your dismal prophecies of orcast skies years have passed and now centuries too are swallowed in the gulf of eternity yet the auburn net still whirls me in eddying circles down down to the very womb of time to the innermost recesses of the mighty ocean and now peace perfect unconditioned sublime peace and rest and silence for to the great depths of the mighty ocean the solemn bells cannot penetrate and no sound not even the beatings of one's own heart is heard in the heart of eternity there can be nothing to break the calm of frozen eons in the great white hall i lay silent unexpected calm and smiled in perfect content at the web of auburn hair which trailed across my couch no passionate longing for life or love no doubting question of heaven or hell no strife for carnal needs only rest content peace happiness perfect whole complete sublime and thus passed ages and ages eons and eons the great earth there in the dim distance above the ocean has toiled wirily about the sun until its mechanism was failing and the warm ardor of the lover's eye was becoming pale and cold from age while the air all about the fast dwindling sphere was heavy and thick with the sorrows and heartaches and woes of the humans upon its face heavy with the screams and roar of war with the curses of the deceived of traders with the passionate sighs of unlawful love with the crushing unrest of blighted hopes knowledge and contempt of all these things permeated even to the inmost depths of time as i lay in the halls of rest and smiled at the web floating through my white fingers but hark discord begins there is a vague fear which springs from an unknown source and drifts into the depths of rest fear indefinable unaccountable unknowable shuddering pain begins for the heart springs into life and fills the silence with the terror of its beatings thick knifing frightful in its intense longing power of mind over soul power of calm over fear avail nothing suspense and misery locked arm in arm pervade eonic stillness till all things else become subordinate unnoticed centuries drift away and the giddy old reprobate earth dying a hideous ghastly death with but one solitary human to shudder in unison with its last throes to bask in the last pale rays of a cold sun to inhale the last breath of a metallic atmosphere totters reels falls into space and is no more peel out ye brazen bells peel out the requiem of the center roll your mournful tones into the ears of the saddened angels weeping with wing-covered eyes told the requiem of the center sinking swiftly sobbingly into the depths of time's ocean down down until the great groans which arose from the domes and ionic roofs about me told that the sad old earth sought rest in eternity while the universe shrugged its shoulders over the loss of another star and now the great invisible fear became apparent tangible for all the sins the woes the miseries the dreads the dismal achings and throbbing the dreariness and gloom of the lost star came together and like a huge genie took form and hideous shape octopus-like which slowly approached me erstwhile happy and hovered about my couch in fearful menace oh shining web of hair burst loose your bonds and bid me move oh time cease not your calculations but speed me on to deliverance oh silence vast immense infuse into your soul some sound other than the heavy throbbing of this fast disintegrating heart oh pitiless stone arches let fall your crushing weight upon this digian monster i pray to time to eternity to the frozen eons of the past useless i am seized forced to open my cold lips there is agony supreme mortal agony of nerve tension and wrenching of vitality i struggle scream and clutching the monster with superhuman strength fling him aside and rise bleeding screaming but triumphant and keenly mortal in every vein alive and throbbing with consciousness and pain no it was not opium nor nightmare but chloroform a dentist three obstinate molars a pair of forceps and a lively set of nerves end of section five recording by james k white chulavista section six of violets and other tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by James K White chulavista violets and other tales by Alice Moore section six titi it was cold that day the great sharp north wind swept out a lesion field street and blasts that made men shiver and bent everything in its track the skies hung lowering and gloomy the usually quiet street was more than deserted it was dismal titi leaned against one of the brown freight cars for protection against the shrill northern and warmed his little chapped hands at a blaze of chips and dry grass maybe it'll snow he muttered casting a glance at the sky that would have done credit to a practice seaman then won't i have fun ah but the wind blows it was saturday or titi would have been in school the big yellow school on marini street where he went every day when its bell boomed nine o'clock went with a run and a joyous whoop presumably to imbibe knowledge ostensibly to make his teacher's life a burden idle lazy dirty troublesome boy she called him to herself as day by day wore on and titi improved not but let his whole class pass him on its way to a higher grade a practical joke he relished infinitely more than a practical problem and a good game at pin sticking was far more entertaining than a language lesson moreover he was always hungry and would eat in school before the half past 10 intermission thereby losing much good playtime for his veracious appetite but there was nothing in natural history that titi didn't know he could dissect a butterfly or mosquito hawk and describe their parts as accurately as a spectacle student with a scalpel and microscope could talk about a cadaver the entire third district with its swamps and canals and commons and railroad sections and its wondrous crooked torturous streets was as an open book to titi there was not a nook or corner that he did not know or could tell of there was not a bit of gossip among the gammons little creole and spanish fellows with dark skins and lovely eyes like spaniels that titi could not tell of he knew just exactly when it was time for crawfish to be plentiful down in the clayborne and marini canals just when a poor breadless fellow might get a job in the big boneyard and fertilizing factory out on the railroad track and as for the levy with its ships and schooners and sailors oh how he could revel among them the wondrous ships the pretty little schooners where the foreign looking sailors lay on long moonlit nights singing gay bar carols to the tinkle of a guitar in mandolin all these things and more could titi tell of he had been down to the gulf and out on its treacherous waters through eads jetties on a fishing smack with some jolly brown sailors and could interest the whole schoolroom in the talk lessons if he chose titi shivered as the wind swept round the freight cars there isn't much warmth in a bit of a jersey coat wished was summer he murmured casting another sailor's glance at the sky don't believe i like snow it's too wet and cold and with the last parting caress at the little fire he had builded for a minute's warmth he plunged his hands in his pockets shut his teeth and started manfully on his mission out the railroad track towards the swamps it was late when titi came home to such a home as it was and he had but illly performed his errand so his mother beat him and sent him to bed supperless a sharp strap stings in cold weather and long walks in the teeth of a biting wind creates a keen appetite but if titi cried himself to sleep that night he was up bright and early next morning and had been to early mass devoutly kneeling on the cold floor blowing his fingers to keep them warm and was home almost before the rest of the family was awake there was evidently some great matter of business in this young man's mind for he scarcely ate his breakfast and had left the table eagerly cramming the remainder of his meal in his pockets i wonder what he's up to now used his mother as she watched his little form sturdily trudging the track in the face of the wind his head with the rimless cap thrust close on the shock of black hair bent low his hands thrust deep in the bulging pockets a new snake perhaps ventured the father he's a queer child but the next day titi was late for school it was something unusual for he was always the first on hand to fix some plan of mechanism to make the teacher miserable she looked reprovingly at him this morning when he came in during the arithmetic class his hair all windblown cheeks rosy from a hard fight with the sharp blasts but he made up for his tardiness by his extreme goodness all day just think titi didn't even eat in school a something unparalleled in the entire history of his school life when the lunch hour came and all the yard was a scene of feast and fun one of the boys found him standing by one of the posts disconsolently watching a ham sandwich as it rapidly disappeared down the throat of a sturdy square-headed little fellow hello Edgar he said what you got for lunch nothing was the mournful reply ah why don't you stop eating in school for a change you don't ever have nothing to eat i didn't eat today said titi blazing up you did i tell you i didn't and titi's hard little fist planted a punctuation mark on his comrade's eye a fight in the schoolyard poor titi in disgrace again but in spite of his battered appearance a severe scolding from the principal lines to write and a further punishment from his mother titi scarcely remained for his dinner but was off down the railroad track with his pockets partly stuffed with the remnants of his scanty meal and the next day titi was tardy again and lunchless too and the next and the next until the teacher in despair sent a nicely printed note to his mother about him which might have done some good had not titi taken great pains to tear it up on his way home but one day it rained whole bucket fulls of water that poured in torrents from a miserable angry sky too wet a day for bits of boys to be trudging to school so titi's mother thought so kept him home to watch the weather through the window fretting and fuming like a regular storm cloud in miniature as the day wore on and the storm did not abate his mother had to keep a strong watch upon him or he would have slipped away at last dinner came and went and the gray suddenness of the skies deepened into the blackness of coming night someone called titi to go to bed and titi was nowhere to be found under the beds and corners and closets through the yard and in such impossible places as the soap dish and the water pitcher even but he had gone as completely as if he had been spirited away it was of no use to call up the neighbors he had never been near their houses they affirmed so there was nothing to do but to go to the railroad track where little titi had been seen so often trudging in the shrill north wind so with lantern and sticks and his little yellow dog the rescuing party started out the track the rain had ceased falling but the wind blew a tremendous gale scurrying great gray clouds over a fierce sky it was not exactly dark though in this part of the city there was neither gas nor electricity and surely on such a night as this neither moon nor stars dared show their faces in such a grayness of sky but a sort of all diffused luminosity was in the air as though the sea of atmosphere was charged with an ethereal phosphorescence search as they would there were no signs of poor little titi the soft earth between the railroad ties crumbled beneath their feet without showing any small tracks or footprints let us return said the big brother he can't be here anyway no no urged the mother i feel that he is let's go on so on they went slipping on the wet earth stumbling over the loose rocks until a sudden wild yelp from tiger brought them to a standstill he had rushed ahead of them and his voice could be heard in the distance howling piteously with a fresh impetus the little muddy party hurried forward tigers yelps could be heard planer and planer mingled now with a muffled whale as of someone in pain and then after a while they found a pitiful little heap of wet and sodden rags lying at the foot of a mound of earth and stones thrown upon the side of the track it was little titi with a broken leg all wet and miserable and moaning they picked him up tenderly and started to carry him home but he cried and clung to his mother and begged not to go he's got fever wailed his mother no no it's my old man he's hungry sob titi holding out a little package it was the remnants of his dinner wet and rain washed what old man asked the big brother my old man oh please please don't go home until i see him i'm not hurting much i can go so yielding to his whim they carried him further away down the sides of the track up to an embankment or levy by the sides of the marini canal then titi's brother suddenly stopping exclaimed why here's a cave a regular robinson cru so affair it's my old man's cave cried titi oh please go in maybe he's dead there can't be much ceremony in entering a cave there is but one thing to do walk in this they did and holding high the lantern beheld a strange sight on a bed of straw and paper in one corner lay a withered wizened white bearded old man with wide eyes staring at the unaccustomed sight in the corner lay a cow it's my old man cried titi joyfully oh please grandpa i couldn't get here today it rained all morning and when i ran away this evening i slipped down and broke something and oh grandpa i'm so tired and hurdy and i'm so afraid you're hungry so the secret of titi's jaunts out the railroad was out in one of his trips around the swamp land he had discovered the old man dying from cold and hunger in the fields together they had found this cave and titi had gathered the straw and brush that scattered itself over the ground and made the bed a poor old cow turned adrift by an ungrateful master had crept in and shared the damp dwelling and thither titi had trudged twice a day carrying his luncheon in the morning and his dinner in the evening the sole support of a half-dead cripple there's a crown in heaven for that child said the officer to whom the case was referred and so there was for we scattered winter roses on his little grave down in old saint roakes cemetery the cold and rain and the broken leg had told their tale end of section six recording by james k white chulavista section seven of violets and other tales this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice moore section seven anarchy alley to the casual observer the quaint narrow little alley that lies in the heart of the city is no more than any other of the numerous divisions of streets in which new orleans delights but to the idle wonder or he whose mission down its four squares of much trodden stones is an aimless one whose eyes unforced to bend to the ground and thought of sorted ways and means can peer at will into its quaint corners exchange alley presents all the phases of a latinized portion of america a bit of europe perhaps the restless chafing anarchistic europe of today in the midst of the quieter democratic institution of our republic it is bohemia pure and simple bohemia in all its stages from the beer saloon and the cheap bookstore to the cheaper cook shop and uncertain lodging house there the great american institution the wondrous monarch whom the country supports the tramp basks in superior comfort and contented unmolested indolence idleness and labor poverty and opulence the honest law-abiding working man and the reckless restless anarchist jostle side by side and brush each other's elbows in terms of equality as they do nowhere else on the busiest thoroughfares in the city just in the busiest part between two of the most crowded and conservative of cross streets lies this alley of latinism one might almost pass it hurriedly avoiding the crowds that cluster at this section of the streets but upon turning into a narrow section stone paved the place is entered appearing to end one square distant seeming to bar itself from the larger buildings by an aimless sort of iron affair part railing part posts there is a conservative bookstore at the entrance on one side and an even more harmless clothing store on the other then comes a saloon with many blind doors behind which are vistas of tables crowded and crowded with men drinking beer out of globes large round mooney common affairs there is a dingy pension claim office with cripples and sorrowful looking women in black sitting about on rickety chairs somehow there is always an impression with me that the morning dress and mournful looks are put on to impress the dispenser and adjuster it is wicked but what can one do if impressions come there are more little cuddies of places dye shops tailors and nondescript corners that seem to have no possible mission on earth and are sadly conscious of their aimlessness then the railing is reached and the alley instead of ending has merely given itself an angular twist to the right and extends three squares further to a great pale green dome and stately entrance the calmly thinking quietly laboring cool and conservative world is for the nonce left behind with the first stepping across custom house street the place widens architecturally and the atmosphere too seems impregnated with a sort of mental freedom conducive to dangerous theorizing and broody reflections on the inequality of the classes the sun shines in a strip in the center yellow and elusive like gold someone is rattling a gay gallop on a piano somewhere there is a sound of men's voices and a heated discussion a long whiff of pipe smoke trails through the sunlight from the bar room the clink of glasses the chink of silver and the high trouble of a woman's voice scolding a refractory child mingle in incongruous melody two story houses all along the first floor divided into cuddies here a paper store displaying 10 cent novels of detective stories with impossible cuts illustrating impossible situations of the plot die shops jewelers tailors 10 smiths cook shops intelligence offices many of these and some newspaper offices on the second floor balconies dingy iron railed with sickly box plants and decrepit garments airing and being turned intended by disheveled slipshod women lodging houses these some of them but one is forced to wonder why do the tenants sun their clothes so often the lines stretched from posts to posts seem always filled with airing garments is it economy and do the owners of the faded vests and patched coats hide in dusky corners while their only garments are receiving the benefit of old sol's cleansing rays and are the women with the indiscriminate tresses near relatives or only the landlady's it would be something worth knowing if one could plenty of saloons great gorgeous gaudy places with pianos and swift-footed waiters tables and cards and men men men the famous three brothers saloon occupies a position about midway the alley and at its doors the acme the culminating point the superlative degree of unquietude and discontent is reached it is the headquarters of nearly all the great labor organizations in the city behind its doors swinging as easily between the street and the liquor fumed halls as the soul swings between right and wrong the disturbed minds of the working men become clouded heated and wrothily ready for deeds of violence outside on the pavements with hundreds of like excited men with angry discussions and bitter recitals of complaints the seeds of discord sown sometimes since perhaps sprout afresh blossom and bear fruits is there a strike then special minions of the law are detailed to this place for violence and hatred of employers insurrection and socialism find here ready followers impromptu mass meetings are common and law-breaking schemes find their cradle beneath its glittering lights it is always thronged within and without a veritable nursery of riot and disorder and oh bohemia pipes indolence and beer the atmosphere is impregnated with it the dust sifts it into your clothes and hair the sunlight filters it through your brain the stray snatches of music now and then beat it rhythmically into your mind there are some who work yes and a few places outside of the saloons that seem to be animated with a business motive there are even some who push their way briskly through the aimless bodies of men but then there must be an occasional anomaly to break the monotony if nothing more it is so unlike the ordinary world this bit of bohemia that one feels a personal grievance when the marble entrance and great green dome become positive solid architectural facts standing in all the grim solemnity of the main entrance of the hotel royal on st louis street ending with a sudden return to aristocracy this stamping ground for anarchy end of section seven recording by james k white chulavista section eight of violets and other tales this is a leber vox recording all leber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leber vox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section eight impressions thought a swift successive chain of things that flash kaleidoscope like now in now out now straight now eddying in wild rings no order neither law compels their moves but endless constant always swiftly roves hope wild seas of tossing writhing waves a wreck half sinking in the torturous gloom one man clings desperately while bereus raves and helps to blot the rays of moon and star then comes a sudden flash of light which gleams on shores afar love a bed of roses pleasing to the eye flowers of heaven passionate and pure upon this bed the youthful often lie and pressing hard upon its sweet delight the cruel thorns pierce soul and heart and cause a woeful blight death a traveler who has always heard that on this journey he someday must go yet shudders now when at the fatal word he starts upon the lonesome dreary way the past a page of joy and woe the future none can say faith blind clinging to a stern stone cross or it may be of frailer make eyes shut ears closed to earth's drear dross immovable serene the world away from thoughts the mind uncaring for another day end of section eight recording by james k white chulavista section nine of violets and other tales this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox dot org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section nine salambo by gustav flober like unto the barbaric splendor the clashing of arms the flashing of jewels so is this book full of brightness that dazzles yet does not weary of rich mosaic beauty of sensuous softness yet with it all there is a singular lack of elevation of thought and expression everything tends to degrade to drag the mind to a worse than earthly level the crudity of the warriors the minute description of the battles the leper han even the sensual love scene of salambo and motho and the rites of taint and molak possibly this is due to the peculiar shortness and crispness of the sentences and the pains taking attention to details nothing is left for the imagination to complete the slightest turn of the hand the smallest bit of tapestry and armor all all is described until one's brain becomes weary with the scintillating flash of minutia such careful attention worries and disappoints and sometimes instead of photographing the scenes indelibly upon the mental vision there ensues only a confused mass of armor and soldiers planes and horses but the description of action and movement are incomparable resembling somewhat in the rush and flow of words the style of victor hugo the breathless rush and fire the restrained passion and fury of a master hand throughout the whole book this peculiarity is noticeable there are no dissertations no pauses for the author to express his opinions no stoppages to reflect we are rushed onward with almost breathless haste and many times are feigned to pause and reread a sentence a paragraph sometimes a whole page like the unceasing motion of a column of artillery in battle like the roar and fury of the carthaginians elephant so is the torrent of flow bears eloquence majestic grand intense with nobility sensuous but never sublime never elevating never delicate as an historian flow bear would have ranked high at least in impartiality not once in the whole volume does he allow his prejudices his opinions his sentiments to crop out we lose complete sight of the author in his work with marvelous fidelity he explains the movements the vices and the virtues of each party and with shakespearian tact he conceals his identity so that we are troubled with none of that bironic vice of dipping one's pen into oneself still for all the historian's impartiality he is just a trifle incorrect here and there the ancients mentioned no aqueduct in or near carthage han was not crucified outside of tunas the incident of the carthaginian women cutting off their tresses to furnish strings for bows and catapults is generally conceded to have occurred during the latter portion of the third punic war and still another difficulty presents itself salambo was supposed to have been the only daughter of hamelkar according to flow bear she dies unmarried or rather on her wedding day and yet historians tell us that after the death of the elder barca hanibal was brought up and watched over by hamelkar's son-in-law hausdor ball can it be possible that the crafty numidian king nari havas is the intrepid fearless and whole sold hausdor ball or is it only another deviation from the beaten track of history in a historical novel however and one so evidently arranged for dramatic effects such lapses from the truth only heightened the interest and kindled the imagination to a brighter flame the school of realism of which zola tolstoy demopassant and others of that ilk or followers claims its descent from the author of salambo perhaps their claim is well founded perhaps not we are inclined to believe that it is for every page in this novel is crowded with details often disgusting which are generally left out in ordinary works the hideous deformity the rottenness and repulsiveness of the leper han is brought out in such vivid detail that we sicken and feign would turn aside and discussed but go where one will the ghastly quivering wretched picture is always before us in all its filth and splendid misery the reeking horrors of the battlefields the disgusting details of the army imprisoned in the defile of the battleaxe the grimness of the sacrifices to the bloodthirsty god mallock the wretchedness of hamelkar's slaves are presented with every ghastly detail with every degrading trick of expression picture after picture of misery and foulness arises and pursues us as the grim witches pursued the hapless Tamil shanter clutching us in ghastly arms clinging to us with grim and ghoulish tenacity viewing the character through the genteel crystal of nineteenth century civilization they are all barbarous unnatural intensified but considering the age in which they lived the tendencies of that age the gods they worshiped the practices in which they indulged they are all true to life perfect in the depiction of their natures spindius is a true Greek crafty lying deceitful ungrateful hamelkar needs no novelist to crystallize his character in words he always remains the same hamelkar of history so it is with han but two flow bear alone are we indebted for the hideous realism of his external aspect motho is a dusky son of libya fierce passionate resentful unbridled in his speech and action swept by the hot breath of furious love as his native sands are swept by the burning semen salambo cold and strange delving deep in the mysticism of the garthaginian gods living apart from human passions in her intense love for the goddess tanit salambo in the earnest excess of her religious fervor eagerly accepting the mission given her by the puzzled saracarabam salambo twining the gloomy folds of the python about her perfumed limbs salambo resisting then yielding to the fierce love of motho salambo dying when her erstwhile lover expires salambo in all her many phases reminds us of some early christian martyr or saint though the sweet spirit of the great teacher is hidden in the punctual devotion to the mysterious rites of tanit she is an inexplicable mixture of the tropical exotic and the frigid snow flower a rich and rare growth that attracts and repulses that interests and absorbs that we admire without loving detest without hating end of section nine recording by james k white chulavista section ten of violets and other tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by Alice Moore section 10 legend of the newspaper poets sing and fables tell us or old folklore whispers low of the origin of all things of the spring from which they came calavala old and hoary innaid iliad isap 2 all are filled with strange quaint legends all replete with ancient tales how love came and how old earth freed from chaos grew for us to a green and wondrous spheroid to a home for things alive how fierce fire and iron cold how the snow and how the frost all these things the old rhymes ring all these things the old tales tell yet they never sang of the beginning of that great unbreathing angel of that soul without a haven of that gracious lady bountiful yet they never told how it came here nare said why we read it daily nor did they even let us guess why we were left to tell the tale came one day into the woodland muckintosh the great and mighty muckintosh the famous thinker he whose brain was all his weapons as against his rivals soaring high unto the vaulted heavens low adound the swarded earth rolled he round his gaze all steely and his voice like music prayed oh creator wondrous spirit thou who has for us descended in the guise of knowledge mighty and our brains with truth or flooded in the greatness of thy wisdom knowest not our limitations wondrous thoughts have we thy servants wondrous things we see each day yet we cannot tell our brethren yet we cannot let them know of our doings and our happenings should they parted be from us help us so thou wise creator from the fullness of thy wisdom show us how to spread our knowledge and disseminate our actions such as we find worthy truly quick the answer came from heaven muckintosh the famous thinker muckintosh the great and mighty felt a trembling felt a quaking saw the earth about him open saw the iron from the mountains form a quaint and queer machine saw the lead from out the lead mines roll into small littered forms saw the fibers from the flax plant spread into great sheets of paper saw the ink galls from the green trees crushed upon the leaden forms muckintosh the famous thinker muckintosh the great and mighty felt a trembling felt a quaking saw the earth about him open saw the flame and sulfur smoking came the printer's little devil far from distant lands the printer man of unions man of cuss words from the depths of city blackness came the towel of the printer many things that muckintosh saw galleys types and leads and rules presses pressmen coins and spaces quads and caps and lower cases but to muckintosh bewildered all this past as in a dream till within his nervous hand hand with joy and fear a quaking muckintosh the great and mighty muckintosh the famous thinker held the first of our newspapers end of section 10 recording by james k white chulavista section 11 of violets and other tales this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice moore section 11 a carnival jangle there is a merry jangle of bells in the air an all-pervading sense of jester's noise and the flaunting vividness of royal colors the streets swarm with humanity humanity in all shapes manners forms laughing pushing jostling crowding a mass of men and women and children as varied and as assorted in their several individual peculiarities as ever a crowd that gathered in one locality since the days of babble it is carnival in new orleans a brilliant tuesday in february when the very air effervesces an ozone intensely exhilarating of a nature half spring half winter to make one long to cut capers the buildings are a blazing mass of royal purple and golden yellow and national flags bunting and decorations that laugh in the glint of the mightest sun the streets a crush of jester's and masskers jim crows and clowns ballet girls and mafistos indians and monkeys of wild and sudden flashes of music of glittering pageants and comic ones of befeathered and belled horses a maddening dream of color and melody and fantasy gone wild in an effervescent bubble of beauty that shifts and changes and passes kaleidoscope like before the bewildered eye a bevy of bright-eyed girls and boys of that uncertainty of age that hovers between childhood and maturity we're moving down canal street when there was a sudden jostle with another crowd meeting them for a minute there was a deafening clamor of laughter cracking of whips which all masskers carry jingle and clatter of carnival bells and the masked and unmasked extricated themselves and moved from each other's paths but in the confusion a tall prince of darkness had whispered to one of the girls in the unmasked crowd you better come with us flow you're wasting time in that tame gang slip off they'll never miss you we'll get you a rig and show you what life is and so it happened that when a half hour passed and the bright eyed bevy missed flow and couldn't find her wisely giving up the search at last that she the quietest and most bashful of the lot was being initiated into the mysteries of what life is down bourbon street and on talus and st peter streets there are quaint little old world places where one may be disguised effectually for a tiny consideration thither guided by the shapely mafisto and guarded by the team of jockeys and ballet girls tripped flow into one of the lowest sealed dingiest and most ancient looking of these disguise shops they stopped a disguise for this demoiselle announced mafisto to the woman who met them she was small and wizened and old with yellow flabby jaws and neck like the throat of an alligator and straight white hair that stood from her head uncannily stiff but the demoiselle wishes to appear a boy or a little boy she inquired gazing eagerly at flow's long slender frame her voice was old and thin like the high quivering of an imperfect tuning fork and her eyes were sharp as talons in their grasping glance mademoiselle does not wish such a costume roughly responded mafisto mafua there is no other said the ancient shrugging her shoulders but one is left now mademoiselle would make a fine troubadour flow said mafisto it's a daredevil scheme try it no one will ever know it but us and we'll die before we tell besides we must it's late and you couldn't find your crowd and that was why you might have seen a mafisto and a slender troubadour of lovely form with mandolin flung across his shoulder followed by a bevy of jockeys and ballet girls laughing and singing as they swept down rampart street when the flash and glare and brilliancy of canal street have pawled upon the tired eye and it is yet too soon to go home and to such a prosaic thing as dinner and one still wishes for novelty then it is wise to go in the lower districts fantasy and fancy and grotesqueness in the costuming and behaviour of the massacres run wild such dances and whoops and leaps as these hideous indians and devils do indulge in such wild curve vettings and great walks and in the open squares where whole groups do congregate it is wonderfully amusing then too there is a ball in every available hall a delirious ball where one may dance all day for ten cents dance and grow mad for joy and never know who were your companions and be yourself unknown and in the exhilaration of the day one walks miles and miles and dances and curvettes and the fatigue is never felt in washington square a way down where royal street empties its stream of children and men into the broad channel of a lesion fields avenue there was a perfect indian dance with a little imagination one might have willed away the vision of the surrounding houses and fancied oneself again in the forest where the natives were holding a sacred riot the square was filled with spectators masked and unmasked it was amusing to watch these mimic red men they seem so fierce and earnest suddenly one chief touched another on the elbow see that mafisto and troubadour over there he whispered huskily yes who are they i don't know the devil responded the other quietly but i'd know that other form anywhere it's leon see i know those white hens like a woman's and that restless head ha but there may be a mistake no i'd know that one anywhere i feel it's him i'll pay him now ah sweetheart you've waited long but you shall feast now he was caressing something long and life and glittering beneath his blanket in a mass dance it is easy to give a death blow between the shoulders two crowds meet and laugh and shout and mingle almost inextricably and if a shriek of pain should arise it is not noticed in the den and when they part if one should stagger and fall bleeding to the ground who can tell who has given the blow there is not but an unknown stiletto on the ground the crowd has dispersed and masks tell no tales anyway there is murder but by whom for what kinsabe and that is how it happened on carnival night in the last mad moments of rex's reign a brokenhearted woman set gazing wide eyed and mute at a horrible something that lay across the bed outside the long sweet march music of mini bands floated in in mockery and the flash of rockets and bangle lights illumine the dead white face of the girl troubadour end of section 11 recording by james k white chulavista section 12 of violets and other tales this is a leber vox recording all leber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leber vox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section 12 paul to virginia fiendecicle and the maiden's dream i really must confess my dear i cannot help but love you for of all girls i ever knew there's none i place above you but then you know it's rather hard to dangle aimless at your skirt and watch your every movement so for i am jealous and you're a flirt there's half a score of fellows round you smile at everyone and as i think to pride myself for basking in the sun of your sweet smiles you laugh at me and treat me like a lump of dirt until i wish that i were dead for i am jealous and you're a flirt i'm sorry that i've ever known your loveliness in trancing or ever saw your laughing eyes with girlish mischief dancing tiz agony supreme and rare to see your slender waist aghurt with other fellows arms you see for i am jealous and you're a flirt now girly if you'll promise me to never never treat me mean i'll show you in a little while the best sweetheart you've ever seen you do not seem to know or care how often you've my feelings hurt while flying round with other boys for i am jealous and you're a flirt the maiden's dream the maid had been reading love poetry where the world lay bathed in moonlight fragrant with dew wet roses and jasmine harmonious with the clear tinkle of mandolin and guitar then a lethargy like unto that which steeps the senses and benumbs the faculties of the lotus eaters enveloped her brain and she lay as one in a trance awake yet sleeping conscious yet unburdened with care and they're stole into her consciousness words thoughts not of her own yet she read them not nor heard them spoken they fell deep into her heart and soul softer and more caressing than the overshadowing wing of a mother dove sweeter and more thrilling than the last high notes of a violin and they were these love most potent most tyrannical and most gentle of the passions which sway the human mind thou art the invisible agency which rules men's souls which governs men's kingdoms which controls the universe by thy mighty will do the silent eternal hosts of heaven sweep in sublime procession across the unmeasured blue the perfect harmony of the spheres is attuned for thee and by thee the perfect coloring of the clouds than which no mortal pigment can dare equal are thy handiwork most ancient of the heathen deities arrows powerful god of the christians johova all hail for a brief possession of thy divine fire have kingdoms waxed and waned men in all the bitterness of hatred fought bled died by millions their grosser selves to be swept into the bosom of their ancient mother an immense holocaust to thee for thee and thee alone does the world prosper for thee do men strive to become better than their fellow men for thee and through thee have they sunk to such depths of degradation as causes a blush to be painted upon the faces of those that see all things are subservient to thee all the delicate intricate workings of that marvelous machine the human brain all the passions and desires of the human heart ambition desire greed hatred envy jealousy all others thou breedest them all oh love thou art all potent all wise infinite eternal thy power is felt by mortals in all ages all climbs all conditions behold a picture came into the maiden's eye a broad and fertile plain tender verter soft blue sky overhead with white billowy clouds nearing the horizon like great airy snow-capped mountains the soft warm breeze from the south whispered faintly through the tall slender palms and sent a thrill of joy through the frisky lamskins who capered by the sides of their graver dams and there among the riches of the flock stood Leban haughty stern yet with all a kindly gleam in the glance which rested upon the group about him hoary the beard that rested upon his breast but steady the hand that stretched in blessing lee the tenderide the slighted is there and rachel young and beautiful and blushing beneath the ardent gaze of her handsome lover and jacob loved rachel and said i will serve the seven years for rachel thy younger daughter how different the next scene heaven's wrath burst loose upon a single community fire the red wing demon with brazen throat wide opened hangs his brooding wings upon an erstwhile happy city hades has climbed through the crater of vesuvius and leaps in fiendish waves along the land few the souls escaping and god have mercy upon those who stumble through the blinding darkness made more torturingly hideous by the intermittent flashes of lurid light and yet there come three whom the darkness seems not to deter nor obstacles impede only a blind person accustomed to constant darkness and familiarized with these streets could walk that way nearer they come a burst of flames thrown into the inky firmament by impish hands reveals glaucus supporting the half fainting eony following nydia frail blind flower loving nydia sacrificing life for her unloving beloved and then the burning southern sun shone bright and golden or the silken sails of the nile serpents ships glinted on the armor and weapons of the famous galley shone with a warm caressing touch upon her beauty as though it loved this queen as powerful in her sphere as he in his it is at actium and the fate of nations and generations yet unborn hang as the sword of damocles hung upon the tiny thread of destiny egypt herself her splendid barbaric beauty acting like an inspiration upon the craven followers leads on foremost in this fierce struggle then the tide turns and overpowered they fly before disgrace and defeat antony is there the traitor dishonored false to his country yet true to his love antony whom ambition could not lure from her passionate caresses antony murmuring softly egypt thou knowest too well my heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings and thou shouldest told me after over my spirit thy full supremacy thou newest and that thy beck might from the bidding of the gods command me picture after picture flashed through the maiden's mind agnes the gentle sacrificing burrowing like some frantic animal through the ruins of lisbon saving her lover franklin by teeth and bleeding hands dora the patient serving a loveless existence saving her rival from starvation and destitution the stern dark exile florentine poet with that one silver ray in his clouded life beatrice she heard the piping of an elfish voice mother why does the minister keep his hands over his heart and the white drawn face of hester prine with her scarlet elf child passed slowly across her vision the wretched misery of diluted luscious and his mysterious lamia she saw and watched with breathless interest the formation of that brotherhood of the rose there was radiant armorelle from sea blown wave washed lioness her perfect head poised in loving caress over the magic violin dark eyed koreen head drooped gently as she improvised those roam famed world symphonies past almost air edna and saint elmo had crossed the threshold of the church happy in the love now consecrated through her to god oh the pictures the forms the love words which crowded her mind they thrilled her heart crushed out all else save a crushing overpowering sense of perfect complete joy a joy that sought to express itself in wondrous melodies and silences filled with thoughts too deep and sacred for words overpowered with the magnificence of his reign overwhelmed with the complete subjugation of all things and to him do you wonder that she awoke and placing both hands into those of the lever at her side whispered take all of me i am thine own heart soul brain body all all that i am or dream is thine forever yay those space should team with thy conditions i'd fulfill the whole were to fulfill them to be loved by thee end of section 12 recording by james k white chulavista section 13 of violets and other tales this is a leber vox recording all leber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leber vox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section 13 in memoriam the light streams through the windows arched high and or the stern stone carvings breaks in warm rich gold and crimson waves then steals away in corners dark to die and all the grand cathedral silence falls into the hearts of those that worship low like tender waves of hushed nothingness confined nor kept by human earthly walls deep music in its thundering organ sounds grows diffuse through the echoing space till hearts grow still in sadness's mighty joy or leap aloft in swift ecstatic bounds may hapt was but a dream that came to me or but a vision of the soul's desire to see the nation in one mighty hole do homage on its bended worshiping knee through times heroic actions the soul of man alone proves what that soul without earth's dross could be and this through times far-searching fire hath proved thine white beneath the deepest scan a woman's tribute tis a tiny dot a mirrored flower from a frail small hand to lay among the many peddled wreaths about thy form a tribute soon forgot but if in all the incense to arise and fragrance to the blue imperian the blended sweetness of the women's love goes pouring too in all their heartfelt size and if one woman's sorrow be among them too one woman's joy for labor past be reckoned in the mighty teeming hole it is enough there is not more to do within the hearts of heroes small and great there bides a tenderness for weakling things within thy heart the sorrowing country knows these passions bravest and the tenderest mate when man is dust before the gazing eyes of all the gaping throng his life lies wide for all to see and whisper low about or let their thoughts and discord's clatter rise but thine was pure and undefiled a record of long brilliant teeming days each thought did tend to further things but pure as the proverbial child oh people that thy grief might find express to gather in some vast cathedrals hall that then in unity we might kneel and hear sublimity in sounds voice our distress peace peace the men of god cry ye be bold the world hath known to his heaven who claims him now and in our railings we but cast aside the noble traits he bid us hold so though divided through the land in dreams we see a people kneeling low bowed down in heart and soul to see this fearful sorrow crushing as it seems and all the grand cathedral silence falls into the hearts of these that worship low like tender waves of hushed nothingness confined nor kept by human earthly walls end of section 13 recording by james k white chulavista section 14 of violets and other tales this is a liber vox recording all liber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit liber vox dot org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice more section 14 a story of vengeance yes elinor i have grown greyer i'm younger than you you know but then what have you to age you a kind husband lovely children while i i'm nothing but a lonely woman time goes slowly slowly for me now why did i never marry move that screen a little to one side please my eyes can scarcely bear a strong light bernard oh that's a long story i'll tell you if you wish it might pass an hour do you ever think to go over the old school days we thought such foolish things then didn't we there wasn't one of us but imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms on commencement night we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet venus of course smiling at us through a high open window bidding adieu to her astronomy class we said then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant world of society and i stayed in the beautiful old city to work bernard was very much on evidence those days he liked you a great deal because in schoolgirl parlance you were my chum you say thanks no t it reminds me that i'm an old maid you say you know what happiness means maybe but i don't think any living soul could experience the joy i felt in those days it was absolutely painful at times biren and his counterparts are ever dear to the womanly heart whether young or old such a man was he gloomy misanthropical tired of the world with a few dozen broken love affairs among his varied experiences of course i worshiped him secretly what romantic silly girl of my age would not being thrown in such constant contact with him one day he folded me tightly in his arms and said little girl i have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless love of yours but a heart that has already been at another's feet and erect life but may i ask for it it is already yours i answered i'll draw the veil over the scene which followed you know you've been there then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed upon or the love sick moon clothed in her rays of silver deceived me no no he admitted that the old love for blanche was still in his heart but that he had lost all faith and respect for her and could never more be other than a friend well i was full enough to be content with such crumbs we had five months of happiness i tamed down beautifully in that time even consented to adopt the peerless blanche as a model i gave up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes because he disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public in fact i became quiet sedate dignified renounced to some of my best and dearest friends i lived breathe thought acted only for him for me there was but one soul in the universe bernards still for all the suffering i've experienced i'd be willing to go through it all again just to go over those five months every day together at nights on the lake shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves sometimes in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading poetry talk about heaven i just think there can't be a better time among the angels but there is an end to all things a violent illness and his father relenting sent for the wayward son i will always believe he loved me but he was eager to get home to his mother and anxious to view blanche in the light of their new relationship we had a whole series of parting scenes tears and vows and kisses exchanged we clung to each other after the regulation fashion and swore never to forget and to write every day then there was a final wrench i went back to my old life he away home for a while i was content there were daily letters from him to read his constant admonitions to practice his many little tokens to adore until there came a change letters less frequent more mention of blanche and her love for him less of his love for me until the truth was forced upon me then i grew cold and proud and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and cried for vengeance yes quite melodramatic wasn't it it is a dramatic tale though so i threw off my habits of seclusion and mingled again with men and women and took up all my long forgotten plans it's no use telling you how i succeeded it was really wonderful wasn't it it seems as though that fickle goddess fortune showered every blessing save one on my path success followed success triumph succeeded triumph i was lionized feeded petted caressed by the social and literary world you often used to wonder how i stood it in all those years god knows with the heartsick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me i don't know myself but mind you elinor i skimmed well i had everything seemingly that humanity craved for but i suffered and by all the gods i swore that he should suffer too blanche turned against him and married his brother an unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his father's home branded as a forger strange wasn't it but money is a strong weapon and its long arm reaches over leagues and leagues of land and water one day he found me in a distant city and begged for my love again and for mercy and pity blanche was only a mistake he said and he loved me alone and so on i remembered all his thrilling tones and tender glances but they might have moved granite now sooner than me he knelt at my feet and pleaded like a criminal suing for life i laughed at him and sneered at his misery and told him what he had done for my happiness and what i in turn had done for his elinor to my dying day i shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees and with one awful indescribable look of hate anguish and scorn walked from the room as he neared the door all the old love rose in me like a flood drowning the sorrows of past years and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity strive as i did i could not repress it a woman's love is too mighty to be put down with little reasonings i called to him in terror bernard bernard he did not turn gave no sign of having heard bernard come back i didn't mean it he passed slowly away with bent head out of the house and out of my life i've never seen him since never heard of him somewhere perhaps on god's earth he wonders outcast forsaken loveless i have my vengeance but it is like dead sea fruit all bitter ashes to the taste i am a miserable heart weary wreck a woman with fame without love vengeance is an arrow that often falleth and smitheth the hand of him that sent it end of section 14 recording by james k white chulavista section 15 of violets and other tales this is a libervox recording all libervox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libervox.org recording by james k white chulavista violets and other tales by alice moore section 15 at bay st louis and new year's day soft breezes blow and swiftly show through fragrant orange branches parted a maiden fair with sun-flecked hair caressed by arrows golden darted the vine clad tree holds forth to me a promise sweet of purple blooms and chirping bird scarce seen but heard sings dreamily and sweetly croons at bay st louis the hammock swinging idly singing lissum net brown maid swings gaily freely to and fro the curling green white waters casting cool clear shade rock small shell boats that go in circles wide or tug at anchor's chain as though to skim the sea with cargo vein at bay st louis the maid swings slower slower to and fro and sunbeams kiss gray dreamy half closed eyes fond lover creeping on with footsteps slow gives gentle kiss and smiles at sweet surprise the lengthening shadows tell that eve is nigh and fragrant zephyr's cool and calmer grow yet still the lover lingers and scarce breathe sigh bids the swift hours to pause nor go at bay st louis new year's day the poor old year died hard for all the earth lay cold and bare beneath the wintry sky while gray clouds scurried madly to the west and hid the chill young moon from mortal sight deep dying groans the aged year breathed forth in suffering winds that wailed a requiem sad in dull crescendo through the mournful air the new year now is welcomed noisily with din and song and shout and clanging bell and all the glare and blare of fiery fun sing hi the welcome to the new year's mourn l'eroi moi vive le vive l'eroi cry out and hail the newborn king of coming days alas the day is spent and eve draws nigh the king's first subject dies for not and wasted moments by the hundred score of past year's rise like specter's grim to warn that these days may not idly glide away oh new year youth of promise fair what does thou hold for me an aching heart or eyes burnt blind by unshed tears or stabs more keen because unseen nay nay dear youth i've had surfeit of sorrel's feast the monarch dead did rule me with an iron hand be thou a friend a tender loving king and let me know the ripe full sweetness of a happy year end of section 15 recording by james k white chulavista