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Updated: June 11, 2025
Sharon controlled his seizure. Pointing his eyebrows severely, he cocked a presumably loaded thumb at Merle. "Let me tell you, young man, the best this family can make of that marriage will be a darned good best. Could you think of a better best say, now?" Merle turned impatiently from the mocker. "Blest if I can on the spur of the moment!" said Gideon.
You look like the rose of Sharon." "My name is Lee Wetherford," she answered, with childish directness, for there was something compelling in the man's voice and eyes. "And this is my mother." She indicated Lize, who was approaching. "You are not out here for your health," he stated, rather thoughtfully. "How happens it you're here?" "I was born here in the Fork."
Wilbur tried earnestly to remember that he should reply in Winona's formula, "I have had a delightful time and thank you so much for asking me," but he stared at Sharon, muffled in a great fur coat and cap, holding the taut lines with enormous driving gloves, and could only say "Fine!" after which he stopped, merely looking his thanks.
He published these radiant descriptions of ancient Judaea in the dismal year of the "captured recruits." The youths of the ghetto, who had been poring over talmudic folios, fell eagerly upon this little book which breathed the perfumes of Sharon and Carmel.
Through the uneasy sleep into which he ultimately fell, she, and the yellow rose, and the Rose of Sharon a giant flower, with monstrous crimson petals passed and repassed, in one of those glorious tangles, which no dreamer has ever unravelled. When he wakened, it was broad daylight, and things wore a different aspect.
I propose that one of the tribes that obey your grandfather shall make this Englishman prisoner as he traverses the desert. You see? Ah! Rose of Sharon, I am not yet beat; your Fakredeen is not the baffled boy that, a few minutes ago, you looked as if you thought him. I defy Ibrahim, or the King of France, or Palmerston himself, to make a combination superior to this. What a ransom!
"O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least despair!" and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her.
Those who came to California before 1850 were called pioneers, and many of them built up great fortunes. Among them were Coleman, the president of the vigilance committee, Sharon, Flood, Fair, O'Brien, Tevis, Phelan, and James Lick.
That voice had promised great things, too, that the wilderness and the solitary places should be glad because of her coming, that the rose of Sharon should blossom by her side that, because of her, some little of the sorrow and sighing of this sad world should flee away. And now, instead, there were thorns along the pathway, and she had brought distress upon one she loved.
A river there is, flowing somewhere out of the shiny violet mountains to the north, but it dies subterraneously on its way to Sharon, misses the town, and emerges thirty miles south across the sunlight in a shallow, futile lake, a cienaga, called Las Palomas. Then it evaporates into the ceaseless blue sky.
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