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Updated: June 12, 2025
This isn't a rose, says the critic, taking up a pansy and rending it; it is not at all like a rose, and the author is either a pretentious idiot or an idiotic pretender. What business, indeed, has the author to send the critic a bunch of sweet-peas, when he knows that a cabbage would be preferred, something not showy, but useful?
Do not call us traitors, then, who choose to be cool and silent through the fever of the hour, who choose to search in common things for auguries of the hopeful, helpful calm to come, finding even in these poor sweet-peas, thrusting their tendrils through the brown mould, a deeper, more healthful lesson for the eye and soul than warring evils or truths.
"Now I must cut some roses," added Mrs Forrest, as she put the glowing bunches of sweet-peas into her basket. "Come this way." Anna followed to a little nursery of standard rose-trees near the foot-bridge. "What are those chimneys I can just see straight over the fields?" she asked her aunt. "Leas Farm," she replied.
"The sweet-peas are lovely," Cynthia said. "Thank you, my dear. They are much prettier than any I have had in my garden this year. Please sit down," for Ellen was doubtful about availing herself of the proffered chair. She had so hoped that she might find Cynthia alone. She had dreamed, as a lover might have done, of a tête-
A small writing-pad and lead-pencil, for general memoranda and notations. Certain fruits and flowers, such as roses, sweet-peas, pineapples, and grape-fruit. These met the psychic's needs or fancies, and were brought into close relation with pad or slate when the "forces" seemed inclined to weaken. The piano.
They walked slowly along the hedge of sweet-peas together, picking them as they went. "What a beautiful garden yours is, Aunt Sarah," cried Anna. Mrs Forrest looked pleased. "There are many larger ones about here," she said, "but I certainly think my flowers do me credit. I attend to them a great deal myself, but, of course, I cannot give them as much time as I should like.
It was a pretty picture the low, square casement; the frame of ivy, the pink and white of the climbing sweet-peas: the girl's head; the cool, wet leaves: the old wooden spinning-wheel, that purred like a sleepy cat. "I want to paint you as Gretchen, only it will be a shame." he said. "Who is Gretchen?" "You shall read of her by-and-by. And you live here all by yourself?" "Since Antoine died yes."
"I was very sad," said the young girl softly, "very sad indeed; for, I thought you might be dead, or have married some one else, and that we might never meet again. But in spite of everything I couldn't quite despair. It seemed impossible that those who really loved each other should be separated for ever." Meanwhile the Sweet-peas lay on the table.
Do not call us traitors, then, who choose to be cool and silent through the fever of the hour, who choose to search in common things for auguries of the hopeful, helpful calm to come, finding even in these poor sweet-peas, thrusting their tendrils through the brown mould; a deeper, more healthful lesson for the eye and soul than warring truths.
Graham's class was to usher; the undergraduates were to march in by classes, the girls in white, carrying sweet-peas, the boys wearing white posies in the lapels of their coats. Mrs. Westley inspected her young people with shining eyes. "You look like the most beautiful flowers that ever grew," she cried in the choky way that mothers have at such moments.
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