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| I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, an... Read more of Sonnet at Martin Luther King.ca | Informational Privacy |
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Short StoriesThe Portrait Of Flora Purchased.Anna started for her home, and when she had arrived, she sl... The Golden Crown. A teacher once asked a child, "If you had a golden crown, w... Story About A Robber. I will tell you a true story about a robber. A gentleman wa... Telling Secrets. There is a company of girls met together, and what can they... A Boy Reproved By A Bird. The sparrows often build their nests under the eaves of hou... Story About An Indian. A poor sick man might go to the door of some rich person's ... The Uncertainty Of Life. Josiah Martin was a young man of whom any mother might have... Asaph About a hundred feet back from the main street of a village... Julia's Sunset Walk. It was a beautiful June day, just at the sun's setting, whe... The Remarkable Wreck Of The Thomas Hyke It was half-past one by the clock in the office of the Regi... Revelation Of God's Holy Word. Ye favored lands, rejoice Where God reveals his word... The Brother And Sister. (In three Stories.) ... Lettice And Myra. ... The Market Day. Mrs. Ford had three little children--Lily, Hetty, and a dea... Good Companions. One day, says a Persian poet, I saw a bunch of roses, and i... The Way To Overcome Evil. A little girl, by the name of Sarah Dean, was taught the pr... Anecdotes. A poor Arabian of the desert was one day asked, how he came... The Plum Boys. Two boys were one day on their way from school, and as they... A Good Act For Another. A man was going from Norwich to New London with a loaded te... Look Up. A little boy went to sea with his father to learn to be a s... |
THE CHILD AND FLOWER.The Atheist in his garden stood, At twilight's pensive hour, His little daughter by his side, was gazing on a flower. "Oh, pick that little blossom, Pa," The little prattler said, "It is the fairest one that blooms Within that lonely bed." The father plucked the chosen flower, And gave it to his child; With parted lips and sparkling eye, She seized the gift and smiled. "O Pa--who made this pretty flower, This little violet blue; Who gave it such a fragrant smell, And such a lovely hue?" A change came o'er the father's brow, His eye grew strangely wild, New thoughts within him had been stirred By that sweet, artless child. The truth flashed on the father's mind, The truth in all its power; "There is a God, my child," said he, "Who made that little flower." Next: ANNE CLEAVELAND. Previous: BERTIE'S BOX.
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