reveries. I wondered if there was any sense in the language of
flowers, of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly
writers; I wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I
wondered if Miss Mayton understood it. At any rate, I fancied I
could arrange flowers to the taste of any lady whose face I had
ever seen; and for Alice Mayton I would make something so superb
that her face could not help lighting up when she beheld it. I
imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would brighten, her cheeks
would redden,--not with sentiment, not a bit of it; but with
genuine pleasure,--how her strong lips would part slightly and
disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well
in hand. I--I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of
white goods--actually wished I might be divested of all
nineteenth-century abilities and characteristics, and be one of
those fairies that only silly girls and crazy poets think of, and
might, unseen, behold the meeting of my flowers with this highly
cultivated specimen of the only sort of flowers our cities
produce. What flower did she most resemble? A lily?--no; too--not
exactly too bold, but too--too, well, I couldn't think of the
word, but clearly it wasn't bold. A rose! Certainly, not like
those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy,
delicate, ethereal tea-roses with their tender suggestions of
color. Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong,
vigorous, self-asserting, among its more delicate sisterhood; yet
shapely, perfect in outline and development, exquisite, enchanting
in its never fully-analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration
of every one, and recalling its admirers again and again by the
unspoken appeal of its own perfection--its unvarying radiance.

"Ah--h--h--h--ee--ee--ee--ee--ee--oo--oo--oo--oo" came from the