Violets and Other Tales

								

there was a perfect Indian dance. With a little imagination one might
have willed away the vision of the surrounding houses and fancied one's
self 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 seemed so fierce and earnest.
Suddenly one chief touched another on the elbow. "See that Mephisto 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 hands 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 lithe, and glittering beneath his blanket.
In a masked 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 din, and when
they part, if one should stagger and fall bleeding to the ground, who
can tell who has given the blow? There is naught 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? Quien sabe?
And that is how it happened on Carnival night, in the last mad moments
of Rex's reign, a broken-hearted woman sat gazing wide-eyed and mute at
a horrible something that lay across the bed. Outside the long sweet
march music of many bands floated in in mockery, and the flash of
rockets and Bengal lights illumined the dead, white face of the girl
troubadour.

PAUL TO VIRGINIA.
FIN DE SIECLE.

  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 every one,
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 entrancing,
Or ever saw your laughing eyes,

    With girlish mischief dancing;
'Tis agony supreme and rare
To see your slender waist a-girt
With other fellows' arms, you see,

    For I am jealous, and you're a flirt.


Now, girlie, 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,