(H. A. Grace: For Short Stories.)
A florist-shop in the city of Philadelphia.
A lady, apparently about thirty years of age, dressed somberly in
black, enters, and approaching the proprietor, who is behind the
counter, demurely asks:
“Does anyone ever use those floral pieces that I see in the window, as
wedding presents?”--at the same time indicating by a gesture that she
referred to mementoes of immortelles there conspicuously displayed.
“Well,” answered the florist, somewhat astonished, “that is a use to
which I have never before heard of their being put; still I know of no
reason why they could not be so used, if one desired to give such an
emblem as a token of esteem at such a time. What design would you think
of using?” setting on the counter such emblems as Gates Ajar, a harp,
and a lyre.
“I hardly know,” continued the lady, “still, I think possibly this one
might answer,” picking up the lyre.
“What inscription would you wish on it?” asked the florist.
“The sad hour.”
“Is not that rather sombre for such a joyous occasion?”
“Well, it might be ordinarily, but the fact is simply this: the
gentleman to whom I wish to send it and myself were engaged to be
married, and he is now about to marry another lady; so if you think the
immortelles that you put in it will last a long time, I will take this
lyre, and have the motto--
+--------------+
| THE SAD HOUR |
+--------------+
--just as large and prominent as ever you can make it.”
To this the polite florist replies that he had no doubt but that the
immortelles would last as long as could be desired.
The lady left, composed and satisfied.
The emblem was finished in strict accordance with the order and
promptly delivered to the address given.
* * * * *
What the recipient said may be recorded in heaven, but is not known on
earth, and the florist and his customer still live.