Good Books

Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a perfumed stretch of
meadow-land,--the one naturally fertile spot in that somewhat barren
district. Plenty of flowers blossomed at their feet, but they did not
pause to gather these, for Sigurd was anxious to get to the stream where
the purple pansies grew. They soon reached it--it was a silvery clear
ribbon of water that unrolled itself in bright folds, through green,
transparent tunnels of fern and waving grass--leaping now and then with
a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged rock--but for the
most part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as though
it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the
grave, purple-leaved pansies,--legendary consolers of the heart,--their
little, quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction; up
to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight,--down to the ground, with
an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sideways on their stems in
a sort of sly reflectiveness.


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