Friendship Village Love Stories

Although it is June, the Little Child about whom I shall sometimes write in these pages this morning brought me a few violets. June violets. They sound unconvincing and even sentimental. However, here they are in their vase; and they are all white but one. "Only one blue one," said Little Child, regretfully; "May must be 'most dead by mistake." "Don't the months die as soon as they go away?" I asked her, and a little shocked line troubled her forehead. "Oh, no," she said; "they never die at all. They wait and show the next months how." So this year's May is showing June how. As if one should have a kind of pre-self, who kept on, after one's birth, and told one what to live and what not to live. I wish that I had had a pre-self and that it had kept on with me to show me how.