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."