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    Bride Roses
    Bride Roses
    Bride Roses
    Ebook51 pages30 minutes

    Bride Roses

    By William Dean Howells

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Bride Roses
    Author

    William Dean Howells

    William Dean Howells was a realist novelist, literary critic, and playwright, nicknamed "The Dean of American Letters". He was particularly known for his tenure as editor of The Atlantic Monthly, as well as for his own prolific writings.

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      Book preview

      Bride Roses - William Dean Howells

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bride Roses, by W. D. Howells

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Bride Roses

      Author: W. D. Howells

      Release Date: September 2, 2010 [EBook #33608]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRIDE ROSES ***

      Produced by David Edwards, Josephine Paolucci and the

      Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

      (This file was produced from images generously made

      available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      BRIDE ROSES

      W. D. HOWELLS

      Bride Roses

      A SCENE

      By W. D. Howells

      BOSTON AND NEW YORK

      Houghton, Mifflin and Company MDCCCC

      COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

      COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. D. HOWELLS

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      Bride Roses

      SCENE

      A Lady, entering the florist's with her muff to her face, and fluttering gayly up to the counter, where the florist stands folding a mass of loose flowers in a roll of cotton batting: Good-morning, Mr. Eichenlaub! Ah, put plenty of cotton round the poor things, if you don't want them frozen stiff! You have no idea what a day it is, here in your little tropic. She takes away her muff as she speaks, but gives each of her cheeks a final pressure with it, and holds it up with one hand inside as she sinks upon the stool before the counter.

      The Florist: Dropic? With icepergs on the wintows? He nods his head toward the frosty panes, and wraps a sheet of tissue-paper around the cotton and the flowers.

      The Lady: But you are not near the windows. Back here it is midsummer!

      The Florist: Yes, we got a rhevricherator to keep the rhoces from sunstroke. He crimps the paper at the top, and twists it at the bottom of the bundle in his hand. Hier! he calls to a young man warming his hands at the stove. Chon, but on your hat, and dtake this to—Holt on! I forgot to but in the cart. He undoes the paper, and puts in a card lying on the counter before him; the lady watches him vaguely. There! He restores the wrapping and hands the package to the young man, who goes out with it. Well, matam?

      The Lady, laying her muff with her hand in it on the counter, and leaning forward over it: "Well, Mr. Eichenlaub. I am going to

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