This is indeed a day of almost excessive specialization in science: Great things have been accomplished by the intense method. Some have thought, and spoken their thoughts, that such tended to carry men of science away from the contemplation of a unit or the system as a whole. Not a few have argued, perhaps with reason, that the great generalizations, as for example Darwin’s theory of evolution, were no longer to be hoped for. It is impossible for any single brain to follow the details of the varied branches of science. It is rare that one man pretends to know the detail of that division of science to which he gives attention. It is equally true, however, that many systematic minds are gathering, collating and publishing in readable form accurate summaries of details in the several branches. Men of broader vision are gathering these authentic digests and offering concepts, which encompass the phenomena of the Universe. Such have been hinted at as the efforts of some to do away with what we have been pleased to term axiomatic truths. Whether this be desirable, is really of no moment. The facts point to the present movement of efforts to simplify matters. The most beautiful things after all are the simplest. This idea, of course, should not convey the impression of being boldly plain. “THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLET.” By G. D. G. Down the long corridor swept the theater-goers, men in the sober black and white of evening clothes, women in the brightest of theater gowns. Debutantes paused to chat with college men as they found their way to boxes and orchestra chairs; bachelors stopped to talk of the affairs of the day before taking their places in the front rows. The old playhouse was fast filling, for it was “The Princess of Tyrolia” that night. With the first notes of the orchestra a young man hurried down the aisle and dropped into a seat far back in the shadow of the balcony. His eyes swept hastily over the audience and then became fixed on a box near the stage. “I knew she would be here,” he murmured softly; “she could never keep away from this music.” It was a pretty picture he found to gaze upon and it was little wonder that he looked but seldom at the stage. More attractive even than the rows of gorgeously dressed girls in the chorus was that box near the stage. Seated toward the front was a young girl, just rounding into the beauty of the woman—while retaining all the freshness of girlhood. Behind her laughed and chatted a few companions of her own age, but she kept her eyes fixed upon the stage and seemed to fairly revel in the beauty of the ringing chorus. To her the music seemed everything, and the great bunch of violets in her hand was beating unconscious time to the march.