Produced by Heather Clark, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1856. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1855, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. STEREOTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT. In the absence of any preface by the author, the publishers desire to call special attention to this most exquisite little story. It breathes such a love of Nature in all her forms, inculcates such excellent principles, and is so full of beauty and simplicity, that it will delight not only children, but all readers of unsophisticated tastes. The author seems to teach the gentle creed which Coleridge has imbodied in those familiar lines,-- "He prayeth well who loveth well Both man, and bird, and beast." VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. CHAPTER I. VIOLET'S HOME. Once there was a gardener who lived in an old hut of a house, with one table inside, and some rough stools, and a large box that served for a bed, all of which he had made himself. There was one window; but when it stormed the rain beat in so that the old lady, his wife, had to pin her shawl against it, and then the whole house was dark as night. Every body thought these people poor except themselves; but they had one treasure which seemed to them better than a whole mountain of gold and all the splendid houses and gay carriages in the world. This was their little daughter Violet, whose presence in their home made it beautiful and stately, and whose absence, they thought, would have made a palace dull. Violet was not as beautiful as some children. She was pale and slender, and her soft, light hair did not curl in ringlets, but floated over her shoulders like a golden veil. But O, she had such beautiful eyes! They were large, and so bright and clear, and such a deep, deep blue! Sometimes they made you think of a brook in the shady wood when gleams of sunshine have found their way to it; sometimes they were like nothing so much as the violets that grew beside the doorway of her own father's hut. The old man had, besides his daughter, a garden, which was dear to him; and well it might be, for in summer it did one's eyes good to look at the blossoms all tangled together, and sprinkled over with great drops of pearly dew. Roses there were, and lilies, and fox-gloves, and mignonette, and a great many other flowers that had long names, which Violet could not remember. Then there were long, neatly-kept beds of vegetables and sweet herbs, which Reuben--for that was the gardener's name--carried to market.