Miss Sydney's Flowers Page #2

"Miss Sydney's Flowers" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a charming and evocative short story that explores themes of nature, community, and the simple pleasures of life. Set in a small New England town, it follows the character of Miss Sydney, an elderly woman with a deep appreciation for the beauty of flowers. Through her interactions with her neighbors and her passion for gardening, the story highlights the connections between people and the natural world, revealing how these relationships can bring joy and fulfillment. Jewett's rich prose and keen observations of rural life provide readers with a vivid sense of place and the enduring power of human connection.

• Short story

								

after he found that his flowers were noticed and admired, his anger
was turned into an ardent desire to merit admiration, and he kept his
finest plants next the street. It was a good thing for the greenhouse,
because it had never been so carefully tended; and plant after plant
was forced into luxuriant foliage and blossom. He and Miss Sydney had
planned at first to have close wire screens made to match those in the
dining-room; but now, when she spoke of his hurrying the workmen, whom
she supposed had long since been ordered to make them, John said,
"Indeed, mum, it would be the ruin of the plants shutting out the
light; and they would all be rusted with the showerings I gives them
every day." And Miss Sydney smiled, and said no more.

The street was opened late in October, and, soon after, cold weather
began in real earnest. Down in that business part of the city it was
the strangest, sweetest surprise to come suddenly upon the long line
of blooming plants and tall green lily-leaves under a roof festooned
with roses and trailing vines. For the first two or three weeks,
almost everybody stopped, if only for a moment. Few of Miss Sydney's
own friends even had ever seen her greenhouse; for they were almost
invariably received in the drawing-room. Gentlemen stopped the thought
of business affairs, and went on down the street with a fresher,
happier feeling. And the tired shop-girls lingered longest. Many a man
and woman thought of some sick person to whom a little handful of the
green leaves and bright blossoms, with their coolness and freshness,
would bring so much happiness. And it was found, long months
afterward, that a young man had been turned back from a plan of wicked
mischief by the sight of a tall, green geranium, like one that bloomed
in his mother's sitting-room way up in the country. He had not
thought, for a long time before, of the dear old woman who supposed
her son was turning his wits to good account in the  city. But Miss
Sydney did not know how much he wished for a bit to put in his
buttonhole when she indignantly went back to the dining-room to wait
until that impertinent fellow stopped staring in.

II.

It was just about this time that Mrs. Marley made a change in her
place of business. She had sold candy round the corner in Jefferson
Street for a great many years; but she had suffered terribly from
rheumatism all the winter before. She was nicely sheltered from too
much sun in the summer; but the north winds of winter blew straight
toward her; and after much deliberation, and many fears and
questionings as to the propriety of such an act, she had decided to
find another stand. You or I would think at first that it could make
no possible difference where she sat in the street with her goods; but
in fact one has regular customers in that business, as well as in the
largest wholesale enterprise. There was some uncertainty whether these
friends would follow her if she went away. Mrs. Marley's specialty was
molasses-candy; and I am sure, if you ever chanced to eat any of it,
you would look out for the old lady next time you went along the
street. Times seemed very hard this winter. Not that trade had
seriously diminished; but still the outlook was very dark. Mrs. Marley
was old, and had been so for some years, so she was used to that; but
somehow this fall she seemed to be growing very much older all of a
sudden. She found herself very tired at night, and she was apt to lose
her breath if she moved quickly; besides this, the rheumatism tortured
her. She had saved only a few dollars, though she and her sister had
had a comfortable living,--what they had considered comfortable, at
least, though they sometimes had been hungry, and very often cold.
They would surely go to the almshouse sooner or later,--she and her
lame old sister Polly.

It was Polly who made the candy which Mrs. Marley sold. Their two
little rooms were up three flights of stairs; and Polly, being too
lame to go down herself, had not been out of doors in seven years.
There was nothing but roofs and sky to be seen from the windows; and,
as there was a manufactory near, the sky was apt to be darkened by its
smoke. Some of the neighbors dried their clothes on the roofs, and
Polly used to be very familiar with the apparel of the old residents,
and exceedingly interested when a strange family came, and she saw
something new. There was a little bright pink dress that the trig
young French woman opposite used to hang out to dry; and somehow poor
old Polly used always to be brightened and cheered by the sight of it.
Once in a while she caught a glimpse of the child who wore it. She
hardly ever thought now of the outside world when left to herself, and
on the whole she was not discontented. Sister Becky used to have a
great deal to tell her sometimes of an evening. When Mrs. Marley told
her in the spring twilight that the grass in the square was growing
green, and that she had heard a robin, it used to make Polly feel
homesick; for she was apt to think much of her childhood, and she had
been born in the country. She was very deaf, poor soul, and her world
was a very forlorn one. It was nearly always quite silent, it was very
small and smoky out of doors, and very dark and dismal within.
Sometimes it was a hopeless world, because the candy burnt; and if
there had not been her Bible and hymn-book, and a lame pigeon that lit
on the window-sill to be fed every morning, Miss Polly would have
found her time go heavily.

One night Mrs. Marley came into the room with a cheerful face, and
said very loud, "Polly, I've got some news!" Polly knew by her
speaking so loud that she was in good-humor. When any thing
discouraging had happened, Becky spoke low, and then was likely to be
irritated when asked to repeat her remark.

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Marley, "now I am glad you had something hot
for supper. I was turning over in my mind what we could cook up, for I
feel real hollow. It's a kind of chilly day." And she sat down by the
stove, while Polly hobbled to the table, with one hand to her ear to
catch the first sound of the good news, and the other holding some
baked potatoes in her apron. That hand was twisted with rheumatism,
for the disease ran in the family. She was afraid every day that she
should have to give up making the candy on the next; for it hurt her
so to use it. She was continually being harrowed by the idea of its
becoming quite useless, and that the candy might not be so good; and
then what would become of them? Becky Marley was often troubled by the
same thought. Yet they were almost always good-natured, poor old
women; and, though Polly Sharpe's pleasures and privileges were by far
the fewest of anybody's I ever knew, I think she was as glad in those
days to know the dandelions were in bloom as if she could see them;
and she got more good from the fragments of the Sunday-morning sermon
that sister Becky brought home than many a listener did from the whole
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