Miss Sydney's Flowers Page #4

"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

								

to walk? You're so heavy!" said she in a fretful, tired way. But the
baby was half crying, and held her tight. He had meant to stay some
time longer, and look at those pretty, bright things, since he could
not have the candy.

Mrs. Marley felt as if her customer might think her stingy, and
proceeded to explain that she couldn't think of giving her candy away.
"Bless you, ma'am, I wouldn't have a stick left by nine o'clock."

Miss Sydney "never gave money to street-beggars." But these children
had not begged, and somehow she pitied them very much, they looked so
hungry. And she called them back. There was a queer tone to her voice;
and she nearly cried after she had given the package of candy to them,
and thrown a dollar upon the board in front of Mrs. Marley, and found
herself in the carriage, driving away. Had she been very silly? and
what could John have thought? But the children were so glad; and the
old candy-woman had said, "God bless you, mum!"

After this, Miss Sydney could not keep up her old interest in her own
affairs. She felt restless and dissatisfied, and wondered how she
could have done the same things over and over so contentedly for so
many years. You may be sure, that, if Grant Place had been unthought
of, she would have lived on in the same fashion to the end of her
days. But after this she used to look out of the window; and she sat a
great deal in the conservatory, when it was not too warm there, behind
some tall callas. The servants found her usually standing in the
dining-room; for she listened for footsteps, and was half-ashamed to
have them notice that she had changed in the least. We are all given
to foolish behavior of this kind once in a while. We are often
restrained because we feel bound to conform to people's idea of us. We
must be such persons as we imagine our friends think us to be. They
believe that we have made up our minds about them, and are apt to show
us only that behavior which they think we expect. They are afraid of
us sometimes. They think we cannot sympathize with them. Our friend
felt almost as if she were yielding to some sin in this strange
interest in the passers-by. She had lived so monotonous a life, that
any change could not have failed to be somewhat alarming. She told
Bessie Thorne afterward, that one day she came upon that verse of
Keble's Hymn for St. Matthew's Day. Do you remember it?--

  "There are, in this loud, stunning tide
      Of human care and crime,
   With whom the melodies abide
      Of the everlasting chime;
   Who carry music in their heart
   Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,
      Plying their daily task with busier feet
      Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."

It seemed as if it were a message to herself, and she could not help
going to the window a few minutes afterward. The faces were mostly
tired-looking and dissatisfied. Some people looked very eager and
hurried, but none very contented. It was the literal daily bread they
thought of; and, when two fashionably-dressed ladies chanced to go by
the window, their faces were strangely like their poorer neighbors in
expression. Miss Sydney wondered what the love for one's neighbor
could be; if she could ever feel it herself. She did not even like
these people whom she watched, and yet every day, for years and years,
she had acknowledged them her brothers and sisters when she said, "Our
Father who art in heaven."

It seemed as if Miss Sydney, of all people, might have been
independent and unfettered. It is so much harder for us who belong to
a family for we are hindered by the thought of people's noticing our
attempts at reform. It is like surrendering some opinion ignominiously
which we have fought for. It is a kind of "giving in." But when she
had acknowledged to herself that she had been in the wrong, that she
was a selfish, thoughtless old woman, that she was alone, without
friends, and it had been her own fault, she was puzzled to know how to
do better. She could not begin to be very charitable all at once. The
more she realized what her own character had become, the more hopeless
and necessary seemed reform.

Such times as this come to many of us, both in knowing ourselves and
our friends. An awakening, one might call it,--an opening of the blind
eyes of our spiritual selves. And our ears are open to some of the
voices which call us; while others might as well be silent, for all
the heed we give them. We go on, from day to day, doing, with more or
less faithfulness, that part of our work we have wit enough to
comprehend; but one day suddenly we are shown a broader field,
stretching out into the distance, and know that from this also we may
bring in a harvest by and by, and with God's help.

Miss Sydney meant to be better,--not alone for the sake of having
friends, not alone to quiet her conscience, but because she knew she
had been so far from living a Christian life, and she was bitterly
ashamed. This was all she needed,--all any of us need,--to know that
we must be better men and women for God's sake; that we cannot be
better without his help, and that his help may be had for the asking.
But where should she begin? She had always treated her servants
kindly, and they were the people she knew best. She would surely try
to be more interested in the friends she met; but it was nearly
Christmas time, and people rarely came to call. Every one was busy.
Becky Marley's cheery face haunted her; and one day after having
looked down from the window on the top of her bonnet, she remembered
that she did not get any candy, after all, and she would go round to
see the old lady again, she looked poor, and she would give her some
money. Miss Sydney dressed herself for the street, and closed the door
behind her very carefully, as if she were a mischievous child running
away. It was very cold, and there were hardly a dozen persons to be
seen in the streets, and Mrs. Marley had evidently been crying.

"I should like some of your candy," said our friend. "You know I
didn't take any, after all, the other day." And then she felt very
conscious and awkward, fearing that the candy-woman thought she wished
to remind her of her generosity.

"Two of the large packages, if you please. But, dear me! aren't you
very cold, sitting here in the wind?" and Miss Sydney shivered, in
spite of her warm wrappings.

It was the look of sympathy that was answered first, for it was more
comforting than even the prospect of money, sorely as Mrs. Marley
needed that.

"Yes, mum, I've had the rheumatics this winter awful. But the wind
here!--why, it ain't nothing to what it blows round in Jefferson
Street, where I used to sit. I shouldn't be out to-day, but I was
called upon sudden to pay my molasses bill, when I'd just paid my
rent; and I don't know how ever I can. There's sister Polly--she's
dead lame and deaf. I s'pose we'll both be in the almshouse afore
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