"It is impossible to describe the delight which I took in my
first flower, yet it was only a poor peeky, little sprouting
crocus. Before I begin the story, I must, in two lines, make
known my needy state at the time when I became the owner of the
flower. I was in my eleventh year, meanly clothed, plainly fed, and
penniless; an errand boy in receipt of one shilling and sixpence
a week, which sum I consumed in bread and shoe leather. Yet I was
happy enough, living in a snug cottage in the suburbs of Oxford,
within sight of its towers, and within hearing of its bells. In
the back yard of my home were many wonders. The gable end of a
barn was mantled with ivy, centuries old, and sparrows made their
home in its leafage; an ancient wall, old as the Norman tower at
the other end of the town, was rich in gilly-flowers; a wooden
shed, with red tiles, was covered by a thriving "tea tree," so we
called it, which in summer was all blossom, pendant mauve coloured
blossoms. This tree managed to interlace its branches among the
tiles so effectively as in the end to lift off the whole roof in
a mass, and poise it in the air. Bees came in swarms to sip honey
at the blossoms: I noted civilised hive bees, and large ones whose
waxen cells were hidden in mossy banks in the woods--these had
crimson and saffron tinted bodies, or, for variety, hairy shapes
of sombre green and black. I was never weary of my wall-flowers,
and bees, and butterflies. But, so it is, I happened one day
to get a glimpse of a college garden about the end of February,
or the beginning of March, when its mound of venerable elms was
lit up with star-like yellow flowers. The dark earth was robed as
with a bright garment of imperial, oriental splendour. It was the
star-shaped aconite, as I believe, but am not sure, whose existence
in flower is brief, but glorious, when beheld, as I beheld it,
in masses. Henceforth, if Old Fidget, the gardener, was not at
the back gate of St. J---- I peeped through the keyhole at my
yellow garden bed, which seemed flooded with sunlight, only broken
by patches of rich black earth, which formed strange patterns,
such as we see on Japanese screens of laquer and bronze, only
that the flowers had a glory of their own. Well, I looked through
the keyhole every time I passed, and that was four times daily,
and always with increased interest for my flowering aconite. But
oh! trouble upon trouble, one day I found the keyhole stopt, and
there was an end of my daily joy, and of the interest which had
been awakened in me, in a new way, for the wonders of nature. My
love of flowers, however, increased, and I found means to feed my
love. I had often observed Old Fidget, the head gardener, and his
mates, bring out wheelbarrow loads of refuse from the shrubbery
and flower beds, and throw them in a heap along the garden wall
without, where a long, deep trench had become the well-known
receptacle for rubbish. Such places were common in town suburbs in
those days. The rubbish consisted of cuttings of shrubs and plants,
and rakings of flower-borders, but more bountifully, of elm leaves,
and the cast off clothing of chestnut trees, which soon lay rotting
in flaky masses, until I happened to espy a fragment of a bulb,
and then, the rubbish of the garden, which concealed sprouting
chestnuts, knew no rest. I went, one holiday, and dug deep,
with no other implement than my hands, into this matted mass. I
laboured, till at length, in a mass of closely pressed leaves,
I came upon a perfect crocus. It lay like a dead elfin infant in
its forest grave. I was enchanted, and afraid to touch it, as one
would fear to commit a piece of sacrilege. It lay in its green
robes, which seemed spun from dainty silken threads unsoiled by
mortal hands. Its blossom of pale flesh tint lay concealed within
a creamy opalescent film, which seemed to revive and live when the
light penetrated the darksome tomb, contrasting with the emerald
robes, and silken, pliant roots. At length I lifted the flower
from its bed, and carried it to my garden plot with breathless
care. My garden plot, not much larger than a large baking dish,
was enclosed by broken tiles, a scrubby place, unsuited to my
newly discovered treasure. I broke up the earth and pulverised it
with my fingers, but its coarseness was incurable. I abandoned
it as I thought of some mole hills in a neighbouring copse,
and soon my plot was filled deeply with soft sandy soil, fit
for my flower. And then came the necessity of protecting it from
the searching March winds, which I did effectually by covering
it with a flower pot, and the season wore on, and soft, mild
days set in apace, and my flower, which was ever uppermost in my
thoughts, whether sleeping or waking, began to show signs of life,
as day by day I permitted the sun to look at it, until at length,
one sunny, silent, Sunday morning, it opened its glowing, golden,
sacramental cup, gleaming like light from heaven--dropt in a dark
place, living light and fire. So it seemed to my poor vision,
and I called the household and the neighbours from their cares
to share my rapture. But alas! my dream was ended; the flower had
no fascination for those who came at my call. It was but a yellow
crocus to them--some laughed, some tittered, some jeered me, and
old Dick Willis, poor man, who got a crust by selling soft water
by the pail, he only rubbed his dim eyes, and exclaimed in pity,
"God bless the poor boy!"
Little thinking how much he was already blessed,--he--and his flower!
For indeed Crocus and Carduus are alike Benedict flowers, if only one
knew God's gold and purple from the Devil's, which, with St. George's
help, and St. Anthony's,--the one well knowing the flowers of the
field, and the other those of the desert,--we will try somewhat
to discern.