Once there was a posy. 'T wa'n't a common kind o' posy, that blows out
wide open, so's everybody can see its outsides and its insides too.
But 't was one of them posies like what grows down the road, back o' your
pa's sugar-house, Danny, and don't come till way towards fall. They're
sort o' blue, but real dark, and they look 's if they was buds 'stead
o' posies,--only buds opens out, and these doesn't They're all shet up
close and tight, and they never, never, never opens. Never mind how much
sun they get, never mind how much rain or how much drouth, whether it's
cold or hot, them posies stay shet up tight, kind o' buddy, and not
finished and humly. But if you pick 'em open, real careful, with a
pin,--I've done it,--you find they're dreadful pretty inside.
You couldn't see a posy that was finished off better, soft and nice,
with pretty little stripes painted on 'em, and all the little things
like threads in the middle, sech as the open posies has, standing up,
with little knots on their tops, oh, so pretty,--you never did! Makes
you think real hard, that does; leastways, makes me. What's they that
way for? If they ain't never goin' to open out, what's the use o' havin'
the shet-up part so slicked up and nice, with nobody never seem' it?
Folks has different names for 'em, dumb foxgloves, blind genshuns, and
all that, but I allers call 'em the shet-up posies.
Well, 't was one o' that kind o' posy I was goin' to tell you about.
'Twas one o' the shet-uppest and the buddiest of all on 'em, all
blacky-blue and straight up and down, and shet up fast and tight.
Nobody'd ever dream't was pretty inside. And the funniest thing, it
didn't know 'twas so itself! It thought 'twas a mistake somehow, thought
it had oughter been a posy, and was begun for one, but wa'n't finished,
and 'twas terr'ble unhappy. It knew there was pretty posies all 'round
there, goldenrod and purple daisies and all; and their inside was the
right side, and they was proud of it, and held it open, and showed the
pretty lining, all soft and nice with the little fuzzy yeller threads
standin' up, with little balls on their tip ends. And the shet-up posy
felt real bad; not mean and hateful and begrudgin', you know, and
wantin' to take away the nice part from the other posies, but sorry, and
kind o' 'shamed.
"Oh, deary me!" she says,--I most forgot to say 'twas a girl
posy,--"deary me, what a humly, skimpy, awk'ard thing I be! I ain't
more 'n half made; there ain't no nice, pretty lining inside o' me, like
them other posies; and on'y my wrong side shows, and that's jest plain
and common. I can't chirk up folks like the goldenrod and daisies does.
Nobody won't want to pick me and carry me home. I ain't no good to
anybody, and I never shall be."
So she kep' on, thinkin' these dreadful sorry thinkin's, and most
wishin' she'd never been made at all. You know 't wa'n't jest at fust
she felt this way. Fust she thought she was a bud, like lots o' buds all
'round her, and she lotted on openin' like they did. But when the days
kep' passin' by, and all the other buds opened out, and showed how
pretty they was, and she didn't open, why, then she got terr'ble
discouraged; and I don't wonder a mite.
She'd see the dew a-layin' soft and cool on the other posies' faces, and
the sun a-shinin' warm on 'em as they held 'em up, and sometimes she'd
see a butterfly come down and light on 'em real soft, and kind o' put
his head down to 'em, 's if he was kissin' 'em, and she thought 'twould
be powerful nice to hold her face up to all them pleasant things. But
she couldn't.
But one day, afore she'd got very old, 'fore she'd dried up or fell
off, or anything like that, she see somebody comin' along her way. 'Twas
a man, and he was lookin' at all the posies real hard and partic'lar,
but he wasn't pickin' any of 'em. Seems 's if he was lookin' for
somethin' diff'rent from what he see, and the poor little shet-up posy
begun to wonder what he was arter. Bimeby she braced up, and she asked
him about it in her shet-up, whisp'rin' voice. And says he, the man
says: "I'm a-pickin' posies. That's what I work at most o' the time. 'T
ain't for myself," he says, "but the one I work for. I'm on'y his help.
I run errands and do chores for him, and it's a partic'lar kind o' posy
he's sent me for to-day." "What for does he want 'em?" says the shet-up
posy. "Why, to set out in his gardin," the man says. "He's got the
beautif'lest gardin you never see, and I pick posies for 't." "Deary
me," thinks she to herself, "I jest wish he'd pick me. But I ain't the
kind, I know." And then she says, so soft he can't hardly hear her,
"What sort o' posies is it you're arter this time?" "Well," says the
man, "it's a dreadful sing'lar order I've got to-day. I got to find a
posy that's handsomer inside than 't is outside, one that folks ain't
took no notice of here, 'cause 'twas kind o' humly and queer to look at,
not knowin' that inside 'twas as handsome as any posy on the airth. Seen
any o' that kind?" says the man.
Well, the shet-up posy was dreadful worked up. "Deary dear!" she says to
herself, "now if they'd on'y finished me off inside! I'm the right kind
outside, humly and queer enough, but there's nothin' worth lookin' at
inside,--I'm certin sure o' that." But she didn't say this nor anything
else out loud, and bimeby, when the man had waited, and didn't get any
answer, he begun to look at the shet-up posy more partic'lar, to see why
she was so mum. And all of a suddent he says, the man did, "Looks to
me's if you was somethin' that kind yourself, ain't ye?" "Oh, no, no,
no!" whispers the shet-up posy. "I wish I was, I wish I was. I'm all
right outside, humly and awk'ard, queer's I can be, but I ain't pretty
inside,--oh! I most know I ain't." "I ain't so sure o' that myself,"
says the man, "but I can tell in a jiffy." "Will you have to pick me to
pieces?" says the shet-up posy. "No, ma'am," says the man; "I've got a
way o' tellin', the one I work for showed me." The shet-up posy never
knowed what he done to her. I don't know myself, but 'twas somethin'
soft and pleasant, that didn't hurt a mite, and then the man he says,
"Well, well, well!" That's all he said, but he took her up real gentle,
and begun to carry her away. "Where be ye takin' me?" says the shet-up
posy. "Where ye belong," says the man; "to the gardin o' the one I work
for," he says. "I didn't know I was nice enough inside," says the
shet-up posy, very soft and still. "They most gen'ally don't," says the
man.