The one delight of Grace Newton’s life was to visit Aunt Chatty White.
Winter or summer, autumn or spring—no matter what the season nor how
bright or how gloomy the weather—there was sure to be found some
unusually fascinating pleasure or employment. There were books of every
description with which to while away the winter days. And in summer the
trees were full of fruit, the yard with flowers, the fields and garden
with good things, while the birds saucily claimed possession of all.
But when she was told by Mamma that she should open Easter with Aunt
Chatty her heart was a-flutter with a joy not known before. Easter—her
first away from home! And she was sure that there would be presents, and
new books to read, and new stories to hear, and rabbits’ nests to visit,
and—well, it would be the gladdest Easter of her life, she was certain.
It was Good Friday when she arrived at her aunt’s quiet country home.
The winter was dying away and spring was making itself known and felt,
while a few birds were venturing to sing of summer’s return. The buds
were swelling, the lawns and meadows were becoming green, and in the
woods Grace was sure she could find, should she try, a violet, a
bloodroot bloom, or a dainty snowdrop. For these were the first flowers,
and sometimes appeared, her mother told her, before the snow was fairly
gone.
A surprise awaited her, however; for, as she was wandering aimlessly
about the garden borders that afternoon, she suddenly came upon a bed of
golden buds and blossoms. After gazing at them a few moments to make
sure she was not dreaming, she hastened away to Aunt Chatty for an
explanation.
“Why, dearie, those are Easter flowers,” laughed her aunt.
“But I thought Easter lilies were white.”
“Not all of them. I have some white ones—in another part of the garden.
Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.”
“John—who?” queried Grace, in astonishment.
“Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s
ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.”
Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young
blossoms when her aunt arrived.
“The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the
white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already
started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the
jonquils—these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and
the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have
that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms
grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the
Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but
the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see
the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?”
“Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and
she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long
standing.
“These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke
of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground
in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who
commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as
though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.”
“But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace
presently.
“Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls
who were selfish and unkind.”
To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become
warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were
comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began:
“There was a very beautiful youth, mythology tells us, who was devotedly
loved by a wood nymph, Echo. But she had incurred the displeasure of
Juno, their goddess of the heavens, and by her had been condemned to
have the power to speak only the last word and was forbidden any other.
For this reason she could not address Narcissus, much as she desired to
do so. When he did speak, finally, Echo answered by repeating his last
word. Her heart was full of joy, for she was sure that at last her
opportunity had come. But in spite of her beauty and purity the youth
repelled her, and left her to haunt the recesses of the woods. In her
disappointment she pined for him until her form faded because of grief.
Her bones were changed to rocks and there was nothing left but her
voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her
and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.
“Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned every one else
as he had done poor Echo. One day one of those whom he repelled so
heartlessly breathed a prayer that he should some day feel what it was
to receive no return of affection. The wish was granted.
“There was a fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds
never drove their flocks. In fact, nothing ever disturbed its water, and
here one day Narcissus chanced to stop to drink. He saw his own likeness
in the water and, thinking it a beautiful water spirit living in the
fountain, admired and loved it. He talked to it, but it would not
answer; he tried to catch it, but it fled whenever he touched the water.
He could not tear himself away from the spot, for he was so captivated
by the lovely face in the fountain that he ignored all else. So there he
stayed until he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which had so
charmed Echo. She kept near him, however, and when, in his grief, he
exclaimed, ‘Alas! alas!’ she answered with the same words. He pined away
and died. The nymphs prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the
body, but it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a flower, purple
within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and
preserves the memory of Narcissus.”
When Aunt Chatty had finished, Grace, after gazing out at the white
Easter lilies a few moments, said:
“I like the story, but I don’t like Narcissus. He was too selfish and
ungrateful. I like the story best that you told me in the garden, the
one about the ‘lilies of the field.’”
Claudia May Ferrin.