IN THE SPRING-TIME.
Christmas had come and gone, even the New Year was becoming old; for
three months had slipped by, and March winds were preparing to usher in
April showers.
The London shopkeepers were exhibiting their spring goods, hoping that
the few gleams of sun which had contrived to make themselves seen were
indeed heralds of the coming "season," which "season" was supposed to
bring an increase of business with it, and, of course, as the homely
adage says, "more grist to the mill."
But as yet the streets were wet and sloppy, the bleak winds whistled
round the corners, and London looked very dull and cheerless, even at
the West End, where it is always brighter than in the busy City.
Far away in the country, it is true, the birds were twittering, joyfully
busy in making their nests, flying hither and thither in search of
materials to form their tiny homes.
There were sheep, too, in the meadows, cropping the fresh young grass,
whilst the lambs skipped merrily about their staid mothers, as though
rejoicing in the warmer weather; for the winter had been very severe,
and many a night had they huddled together beside a hedge to keep
themselves warm when the snow was falling thickly around.
The buds on the trees, especially the elms, were filling, so that after
a few showers they would throw off their brown sheaths and put forth
their delicate green leaves to court the breeze; and as to the hedges,
they were already verdant. Yes, all creation was awaking, eager to
proclaim His praise who hath said "While the earth remaineth, seed-time
and harvest, cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night
shall not cease."
In the deep sheltered copse or hedgerows, primroses and violets were to
be found nestling amidst green leaves and soft moss, filling the air
with perfume. It always seems a pity to gather them where they bloom so
sweetly and linger so long, yet gathered they were and sent up to
London; some, indeed, were to be found in Sally Grimes' basket as she
stood outside the Bank, as she was standing on the day we first saw her.
She has certainly improved since then--no longer ragged or untidy, but
her hair is neatly plaited beneath a decent bonnet, and her shawl is
securely fastened, instead of flying in the wind as it used to do. She
is still very successful in "business," although she does not now rush
across the roads at peril of life or limb, nor does she thrust her
flowers into the faces of the passers-by, frightening timid people by
her roughness. No; all that is changed, and she has become a quiet,
steady girl.
Truth to tell, she is beginning to dislike the life she leads--not the
flowers; she loves them more than ever! and often looks after neat
little servants she sometimes sees, wishing to become like one of them.
Patience, Sally! who knows what may be by and by?
But where is little Pollie, that she is not with her trusty friend?
Poor little Pollie lies sick and ill at home, so pale and thin one would
scarcely recognise in that wan little face the Pollie of last
spring-time!
A severe cold, followed by slow fever, has laid her low, and though all
danger is over, she still continues so weak, too feeble to move;
therefore her dear mother or Lizzie Stevens lifts her from her bed and
lays her in an easy-chair which Mrs. Flanagan had borrowed, in which she
reclines all the day long, very patient and uncomplaining though the
poor little heart is often very sad as she watches her mother's busy
fingers, and feels that she cannot help to lift the burden as she used
to do; then like an angel's whisper comes the remembrance of that which
cheered her the first day she started in business, "Fear thou not, for I
am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee;
yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My
righteousness;" and so the brown eyes close, shutting up the
fast-gathering tears, and she trusts in her Heavenly Father with all the
fervour of her pure childish heart, sure that the "Lord will provide."
Then during the evening Nora comes in, and takes the little sufferer
upon her lap, and sings to her so beautifully that the child gazes up
into the girl's lovely eyes, now so calm and hopeful, with the dreamy
fancy that the angels must look like her. There is one song, an especial
favourite with them both, called "Beautiful Blue Violets;" and very
often, whilst listening to the sweet voice, Pollie falls asleep, soothed
by the melody.
Indeed, there is no lack of kind friends who love the little girl. Mrs.
Smith brings up all sorts of nice things to tempt the child's
appetite--sweet oranges and baked apples--even her brother, the butcher
at whose shop Pollie's first purchase of meat was made, sent a piece of
mutton, "with his respects to Mrs. Turner, and it was just the right bit
to make some broth for the little gal."
The good doctor (the same who was present when crippled Jimmy died),
though far from being a rich man, would accept no fee for attending her,
so that if kindness and love could have called back her lost health,
Pollie would soon have been well; but she is very, very ill, and day by
day grows weaker and weaker. Her poor mother watches each change in the
little face so precious to her, and when she lifts her in her arms feels
how light the burden is becoming; she dreads to think that God will
take her only treasure from her; her lips tremble as she says, "Thy will
be done." But the poor have no time for repining; every idle moment is
money lost, and money must be earned to buy food for the dear ones who
look to them for bread; so Mrs. Turner was compelled to work on, though
her heart was sick with sadness, and many a time gladly would she have
laid it aside to take her suffering child in her arms, and soothe the
languid pain as none but a mother can. The little girl seemed to guess
the thought those anxious eyes revealed, and when she saw her dear
mother looking wistfully upon her, she would say, striving to be gay,
and hide from those loving eyes all trace of suffering--
"I'm so cosy in this nice chair, mother darling, and Nora is coming in
soon, you know!"
And of the many who love little Pollie, who so true as Sally Grimes?
Every morning before setting off for the City she comes, anxiously
asking, "How's Pollie?" and on her return, her first care is to inquire
for her little sick friend, bringing with her a few flowers, if she has
any left in the basket, or some other trifle, precious, though, to the
grateful recipient, whose white lips smile gratefully at the kind Sally
for thus thinking of her.
"Ay, but I'm lonesome without you, Pollie," says the girl, as she kisses
the pale cheeks of the child; "and glad I'll be when you gets about
again, the place don't seem the same without you; why, even that big
peeler with the whiskers, who is a'most allers near the Bank, he says
to-day 'How's the little gal?' that he did."
One evening Sally came, rushing in quite breathless with excitement,
startling Mrs. Turner and waking up Pollie, who was dozing in Nora's
arms.
"Good news, good news," she cried out; "luck's come at last, hurray!
there's such a lovely lady coming to see you, Pollie."
"To see Pollie?" asked the widow in surprise; "who is she?"
"I don't know," was the reply, "but she's coming; she told me so, and
soon too."
"Who can it be?" they all questioned of each other, pausing in their
work to look at the excited girl.
"I'll tell you all about it," exclaimed Sally, who felt herself to be of
some importance as the bearer of such wonderful news; "only just let me
get my breath a bit."
"Well," she continued, when sufficiently recovered to proceed with her
story, but which, like all narrators of startling intelligence, she
seemed to wish to spin out, so as to excite the curiosity of her hearers
to the utmost; "well, I was standing at the top of Threadneedle Street,
with my back to the Mansion House, looking to see if any customers were
coming from Moorgate Street way, when some one touched me on my
shoulder. I turned sharp round, as I thought maybe it was a gent wanting
a bunch of flowers for his coat. But instead of a gent it was, oh, such
a pretty lady! Not a young lady; p'raps as old as you, Mrs. Turner,
p'raps older. She was dressed all in black, with, oh my! such crape, and
jet beads; and though she smiled when she spoke, yet she seemed
sad-like."
"Are you the little girl I saw here about a year ago?" says she.
"May be I am, marm," says I; "cos I'm pretty well allers here, leastway
in the mornings."
She looked at me a bit, and then she says--
"'I should not have thought to find you such a big girl in so short a
time. Do you remember me? I bought some violets, and you told me your
name, and where you lived; indeed I should have come to see you long ago
as I promised, but was obliged to go abroad suddenly with my own little
girl.'
"And then I thought she was going to cry, she looked so sad," added
Sally, "and she said"----
"'But God took her home.'"
"Poor dear lady!" was the exclamation of Sally's attentive listeners.
"Even the rich have troubles also," said Mrs. Turner with a pitying
sigh.
"Wait a bit, I 'aint told you all yet," cried the girl; "well, I just
then thought of what Pollie told us about the lady who gave her a
shilling the very first day she went with me selling violets. So I
says--
"It warn't me, marm, you saw that day; it was little Pollie!"
"'Yes, that was the name,' says she; 'and where is little Pollie?'
"With that I up and told her as how Pollie wasn't well, and so she says,
'I will come to see her directly I have finished my business in the
City.' Oh, Lor'!" cried Sally, suddenly pausing in her story, "here she
be, I'm sure, for there's some one coming up the stairs with Mrs.
Flanagan, some one who don't wear big heavy boots too; can't you hear?"
Sally was right; for the kindly face of their neighbour appeared in the
doorway, ushering in "the beautiful lady."
"And so this is little Pollie," the sweet voice said, as, after speaking
cheerfully to the widow and the others who were in the room, she stood
beside the sick child. "Well, Pollie, I have come to see you at last,
and in return for the beautiful violets you gave me a year ago, I will,
with our merciful Father's blessing us, put some roses on your white
cheeks."
* * * * *
My story is told!
In a pretty lodge close to the gates of a magnificent park live Pollie
and her dear long-suffering mother, but now as happy as it is possible
for mortals to be. The widow continues her needlework, not as formerly,
"to keep the wolf from the door," but merely for their beloved lady, or
what is required for the house. Pollie, whose cheeks are now truly rosy,
goes every day to school, and when at home helps her mother, so that in
time she will become quite a useful girl to their kind and generous
benefactress.
But who are those two neat young girls who are coming down the path
towards the lodge, looking so bright and cheerful? Surely one is Lizzie
Stevens, and the other Sally Grimes? Yes, indeed, and the housekeeper
says she "never had two better servants, so willing and steady," than
our two young friends. So Sally's ambition is realised; she is a
servant, and a good one too, for trusty Sally never did anything by
halves.
And Mrs. Flanagan?
If you will walk across the meadow by that narrow raised path, you will
see a cosy cottage adjoining the dairy. There is Mrs. Flanagan, with
sleeves tucked up above her elbows, busily making butter; it reminds her
of the years long ago, when she used to do the dairy-work at the farm,
and had never known a care. But she is happy even now, for outside the
window is Nora, cheerful and contented, feeding the poultry, who gather
round her, clucking noisily, while some white pigeons have flown down
from the dove-cot, and one has alighted on her shoulder, and Nora's
merry laugh is as music to the mother's ear.
There is some one scouring milk-pans in the yard, but whose features are
almost hidden by a large black bonnet; who is it? The face turns towards
us, and we see Sally Grimes' mother!
So we leave all our old friends, peaceful and happy, doing their duty
faithfully to the noble lady, who, though surrounded by all the world
holds dear--riches--yet had sympathy for the poor ones of the earth, and
pity for their sorrows.
She had resided many years abroad, but on returning to England and
re-forming her establishment, had chosen these honest hard-working
friends of ours to serve her. She learned from others how they had
striven to live, and how they had each endeavoured to do their Heavenly
Master's work as He had appointed; patient under privations, and tender
to others, doing as they would be done by.
And thus sunshine had come to brighten the hitherto dreary paths of
their struggling lives, though even in their darkest hours our humble
friends had never forgotten that
"Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."
And how gratefully did they now lift up their hearts to Him who "careth
for us!" And when Mrs. Flanagan and Mrs. Grimes met at Mrs. Turner's, as
they very often did when their work was done, they would contrast their
present happy lot with those sad days of the past.
"And yet," as Mrs. Turner once said, "had it not been for our troubles
we should never have known each other, for it was those very sorrows
that knit us together."
"Ay, ay," interrupted Mrs. Grimes, "for your Pollie somehow made my gal
hate the streets, else she might a run there till now, and never a been
the rale good scholar she be."
"Ah, Pollie be a comfort to you," observed the other old friend; "and
how she do grow, to be sure! Well, well, bless her heart, she won't have
to rough it, my dear--leastways I hope not,--nor be led to go wrong like
my poor Nora; still she'll have her sorrows, like the rest on us."
Yes, that was true; she would have her share of the trials that fall to
the lot of all, and so would trusty Sally; but happily they knew where
to take their cares, and He who had led them to this peaceful home would
be with them still. And thus we leave them--living their lives in
peaceful content, grateful for the memories given, and trusting in Him
always.
* * * * *
And all this happiness had been brought about by--a simple Bunch of
Violets!