Polly Oliver's Problem by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

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My curiosity was aroused by this time, and I came to the conclusion
that "peekin' in the door" of Paradise with "young Mr. Noble" would be
better than nothing; so up I went, like a thief in the night.

The room was at the head of the stairs, and one of the doors was open,
and had a heavy portiere hanging across it. Behind this was young Mr.
Noble, "peekin'" most greedily, together with a middle-aged gentleman
not described by the voluble parlor maid. They did n't seem to notice
me; they were otherwise occupied, or perhaps they thought me one of the
nurses or mothers. I had heard the sound of a piano as I crossed the
hall, but it was still now. I crept behind young Mr. Noble, and took a
good "peek" into Paradise.

It was a very large apartment, one that looked as if it might have been
built for a ball-room; at least, there was a wide, cushioned bench
running around three sides of it, close to the wall. On one side,
behind some black and gold Japanese screens, where they could hear and
not be seen, sat a row of silent, capped and aproned nurse-maids and
bonneted mammas. Mrs. Bird was among them, lovely and serene as an
angel still, though she has had her troubles. There was a great
fireplace in the room, but it was banked up with purple and white
lilacs. There was a bowl of the same flowers on the grand piano, and a
clump of bushes sketched in chalk on a blackboard. Just then a lovely
young girl walked from the piano and took a low chair in front of the
fireplace.

Before her there were grouped ever so many children, twenty-five or
thirty, perhaps. The tots in the front rows were cosy and comfortable
on piles of cushions, and the seven or eight year olds in the back row
were in seats a little higher. Each child had a sprig of lilac in its
hand. The young girl wore a soft white dress with lavender flowers
scattered all over it, and a great bunch of the flowers in her belt.

She was a lovely creature! At least, I believe she was. I have an
indistinct remembrance that her enemies (if she has any) might call her
hair red; but I could n't stop looking at her long enough at the time
to decide precisely what color it was. And I believe, now that several
days have passed, that her nose turned up; but at the moment, whenever
I tried to see just how much it wandered from the Grecian outline, her
eyes dazzled me and I never found out.

As she seated herself in their midst, the children turned their faces
expectantly toward her, like flowers toward the sun.

"You know it 's the last Monday, dears," she said; "and we 've had our
good-by story."

"Tell it again! Sing it again!" came from two kilted adorers in the
back row.

"Not to-day;" and she shook her head with a smile. "You know we always
stop within the hour, and that is the reason we are always eager to
come again; but this sprig of lilac that you all hold in your hands has
something to tell; not a long story, just a piece of one for another
good-by. I think when we go home, it we all press the flowers in heavy
books, and open the books sometimes while we are away from each other
this summer, that the sweet fragrance will come to us again, and the
faded blossom will tell its own story to each one of us. And this is
the story," she said, as she turned her spray of lilac in her fingers.

* * * * *

There was once a little lilac-bush that grew by a child's window.
There was no garden there, only a tiny bit of ground with a few green
things in it; and because there were no trees in the crowded streets,
the birds perched on the lilac-bush to sing, and two of them even built
a nest in it once, for want of something larger.

It had been a very busy lilac-bush all its life: drinking up moisture
from the earth and making it into sap; adding each year a tiny bit of
wood to its slender trunk; filling out its leaf-buds; making its leaves
larger and larger; and then--oh, happy, happy time!--hanging purple
flowers here and there among its branches.

It always felt glad of its hard work when Hester came to gather some of
its flowers just before Easter Sunday. For one spray went to the table
where Hester and her mother ate together; one to Hester's teacher; one
to the gray stone church around the corner, and one to a little lame
girl who sat, and sat, quite still, day after day, by the window of the
next house.

But one year--this very last year, children--the lilac-bush grew tired
of being good and working hard; and the more it thought about it, the
sadder and sorrier and more discouraged it grew. The winter had been
dark and rainy; the ground was so wet that its roots felt slippery and
uncomfortable; there was some disagreeable moss growing on its smooth
branches; the sun almost never shone; the birds came but seldom; and at
last the lilac-bush said, "I will give up: I am not going to bud or
bloom or do a single thing for Easter this year! I don't care if my
trunk does n't grow, nor my buds swell, nor my leaves grow larger! If
Hester wants her room shaded, she can pull the curtain down; and the
lame girl can"--_do without_, it was going to say, but it did n't
dare--oh, it did n't dare to think of the poor little lame girl without
any comforting flowers; so it stopped short and hung its head.

Six or eight weeks ago Hester and her mother went out one morning to
see the lilac-bush.

"It does n't look at all as it ought," said Hester, shaking her head
sadly. "The buds are very few, and they are all shrunken. See how
limp and flabby the stems of the leaves look!"

"Perhaps it is dead," said Hester's mother, "or perhaps it is too old
to bloom."

"I like that!" thought the lilac-bush.

"I 'm not dead and I 'm not dying, though I 'd just as lief die as to
keep on working in this dark, damp, unpleasant winter, or spring, or
whatever they call it; and as for being past blooming, I would just
like to show her, if it was n't so much trouble! How old does she
think I am, I wonder? There is n't a thing in this part of the city
that is over ten years old, and I was n't planted first, by any means!"

And then Hester said, "My darling, darling lilac-bush! Easter won't be
Easter without it; and lame Jenny leans out of her window every day as
I come from school, and asks, 'Is the lilac budding?'"

"Oh dear!" sighed the little bush. "I wish she would n't talk that
way; it makes me so nervous to have Jenny asking questions about me!
It starts my sap circulating, and I shall grow in spite of me!"

"Let us see what we can do to help it," said Hester's mother. "Take
your trowel and dig round the roots first."

"They 'll find a moist and sticky place and be better able to
sympathize with me," thought the lilac.

"Then put in some new earth, the richest you can get, and we 'll snip
off all the withered leaves and dry twigs, and see if it won't take a
new start."

"I shall have to, I believe, whether I like it or not, if they make
such a fuss about me!" thought the lilac-bush. "It seems a pity if a
thing can't stop growing and be let alone and die if it wants to!"

But though it grumbled a trifle at first, it felt so much better after
Hester and her mother had spent the afternoon caring for it, that it
began to grow a little just out of gratitude,--and what do you think
happened?

"George Washington came and chopped it down with his little hatchet,"
said an eager person in front.

"The lame girl came to look at it," sang out a small chap in the back
row.

No, (the young girl answered, with an irrepressible smile), it was a
cherry-tree that George Washington chopped, Lucy; and I told you,
Horatio, that the poor lame girl could n't walk a step. But the sun
began to shine,--that is the first thing that happened. Day after day
the sun shone, because everything seems to help the people and the
things that help themselves. The rich earth gave everything it had to
give for sap, and the warm air dried up the ugly moss that spoiled the
beauty of its trunk.

Then the lilac-bush was glad again, and it could hardly grow fast
enough, because it knew it would be behind time, at any rate; for of
course it could n't stand still, grumbling and doing nothing for weeks,
and get its work done as soon as the other plants. But it made sap all
clay long, and the buds grew into tiny leaves, and the leaves into
larger ones, and then it began to group its flower-buds among the
branches. By this time it was the week before Easter, and it fairly
sat up nights to work.

Hester knew that it was going to be more beautiful than it ever was in
its life before (that was because it had never tried so hard, though of
course Hester could n't know that), but she was only afraid that it
would n't bloom soon enough, it was so very late this spring.

But the very morning before Easter Sunday, Hester turned in her sleep
and dreamed that a sweet, sweet fragrance was stealing in at her open
window. A few minutes later she ran across her room, and lo! every
cluster of buds on the lilac-bush had opened into purple flowers, and
they were waving in the morning sunshine as if to say, "We are ready,
Hester! We are ready, after all!"

And one spray was pinned in the teacher's dress,--it was shabby and
black,--and she was glad of the flower because it reminded her of home.

And one spray stood in a vase on Hester's dining-table. There was
never very much dinner in Hester's house, but they did not care that
day, because the lilac was so beautiful.

One bunch lay on the table in the church, and one, the loveliest of
all, stood in a cup of water on the lame girl's window-sill; and when
she went to bed that night she moved it to the table beside her head,
and put her thin hand out to touch it in the dark, and went to sleep
smiling.

And each of the lilac flowers was glad that the bush had bloomed.

* * * * *

The children drew a deep breath. They smoothed their flower-sprays
gently, and one pale boy held his up to his cheek as if it had been a
living thing.

"Tell it again," cried the tomboy.

"Is it true?" asked the boy in kilts.

"I think it is," said the girl gently. "Of course, Tommy, the flowers
never tell us their secrets in words; but I have watched that
lilac-bush all through the winter and spring, and these are the very
blossoms you are holding to-day. It seems true, doesn't it?"

"Yes," they said thoughtfully.

"Shall you press yours, Miss Polly, and will it tell you a story, too,
when you look at it?" asked one little tot as they all crowded about
her for a good-by kiss.

Miss Polly caught her up in her arms, and I saw her take the child's
apron and wipe away a tear as she said, "Yes, dear, it will tell me a
story, too,--a long, sad, sweet, helpful story!"

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