# Unfading flowers

The Story-Teller.
UNFADING FLOWERS
A TRUE STORY.
KIRKINTILLOCH: PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM M'MIILLAN.
UNFADING FLOWERS
Thirty years ago, a small, bare-footed boy paused to admire the flowers in a well-cultivated garden. The ⟨child⟩ was an orphan, and had already felt how hard was the ⟨orphan’s⟩ lot. The owner of the garden, who was ⟨trimming⟩ a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.
"Do you love flowers?" said he.
The boy replied, "Oh, yes. We used to have ⟨beautiful⟩ flowers in our garden."
The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few ⟨flowers⟩ took them to the fence, through the pannels of which ⟨the⟩ boy was looking, and handing them to him, said, as I did so, "Here’s a nice little bunch for you."
A flush went over the child's face as he took the ⟨flowers.⟩ He did not make any reply, but in his large eyes, as lifted them to the face of the man, was an expression thankfulness to be read as plainly as words in a book.
​The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten
Years went by, and through toil, privation, and suffering, both in holy and mind, the boy grew up to manhood. From ordeals like this, come forth our most effective men. It kept free from vicious associates, the lad of feeling and mental activity, becomes ambitious, and rises in society above the common level. So it proved iu the case of this orphan boy. He had few advantages of education, but such as offered were well improved. It happened that his lot was cast in a printing office, and the young compositor soon became interested in his work. He did not set the types as a mere mechanic, but went beyond the duties of his calling, entering into the ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and making them his own. At twenty-one he was a young man of more than ordinary intelligence and force of character. At thirty-five he was the conductor of a widely-circulated and profitable newspaper, and as a man respected and esteemed by all who knew him.
During the earnest struggle that all men enter into who are ambitious to rise in the world, the thoughts do not often go back and rest meditatively upon the earlier time of life. But after success has crowned each well directed effort, and the gaining of a desired position no longer remains a ⟨subject⟩ of doubt, the mind often brings up from the far-off past most vivid recollections of incidents and impressions that were painful or pleasurable at the time, and which are now oen to have had an influence, more or less decided, upon ⟨the⟩ whole after life. In this state of reflection sat one day ⟨the⟩ man we have here introduced. After musing for a long ⟨time⟩, deeply abstracted, he took up his pen aud wrote hastily; ⟨and⟩ these were the sentences he traced upon the paper that ⟨lay⟩ before him:
"How indelibly does a little act of kindness, performed ​in the right moment, impress itself upon the mind! ⟨We⟩ meet, as we pass through the world, so much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves against it, and scarcely feel its effects. But spontaneous kindness comes so rarely, that we are surprised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed as by the perfumes of flowers in the dreary winter. Wheu we were a small boy, an orphan, and with the memory of home for evet lost too vivid in our young heart, a mau, into whose beautiful garden we stood looking, pulled a few flowers, and handed them through the fence, speaking a kind word as he did so. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, how deeply we were touched by his act From a little boy we loved the flowers, and ere that heaviest affliction a child ever knows—the loss of parents—fell upon us, we almost lived among them. But death separated between us and all ⟨those⟩ tender associations and affections that, to the hearts of children, are like the dew to the tender grass. We entered the dwelling of a stranger, and were treated thenceforth, as if wo had, or ought to have, no feelings, no hopes, no weaknesses. The harsh command ⟨came⟩ daily and almost hourly to our ears: and not even for work well done, or faithful service, were we cheered by words of commendation.
"One day—we were not more than eleven years old—something turned our thoughts back upon the earlier ⟨and⟩ happier time, when we had a true home, and were ⟨loved⟩ and cared for. We were once more in the garden ⟨and⟩ among the sweet blossoms, as of old, and the mother, ⟨on⟩ whose bosom w« had slept, sat under the grape arbour while he filled her lap with flowers. There was a smile ⟨of⟩ love on her dear face, and her lips were parting with ⟨some⟩ word of affection, when, to scatter into nothing these ⟨dear⟩ images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command of ⟨the⟩ master. and in obedience we started forth to perform ⟨some⟩ needed service. Our way was by the garden of which ⟨we⟩ ​have spoken: and it was on this occasion, and while ⟨the⟩ suddenly discipated image of our mother among the flowers was re-forming itself in our young imagination, that the incident to which we have alluded occurred. We can never forget the grateful perfume of those flowers, nor the strength and comfort which the kind words and manner of the giver imparted to our fainting spirit. We took them home, and kept them fresh as long as water wonld preserve thoir life and beauty; and when they faded, and when the leaves fell, pale and withered, upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as if a real friend had been taken away.
"It is a long, long time since that incident occurred; but the flowers which there sprung up in our bosom are fresh and beautiful still. They have neither faded 'nor withered—they cannot, for they are unfading flowers. We never looked upon the man who gave them to us that our heart did not grow warm toward him. Twenty years ⟨ago⟩ we lost sight of him: but if still among the dwellers ⟨of⟩ earth, and in need of a friend, we would divide with him our last morsel."
An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of many winters, was sitting in a room that was poorly supplied with ⟨furniture⟩, his head bowed down, and gaze cast dreamily ⟨upon⟩ the floor. A pale young girl came in while he ⟨thus⟩ ⟨sat⟩ musing. Lifting his eyes to her face he said, while he ⟨tried⟩ to look cheerful,
"Ellen, dear, you must net go out to-day."
"I feel a great deal better, grandpapa," returned the girl, ⟨forcing⟩ a smile. "I am able to go to work again."
"No, child, you are not," said the old man firmly; and ⟨you⟩ must not think of such a thing."
"Don't be so positive, grandpapa." And as she uttered ⟨this⟩ little sentence, in half positive voice, she laid her hand ⟨among⟩ the thin gray locks on the old man’s head, and ⟨soothed⟩ them caressingly. "You know that I must not ​be idle."
"Wait, child, until your strength returns."
"Our wants will not wait grandpapa." As the girl said this her face became sober. The old man's eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy sigh came forth from his bosom.
"I will be rery careful, and not overwork myself again,’ resumed Ellen, after a pause.
"You must not go to-day." said the old man, arousing himself, "it is murder, Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then."
"If I do not go back to-day, I may lose my place. You know I have been home for three days.
"You were sick."
"Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away by sickness, a customer was disappointed: and there was a good deal of trouble about it.
Another sigh came heavily from the old man’s heart.
"I will go," said the girl. "Perhaps they will let me off for a day or two longer. If so I will come back. But I must not lose my place."
No further resistance was made by the old man. In a little while he was alone. Hours went by, but Ellen did not return. She had gone to work. Her employer would not let her go away, feeble as she was, without a forfeiture of her place.
About mid-day, finding that Ellen did not come back, the old man, after taking some food, went out. The pressure of seventy years was upon him, and his steps were slow and carefully taken.
"I must get something to do. I can work still," he muttered to himself, as he moved along the streets. "The dear child is killing herself, and all for me.'
But what could he do? Who wanted the services of an old man like him, whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand was no longer steady. ⟨In⟩ ​vain he made application for employment. Younger and more vigorous men filled all the places, and he was pushed aside. Discouraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to his home, and here awaited the fall of the evening, which was to bring the return of the only being left on earth to love him. At night-fall Ellen came in. Her face, so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed; and her eyes were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived by this; ⟨he⟩ knew it was the sign of disease. He took her hand—it was hot; and when he bent to kiss her gentle lips, he found them burning with fever.
"Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would make you sick," the old man said, in a voice of anguish.
Ellen tried to smile, and to appear not so very ill; but nature was too much oppressed.
"I brought home some work, and will not go out tomorrow," she remarked. "I think the walk fatigued me more than anything else. I will feel better in the morning, after a good night's sleep.
But the girl’s hope failed iu this. The morning found her so weak that she could not rise from bed: and when her grandfather came into her room to learn how she had passed the night, he found her weeping on the pillow. She had endeavoured to get up, but her head, which was aching terribly, grew dizzy, and she fell back under a despairing conciousness that her strength was gone.
The day passed but Ellen did hot grow better. The fever still kept her body ⟨prostrate⟩. Once or twice, when her grandfather was out of the room, she took the work she had brought home, and tried to do some of it while sitting up in her bed. But, ere a minute ⟨had⟩ passed, she became faint, while all grew dark around her. She was no better when night came. If her mind could have rested—if she had been free from anxious and distressing thoughts, nature ​would have had some power to react: but as it was the pressure ⟨upon⟩ her was too great. She ⟨could⟩ not forget that they had scarcely so much money as a shilling lcft, and that hcr old grandfather was ⟨too⟩ feeble to work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support, and she was now helpless.
On the next morning Ellen was better.—She could sit up without feeling dizzy, though her head still ached, and the ⟨fever⟩ had only slightly abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave the bed, though she begged him earnestly to let her do so.
The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home was wrapped in a ⟨newspaper⟩, and this her grandfather took up to read ⟨sometimes⟩ during the day.
"This is Mr T———’s newspaper," said he, as he ⟨opened⟩ it, and saw the title. "I knew T——— when he was a ⟨poor⟩ little orphan ⟨boy⟩. ⟨But⟩, of ⟨course⟩, he don't remember me. He‘s prospered ⟨wonderfully⟩."
And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper and he read aloud to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was a reminiscence by the editor—the same that we have just given.—The old man's voice faltered as he read.—The little incident, so feelingly described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wistfully looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having felt pity for him, and he remembered now at distinctly as if it were but yesterday, ⟨though⟩ thirty years had intervened, the light that went over the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that ⟨were⟩ to fade and wither in a day.
Yes, the old man’s voice faltered as he read: and when he came to the last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands together, he lifted his dim eye ​upward, while his lips moved in whispered words of thankfulness.
"What ails you, grandpapa?" asked Ellen, in surprise. But the old man did not seem to hear her voice.
"Dear grandpapa," repeated the girl, "why do you look so strangely?" She had risen in bed, and was bending toward him.
"Ellen, child," said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance, as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, "it was your old grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear what he said?—he would divide his last morsel."
The old man moved around the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child, that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they became bright and glowing. The thought of ⟨asking⟩ a favour as a return for that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay with her eyes close and her faec half buried in the pillow, he murmured to himself, "It is for you—for you!" And taking up his staff, he went tottering forth into the open air.
The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bcnt and snowy forehead. Something in the visitor's countenance struck him as familiar; but he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before.
"Is Mr T——— in?" inquired the old man.
"My name is T———" replied the editor.
"You?" There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man‘s voice.
"Yes, I am T———, my friend," was kindly said. "can I do anything for you? Take this chair."
​The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk, into it, his countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.
"I have come," said he, and his voice was unsteady, "to do what I could not do for myself alone, But I cannot see my poor sick grandchild wear out and die under the weight of burdens that are too heavy to be borne. For her sake I have conquered my own pride."
There was a pause.
"Go on," said T-, who was looking at the old man earnestly, and endeavouring to fix his identity in his mind.
"You don't know me?"
"Your face is not entirely strange," said T———. It must have been a long time since we met."
"Long? Oh yes? It is a long, long tims. You were a boy, and I unbent by age."
"Markland!" exclaimed T———, with sudden energy, springing to his feet as the truth flashed upon him. "Say—is it so."
"My name is Markland."
"And do we meet again thus," said T———, with emotion, as he grasped the old man’s hand. "Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me, you remember it, no doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as bright and green, and full of perfume, as when I laid them there; and there they will bloom for ever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world, I have enough, and to spare."
"I have not come for charity," returned Markland. "I have hands, and they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish."
"Be not troubled on that account, myfriend," was ​kindly answered, "I will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about yourself."
Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining years. T——— saw that pride and native independence was strong in Markland‘s bosom, feeble as he was, and unable to enter upon any serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the income was allsufficient for the eomfortable support of himself and grandchild.
The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dreary way.—Athenæum.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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