Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1890-01-08
THE TWO CRIPPLES.
Pathetic Story of Flower-Loving
Milly and Little Jim.

Pathetic Story of Flower-Loving
Milly and Little Jim.
Milly was the poor little souls name;
no one had ever called her any thing
else-only Milly.
She made her scanty living by en-
broidery, residing in a forlorn-looking,
dark and narrow room that was yet
fortunate enough to boast one small win
dow on the street. Ay, that window was
Milly's glory; the Joy and delight of her
existence. The street was dingy Lon
don one; hardly thoroughfare, and,
therefore, not noisy; but gay, and even
delectably worldly, in the child's eyes.
For she was not much more than child
as yet; though worn in face and serious
looking, she was young in years, scarce
seventeen surely at most, while in char
acter she was very childish still. Lon
don-bred she was, shrewd and quick in
many things, keenly alive to the neces-
sity of daily work, thoroughly expectant
OF the money-loving ways of her employ
ers, and astute with regard to life gen.
orally; nevertheless a fund of freshness
and innocence in Milly's soul was won't
often to burst forth like a sweet pure
spring of water coming from depths un-
known, ready to gladden. and solace the
arid hearts of her neighbors. She was
friendly to those neighbors, who some
of them befriended her. But she had
always been much alone. She was al
most like a prisoner, this little lame
and feeble-bodied seamstress, or rather
embroideress, who spent her uncared-
for youth bending over a frame of
needle-work: carrying out the ideas and
designs of others only occasionally, as
a rare luxury, allowed to work her own
will and her own fancies into the threads
of silk and pieces of linen or satin cleft
over" If a boys will be the winds
will, what shall be said of girls? Is
it light, ephemeral, like the sea-foam?
Or stronger, like bindweed in gardens?
Or firm and brave and shining, like the
marble that makes the coping-stones of
palaces? I know not.
Milly cared little for the vehicles that
sometimes went rumbling down her
street, nor for the sad-looking, poorly
dressed pedestrians who were the only
frequenters of that neighborhood, nor
for the loud-voiced vendors Of cheap
goods in barrows. It was the corner of
gray ky-occasionally pallid blue
which she liked, and which (by squeez-
ing we'll in betwixt heavy table and
the window-sill, and craning her neck
painfully she could see and greatly en-
joy, in contrast to the dingy atmosphere
of her lodging. But what she loved
best of all to gaze on from her window
was the shop opposite-a shop so glori-
Gus, SO lovely, so comfortable and yet
beart-stirring, that the child could new
er be satisfied with looking and wonder
ing at it.
A f1ower-shop it was What are flow
ers made of, and how do they come?
ask the Londoners. How are they
gathered and brought together in their
infinite beauty of tone and color, in
their brilliancy and freshness, in their
tenderness and sweetness? Flowers in
pots, flowers in punches, flowers in
sprays, struggling groups of flowers,
and stray single blooms-all these filled
shop opposite, all these gladdened the
eager beating heart of the little lame
embroideress. 1t mattered not, when
her eyes were delighted with this
dream of fairy color, that she was lame
nor did she remember her many sor.
rows when, with hot trembling hands,
she threaded her needle and piled he1
loveliest silks, glancing up now and
then to gain from beyond the narrow
street new draught from her source OF
inspiration. Fast few her fingers, fast
grew the flowers beneath her touch; like
yet not like the originals; pretty, per
chance, yet disappointingly different te
expectation, thought the little artist,
who realized without knowledge of the
why or wherefore) this failure of q
great intention.
For she wanted TO copy nature. Nay,
who that has once seen nature can be
readily contented with counterfeit?
H. Every now and then, at sparse inter.
walls of time when she was thoroughly
disheartened and Disguised with he,
own handiwork, Milly would fetch hel
old hat and cape out of the cupboard
where she kept every thing, from a
piece of dry bread to an empty blacking
bottle and an old Bible-and dress her.
self laboriously and crawl over to the
opposite side of the street and stand
there, her face pressed against the
panes of the fower-shop window, till
she could stand upright no more. II
the weather were cold, her slender form
shivered under the threadbare black
cape, her face grew more pinched and
blue than before; but she held her place
bravely, studying the form, the "make'
of the flowers, till she knew them sc
well that she could shut her eyes and
reproduce them on that wonderful can
vas which we all possess as 2 free gift
to plant our beautiful visions upon-the
clear white page OF our own minds.