Bulbs and Blossoms — Story, Setting & Ideas

They were now full of plans and purposes regarding the two small children about to be placed in their charge, and no two visitors could have caused more excitement and preparation in the quiet household than did this little couple from India.

'Well,' asked Miss Amabel, as, after a great deal of bustle and talk in the hall, the sisters came back to the drawing-room, 'and what are your impressions of the kids?'

'Poor little mites!' said Miss Sibyl; 'they seem so very white and sickly in appearance, that we were quite astonished at the way they scampered upstairs. I am thankful they were sent back in charge of an English nurse. Those ayahs are always so unsatisfactory.'

Before many days the children astonished their aunts still more by their agility and ingenuity in mischief of all sorts. Roland, a fair, curly-haired little fellow of seven, led his smaller sister Olive into every kind of audacious escapade. Their spirits were unflagging, though at times their frail-looking little bodies seemed to droop under their activity.

Miss Hunter came upon little Olive one afternoon sitting on the stairs in a breathless, exhausted state, and Roland was remonstrating with her.

'You've only run up twenty-five times, Olive, and you're tired already; it's a mile race, and you _must_ go on.'

'She must do nothing of the sort, Roland,' said Miss Hunter sternly. 'I will not let you tear up and down stairs all day in this fashion. What do you mean by it?'

'We can't be idle, auntie,' said Roland, shaking his curls back, and speaking with decision. 'Nurse has the toothache, and won't take us out. Father says people can be idle very easily, and put it down to the climate, and "idle hands find mischief," he says, and father is never idle. If we don't run up and down stairs, where can we run? We like the stairs best, because we never have stairs in India.'

'Send them into the garden, Marion,' called out Miss Amabel, from the garden door; 'I am going to the stables, and then I will look after them.'

Little Olive jumped up.

'Oh, let us go out, auntie, and see the pretty flowers.'

'You must be very good children then. Go quietly upstairs, and ask nurse to wrap you up well, as it is rather cold out.'

And then Miss Hunter, who found children rather a perplexing problem, walked back to her book and her fireside, and thought no more about them.

Roland and Olive danced out of doors a little time after, in delight at finding themselves unattended.

'Now,' said Roland peremptorily, 'we're going for a walk, Olive, and you are not to get tired. And we'll go and find those big iron gates first of all; they're down this road.'

Down the avenue trotted the children; it was fully half a mile long, and the thick shrubberies on either side rather alarmed the little girl.

'You're _quite_ sure there isn't a tiger in the bushes?' she asked repeatedly.

And Roland in superior tones replied,--

'I've told you the English people caught all their tigers long ago, and put them in a garden in London. Father told me so.'

'And what's outside the big gates, Roly--a jungle?'

'No, I think the trains are. I want to go and see them. Come on!'

They reached the gates, but found them shut, and as Roland was exerting all his strength to open them, an old man stepped out of the pretty little lodge close by.

'Why, where be ye off to, little master?' he asked with a beaming smile. 'Isn't your nurse with you this afternoon?'

'No; we're taking a walk. Open the gates, please.'

But this the old man did not seem willing to do.

'Won't ye come into my little parlour here, and pay me a visit? My niece, Jane, is away to market to-day, and I be very lonely. Old Bob has a lot of pretty things in his room.'

Roland hesitated, but when Olive with sparkling eyes ran in at the open door, he followed, saying,--

'We always like to pay visits, so if you're a good and nice man we'll come in. Mother only likes us to talk to very nice people; but I s'pose every one in England is nice, because they're white, and it's only the blacks that don't know better.'

The old man laughed, and his quaint, old-fashioned room, with a cheery fire and bright coloured prints round the walls, delighted his little guests.

'What are those ugly pots in your window without any flowers?' asked Roland presently.

Old Bob gave a little sigh and a smile.

'Ah, you've hit upon my greatest treasures,' he said. 'You won't call them ugly pots when Easter comes.'

'What is Easter?' asked both the children.

'The happiest time in the whole year to me,' said Bob, shaking his head; 'but another day I'll tell you the tale of those pots--not to-day.'

'And have you got a garden?' asked Roland eagerly. 'Olive and me love flowers, but England doesn't seem to have any out of doors.'

'Come and see my garden,' said the old man proudly; 'it's the joy of my life, next to them there "ugly pots"!'

He led the way to the back of the house, where was a good-sized cottage garden; but the children's faces fell considerably when they saw the barren desolation, for Bob had no evergreen shrubs, and only some rows of cabbages and broccoli showed signs of life.

'It's all brown earth and dead things--no flowers at all!' they exclaimed.

'But this is the wrong time o' year,' Bob said apologetically; 'there be heaps o' beautiful stuff all under the earth, awaitin' to come up in their time.'

'But why don't you make them come up now? What's the good of a garden without flowers? In India we have lovely flowers.'

'Winter is a-comin' on, my dears; you won't see my pretty flowers just yet. They're fast asleep bidin' their time; no frost or cold can touch 'em--bidin' their time!'

Bob's face looked wistful as he gazed at his empty flower beds.

'What's winter?' asked Olive curiously.

'Bless the little dear, has she never known a winter? 'Tis the dreary dark time of waitin', the sunless, joyless bit o' all the year, when the singin' birds fly away, the butterflies and flowers die, and the very trees sigh and moan in their bareness and decay. 'Tis an empty bit o' life, when all that makes life sweet falls to pieces and fades away.'

This was not quite intelligible to the children; but they shivered a little at the gloom in the old man's tone, and Olive's blue eyes filled with tears.

'I don't want to stay here in winter,' she said; 'let's go back to India, Roly!'

Roland stood with knitted brows considering.

'Who makes the winter?' he asked. 'Does the devil? Because God only makes beautiful things, doesn't He?'

Old Bob raised his hat, and looked up into the grey autumnal sky with a smile.

'Nay, little master, the devil wouldn't have wished to give us such a lesson as winter teaches us. 'Tis God Almighty in His love that gives us winter, to try our faith and patience, and teach us hope's lessons. If we had no winter, we should have no Easter, and 'tis well worth the waitin' for!'

'And does everything die in winter?' asked Roland in a mournful voice.

His question was unanswered, for Miss Amabel appeared on the scene.

'Oh, you children!' she exclaimed breathlessly. 'What a chase I have had after you! If I had known you were in such safe quarters, I would have spared myself the trouble of looking for you. Have they been here long, Bob?'

'Nigh on a quarter o' an hour, Miss Amabel. They was for going out at the gate, but I 'ticed 'em in to my place.'

'Much obliged to you. Now, chicks, remember this, you're never to go outside those gates alone. Come back to the house with me, and say good-bye to Bob.'

Olive lifted up her little face to be kissed by the old man, and Roland held out his hand.

'Good-bye, Mr. Bob. We will come and see you again, and you will tell us about your ugly pots.'

Then as they walked up the avenue by the side of their aunt, Roland said to her, pointing to the leafless trees above them,--

'We don't have ugly trees like that in India. Why don't you cut them all down? They're quite dead, aren't they?'

'No, indeed,' replied Miss Amabel briskly; 'they'll all come to life again next spring.'

'Is spring Easter that Mr. Bob was telling us about?'

'Yes, Easter comes in spring.'

'And does everything dead come to life in spring?'

'A good many things in the garden do,' said Miss Amabel carelessly.

'Why does God make winter in England, and not in India? Is He angry with the people in England?'

'Bless the boy! What a curiosity-box! Keep your questions for Aunt Sibyl--she will appreciate them. And as for winter, I couldn't do without it, for there would be no hunting then, and I should feel half my enjoyment gone in life.'

'Do you like winter, Aunt Am'bel?' asked Olive.

'Yes, I love it; and so will you when you become hardy and rosy, like English boys and girls!'

The children looked very doubtful at this statement, but did not dispute it.

The next day was still colder, but the children, in company with their nurse, found a delightful retreat in the garden, and this was in the conservatory. James, the old gardener, was always glad of some one to talk to, and he and nurse were soon fast friends. He took them into the vinery, then into the fern house, and lastly into the conservatory next the house, which was a brilliant mass of bloom and blossoms.

Olive clapped her hands in delight.

'We are back in India, Roly. Oh, how nice and warm!'

'We will always come and play here,' said Roland. Then, looking up at the old gardener, he said,--

'You never let winter come here, do you?'

'Not if I can help it,' said James with a dry chuckle. 'Me and Jack Frost have had many a fight, but I gets the better of him generally.'

'Ha! ha! Not heerd o' Jack Frost? Well, unless I'm much mistaken he'll pay us a visit to-night, and then you'll feel him as well as see him.'

Olive looked puzzled, but Roland's mind was working too busily to heed Jack Frost. He walked round and round the flowers, then he remarked abruptly, 'If you don't have winter here, you won't have a Easter--Mr. Bob said so!'

'Oh, there!' said nurse with a laugh, 'don't heed his curious talk, Mr. Jenkins; he's such a dreadful child for arguing.'

She and James continued their chat, and the children sat down on a low wicker seat, playing with the fallen fuchsia buds, and comparing their present life with the one they had so lately left.

'I wish Mr. Bob had a nice glass house like this,' said Olive thoughtfully. 'Why doesn't he, Roly?'

'We'll ask him next time we see him. I expect he is too poor.'

'And, Roly, do you think Jack Frost is a thief who tries to steal James's flowers?'

A little later, when nurse was taking them into the house, Olive inquired again, rather anxiously, 'Nurse, I hope Jack Frost won't come to us when we're in bed; James seemed to think we should feel him.'

'No, no, Miss Olive; I'll tuck you up too warm for that. There will be no Jack Frost in our nursery, I can tell you. I keep too big a fire.'

But the little girl was anxious and ill at ease, till at last she unburdened her mind to Miss Sibyl, when she went to wish her 'good-night' in the drawing-room.

'Why, Olive dear, Jack Frost isn't a man; that is only a joke. When it is very cold the air freezes, and the pretty dew-drops on the grass and flowers all turn to ice. Have you never seen a frost?'

'Frosts kill all the flowers--that is why James does not like it coming; but it is the flowers out of doors that feel it most.'

'But,' said Roland, edging up to his aunt, 'there are no flowers to kill; there are only bare, dried-up trees and dark bushes. Mr. Bob told us they had all gone to sleep under the ground.'

'So they have, but it is frost and cold that has killed them off.'

'I don't like England,' said little Olive mournfully; and when she was comfortably tucked up in bed that night, she said sleepily, 'If I had a nice garden of flowers, I wouldn't leave them all out in the cold and dark to die, and I'll never live in England when I grow up, for winter is a dreadful thing!'

The children soon found out what frost and cold meant; but the novelty of the small icicles outside their windows, and the beauty of the hoar frost glittering on the trees and bushes in the sunshine, more than compensated for the uncomfortable experience of cold hands and feet.

They soon paid a visit to old Bob again, and this time he took them into the old-fashioned churchyard, which lay just outside the lodge gates on the other side of the road.

'This is my other garden,' he said gravely, 'for I gets so much from the rector every year for keeping the ground tidy.'

Roland and Olive looked round them with much interest.

Old Bob took them to a quiet corner soon, and pointed out five grassy mounds all in a row.

'There!' he said, his old face quivering all over; 'underneath them mounds are my dear wife and four children, all taken from me in less than one month.'

'Did they die?' asked Roland with solemn eyes.

'The Lord took 'em. 'Twas the scarlet fever was ragin' in our village; little Bessie, our baby, was the first one to take it. She were only five year old, and as merry as a cricket; then Rob and Harry, big lads o' twelve and thirteen, were stricken next, and then Nellie, her mother's right hand; and the poor wife nursed 'em all through herself, and just lived to see the last o' the four buried, and then she follered them, and I were left in the empty house alone.'

Little Olive squeezed the old man's hand tightly.

'I feel as if I was going to cry,' she said. 'Why did God make them die, Mr. Bob?'

Bob raised his face to the sky above him.

'He didn't tell me why,' he said; 'but He'll tell me one day. 'Twas just at this time o' year they were taken. Ah, dear! That were a terrible winter for me! It all seemed dark and drear, and not a gleam of sunshine in sight. But thank the good Lord I got my bit o' cheer when Easter came. And it have come reg'lar and fresh like every Easter since. Do you mind them "ugly pots" in my window? Now you come back with me, and I'll tell you their story. 'Tis too cold for us to be standin' here, but don't forget my five grassy mounds in this corner when I tells the tale!'

As the children turned away to follow him, Roland said thoughtfully, 'They're all under the ground, just like you say the flowers are!'

'That's it, Master Roland! That's my comfort. You've hit upon the very thing I was agoin' to explain!'

And then a few minutes after, taking little Olive upon his knees, and making Roland sit in a small chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, the old man began,--

'My dear wife were powerful fond o' flowers, and she were quite as clever at rearing 'em as ever I were. She would get cuttin's from James Green up at the house, and in summer our garden was just a pictur.' Just before she were a taken ill, James had sent her down a lily bulb, a beautiful pure white one, and she'd put it in a pot in our cellar, and says she to me, "Bob, I means to bring that lily out by Easter; with care I'm sure I shall do it!" Then when she were near her end, and she seed me a-frettin' my heart out, she calls me to her bed. "Bob," says she, "take care o' my lily, and, Bob dear, when Easter comes and you see it a-burstin' out in all its beauty, then think o' me and the children." "So also is the resurrection of the dead.... It is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power." "For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him!" Them were the very two tex's she said to me, and then she says: "The nex' time you'll see me, Bob, will be in my body o' glory! Unless you foller me first, but I can't help thinking," she says, "that the Resurrection mayn't be far off!" And so she left me!'

There was a pause. Bob wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, then put Olive down from his knees and walked across to his flower-pots.

The children followed him silently, and peeped over the edge of the pots, only to see bare brown earth, and their faces fell at the sight.

Bob turned to them with a smile: 'This here big pot in the middle is my wife's lily; I set to work when she went, and got four other o' the same kind o' bulb and planted them in these smaller pots. This one is Bessie's, that one is Nellie's, and the others are just Bob's and Harry's. Well, all that winter I goes to my graves in the churchyard, and comes back to these pots, and I shakes my head over them all, and couldn't get no comfort nohow. But shall I ever forget a-comin' into my kitchen on Easter Sunday, and seein' the sun shine in upon five pure white lilies! I just fell a-sobbin' on my knees beside them. "Lord," I says, "I knows as certain sure as I sees these lilies now, and remembers all the silence and darkness that came upon them from the time they were put in the earth, that Thou wilt give me back my dear ones ten thousand times more beautiful than ever I saw 'em here! And if their Easter will come a little later, 'tis just as sure!" Ay, little ones, and for three years the Lord has delighted my soul by bringin' up these lilies at Easter time, just to tell me that my graves is goin' to be opened like the Lord's Himself, and I'm a-goin' to see my family again. The devil himself may tempt and try one in the winter, but away he goes in the spring, when every bit o' this blessed earth is preaching the resurrection to us!'

Much of this was above the children's heads, but Roland said, after a minute's thought, 'Will dead people come up out of the ground like the flowers?'

'Ay, Master Roland, the flowers are a very poor picture of the glorified body.'

'And they go to sleep in the winter time?' the boy went on; 'and how often does Easter come?'

'The flowers have their Easter every year, but we have to wait a little longer for ours. I ofttimes think that when the Lord do come down from heaven with a shout, He will choose Easter Sunday to wake the dead, for 'tis the day He rose Himself!'

Old Bob did not say much more, and Roland and Olive went back to the house thinking busily.

The next day was Sunday, and they went to church with their aunts; but directly the service was over, Roland, who was walking with Miss Hester, pulled her by the hand towards Bob's five graves in the corner.