Mignonette

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 7, 1916

SHE got on the cars at Evanston, carrying a great fragrant bunch of mignonette and an immense palm-leaf fan. Kindliness and good nature beamed from every line of her shining black face. She sat down beside a tired-looking woman with a baby, and the woman jerked her skirt aside and frowned.

A preoccupied merchant in the seat back came out of a brown study, and sniffed the air thoughtfully: then he caught sight of the mignonette, and his face lighted. “Thought I wasn’t mistaken,” he said to the man at his side. “Ten years since I’ve noticed that smell before—I was sure it was mignonette; mother used to have it all along the walks at home.”

The black woman turned, smiling. “Hab some, marster,” she said. “Ah has plenty moah,” and she reached back a generous bunch.

Presently a sick child in the front seat raised its head and said, “Do you smell mignonette, mother? It makes me think of grandmother’s.” The woman did not hear the words, but she caught the wistful glance, and in a moment she was waddling down the aisle. “You-all want some, honey?” she asked, in a voice that was a caress, and the child smiled his pleasure as his hand closed over the stems.

As she turned to go back, a girl bedecked in cheap jewelry and gaudy finery touched her arm. “Can’t you spare me a little, auntie?” she asked. “I don’t know when I’ve seen any”—she hesitated. “We used to have so much of it at home in the country.”

“Sholey, honey,” she said, and her voice was as gentle as it had been to the boy. Then as she divided what she had left, she added, “You-all bettah go back dar an’ holp tend ter hit, honey, fur mignonettes takes a heap ob seein’ to.”

The girl turned to the window quickly; she may have been realizing for the first time how far her feet had wandered from the paths along which the mignonette grew.

As the woman sank heavily into her seat again, the baby reached forward chubby little hands, trying to get the flowers.

“Yo is gwine ter git der last, honey,” she said, beaming, and she put the stems into the eager fingers.

And then as she settled back she added, “Ah feel like Ah done jine de flower mission, an’ Ah wish dat Ah had brung mo’ dem mignonettes, folks is so crazy ’bout dem.” And from across the aisle I noticed that the face of the woman at her side had lost its frown, and that the silk skirt lay close against the faded blue calico unnoticed.—Selected.