Little Sunshine by Sydney Dayre

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 18, 1889

FromThe Signs of the Times, Vol. 15, No. 7

Little Sunshine.

By Sydney Dayre

“Bring me the tray, Ruthie,” called Aunt Susan, in a sharp voice.

She did not mean to be sharp, but she was always very busy and in a great hurry. She thought, if she ever thought about it at all, that she had no time to speak softly.

Perhaps if she had tried she would have found that it takes no more time to speak softly than to speak sharply.

Ruthie got the little tray, put upon it the cup and saucer and plate and other things, and held it while Aunt Susan poured some coffee into the cup and put some of whatever there was for breakfast on the tray. Then the little girl started with slow and careful steps toward her mother’s door, which Aunt Susan held open for her.

With eyes fixed on the coffee, and lips pressed together in her fear of spilling it, Ruthie at length reached the stand at mamma’s side, and gave a merry little laugh as she set the tray upon it and held up her face for a kiss.

“See, mamma, a fresh egg on toast. I found the egg yesterday and didn’t tell, so it would be a surprise.”

“It looks nice, dearie. And—knife, fork, spoon, salt—you never forgot anything, and you’re such a little dot of a thing. Before you brought my breakfast something was sure to be forgotten.”

“I’m not so very little,” said Ruthie, drawing herself up. “Only a big girl could carry your whole breakfast, mamma. Now I must go out and find a flower for you.”

Flowers were scarce in the weedy, neglected yard, but she could almost always find buttercups or daisies or clover blossoms by going into the meadow beyond. They were all sweet to her, and there was happiness for the bright-faced, cheery-natured child in every breath of the soft air and every touch of the summer wind. Every bird-note brought its own delight, and the humble flowers smiled up at her, and the sunshine beamed over all, until there seemed no room for anything but joy. Holding up her little face to its rays, Ruthie danced over the clover blossoms, with a song as gay as that of any bird.

Suddenly she stopped and a shadow fell over her face.

“Mamma never has a speck of sunshine. The sun doesn’t shine into her room a minute all day, for I watched for it that day I hurt my foot and had to be still. I wonder why it doesn’t? It comes into the kitchen windows. It almost gets to mamma’s window and then it stops awhile on the porch floor, and then goes away again. I wish it would go in and shine on mamma.”

Ruthie held up her hands in the streaming sunlight.

“Oh, if I could only carry home a whole handful!” She closed her hands over the rays and walked into the shade of a tree, where she opened them again with a shake of her head.

“No, the shine all goes away.”

With very painstaking little fingers she arranged the prettiest flowers she could find into a bouquet, taking care that there should be plenty of the yellow buttercups and a stray dandelion or two which seemed to have forgotten that all their brothers had floated away on the wind. They were such a bright gold, so exactly the color of the sun, that she felt sure that they must hold his light. She held the bunch far above her head in the sunlight as she ran home.

“Now, you beautiful flowers,” she said, bringing them down for a look as she came nearer the door, “do hold on to the sunshine and carry just a little bit to mamma. I can’t—it slips right out of my hand. But you live in it all the time, and you might, I’m sure.”

With another bound or two she was by her mother’s side.

“Oh, what a beautiful bunch you have brought me to-day, dear,” said mamma.

“But you haven’t done what I told you, you naughty little flowers,” said Ruthie, half smiling, half pitifully.

“Done what?” asked mamma.

“I told them to bring in some sunshine for you. O mamma,” said Ruthie, throwing her arms around her with tears in her eyes, “you have to lie here all the time, and the sunshine never comes near you.”

“Why, my bird, I can look out and see the sunshine. And I can see the trees and the grass and I can hear the birds sing.”

“Yes, but the sun doesn’t shine on you. You can’t go out into it and laugh and dance in it as I can. I’ve been trying my best to bring you some, but”—she laughed at her odd little fancy—“I can’t hold it in my hands, and the flowers don’t hold it, either. So you can’t have any sunshine, poor mamma.”

Mamma took the little face between both her hands and looked into the sweet blue eyes.

“I can’t have any sunshine?” she said. “Why, my blessing, you are my sunshine. My room is full of it whenever you come near me. There is sunshine for me in every look of your bright eyes and in every wave of your shining hair. And you bring it to me in everything you do for me, in every sound of your voice. Why, your own little heart is full of sunshine, all running over in brightness and sweetness for mamma. Every time you come near me it is like the sun breaking out of a cloud.”

Ruthie looked into mamma’s face and knew she meant every word. And as she afterwards thought them over, how earnestly she resolved more and more to be sunshine for mamma.

Dear little children, are you sunshine for anyone? If anyone should ever say such loving words of you, would they be true?

God has given you a great many sweet and pleasant things to help you make yourselves a blessing to those about you. Your faces may bring bright smiles, your voices loving tones, and your active little hands may do kindly deeds without number.

If you have already been helpful to someone, try how much cheeriness and willingness you can put into the duties of this New Year. If you have not, look about you to see if there is not someone who might be happier for your tender cares. Try if you cannot make some shadowed life brighter, and be sure, even if no one says it in so many words, that you are very surely sunshine to somebody.—Sydney Dayre, in The Churchman.