Nellie and Her Flowers

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 14, 1884

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 10, No. 31.

Nellie and Her Flowers.

THERE are many ways of making children happy, and by wise means and timely thoughts, winning them from peevishness and mischief, that, indulged in year after year, will, sooner or later, lead them into habits difficult to overcome, causing regret and suffering on the part of both parent and child.

A single fact will exemplify my meaning. Sitting with a friend, one afternoon, we were interrupted suddenly by her daughter, a bright child of five years, who, with a handful of common field-flowers, came running to the mother's side, exclaiming, with mingled eagerness and diffidence, "See! mamma, these are beautiful; I picked them for you." The manner of the little girl, and the peculiar emphasis, suggested to me that she had not always found her offerings received as she desired.

The mother, without noticing her, continued the conversation; and as I listened to one, and watched the other, I was painfully affected by the patient sigh of the waiting child, and the look of anxious desire upon her face. The mother's eye at last followed mine.

"Well, sis, what now? Oh, dear, dear! child; will you be forever littering up the house with your weeds? Indeed, I can't have it. There! Let them all go, and don't bring another one into the house. Play with them outdoors all you like."

"They are pretty," answered the grieved child with some spirit; and the tears brimmed over as she saw the cherished blossoms thrown from the window.

"So they are, pet," answered the mother. "But you know they litter up the house, and make work for mamma. Now run away and play, like a good girl."

She obeyed; but the sensitive nature had been rudely repulsed; and the grieved spirit told how bitter was the shock, in the bowed head and lingering step as she went out again to her flowers.

For a moment, I could not speak; my heart was sore with this great wrong the child had received at the hands of her mother. My own childhood, made bright and beautiful by the wise forbearance of that dearest earthly friend, came before me as a picture; and I determined to show this young mother a page of it, that might be to her a word in season.

"Shall I tell you a story of my childhood that has just occurred to me?" I asked.

"Yes, indeed, I do so like facts of long ago!" she replied with her usual eagerness.

"I remember, when I was as old as Nellie, I used to take the most exquisite delight in gathering from the meadow near our old home, and along the banks of a shallow brook that ran through it, buds and blossoms of every kind, like those just brought to you. I can remember every one,—violets, innocents, dandelions, and the tall meadow-grass. They were, to my childish imagination, the most wonderful things of earth. Did I gather them for myself? No, indeed! there would have been no joy in that; but for mother, my sweet mother, with her gentle smile, and sometimes, to be sure, her look of perplexity, that I always interpreted as a fear that the fragile flowers might wilt too soon."

"What did she do with them?" asked my friend with a blush. "Sent them flying from the window, I warrant, as I do Nellie's."

"Not once," I answered. "She never refused to take them, even though they might be nothing but the dried stalks of last year; they were accepted and treasured, at least until I had forgotten them myself. I have since heard her say that it at times caused her trouble and annoyance to do so; but it more than repaid her to know that the long hours I spent in searching for these offerings were keeping me from mischief, and filling my heart with the purest happiness. Dear mother, the flowers of earth can only be strewn upon her grave now; but the memory of her tender love, of her winning smile of thanks, as I day after day littered her room, will never pass away. Each day it became a new joy; and if, perchance, a strange blossom could be added to the collection, how my young heart would bound, sure as I was of my reward,—her appreciative smile and kiss!"

"Poor Nellie! I'm afraid she was grieved."

"I know she was," I answered. "Throw down your work, and let's find her, and pour the balm of consolation on the bruised heart by praising her pet weeds."

"I'm afraid you'd make the child morbidly sensitive," was the laughing reply as we rose.

"No, I'd only make her happy, and help her to keep the sensitiveness she has. Children should be sensitive to a mother's praise or rebuke; and the mother should be wise in administering either. The world will brush away the peach-bloom soon enough."

The next time I saw my friend, she exclaimed merrily, "You've made me trouble enough with your story of the weeds and dried stalks. See there!" She pointed to a vase filled with dandelions and apple-blossoms, whose white petals were scattered over the neat table-cloth.

"Ah, that looks pretty!" I answered joyfully.—Sel.