  The one delight of Grace Newton’s life was to visit Aunt Chatty White. Winter or summer, autumn or spring—no matter what the season nor how bright or how gloomy the weather—there was sure to be found some unusually fascinating pleasure or employment. There were books of every description with which to while away the winter days. And in summer the trees were full of fruit, the yard with flowers, the fields and garden with good things, while the birds saucily claimed possession of all. But when she was told by Mamma that she should open Easter with Aunt Chatty her heart was a-flutter with a joy not known before. Easter—her first away from home! And she was sure that there would be presents, and new books to read, and new stories to hear, and rabbits’ nests to visit, and—well, it would be the gladdest Easter of her life, she was certain. It was Good Friday when she arrived at her aunt’s quiet country home. The winter was dying away and spring was making itself known and felt, while a few birds were venturing to sing of summer’s return. The buds were swelling, the lawns and meadows were becoming green, and in the woods Grace was sure she could find, should she try, a violet, a bloodroot bloom, or a dainty snowdrop. For these were the first flowers, and sometimes appeared, her mother told her, before the snow was fairly gone. A surprise awaited her, however; for, as she was wandering aimlessly about the garden borders that afternoon, she suddenly came upon a bed of golden buds and blossoms. After gazing at them a few moments to make sure she was not dreaming, she hastened away to Aunt Chatty for an explanation. “Why, dearie, those are Easter flowers,” laughed her aunt. “But I thought Easter lilies were white.” “Not all of them. I have some white ones—in another part of the garden. Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.” “John—who?” queried Grace, in astonishment. “Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.” Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young blossoms when her aunt arrived. “The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the jonquils—these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?” “Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long standing. “These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.” “But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace presently. “Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls who were selfish and unkind.” To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began: “There was a very beautiful youth, mythology tells us, who was devotedly loved by a wood nymph, Echo. But she had incurred the displeasure of Juno, their goddess of the heavens, and by her had been condemned to have the power to speak only the last word and was forbidden any other. For this reason she could not address Narcissus, much as she desired to do so. When he did speak, finally, Echo answered by repeating his last word. Her heart was full of joy, for she was sure that at last her opportunity had come. But in spite of her beauty and purity the youth repelled her, and left her to haunt the recesses of the woods. In her disappointment she pined for him until her form faded because of grief. Her bones were changed to rocks and there was nothing left but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her and keeps up her old habit of having the last word. “Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned every one else as he had done poor Echo. One day one of those whom he repelled so heartlessly breathed a prayer that he should some day feel what it was to receive no return of affection. The wish was granted. “There was a fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks. In fact, nothing ever disturbed its water, and here one day Narcissus chanced to stop to drink. He saw his own likeness in the water and, thinking it a beautiful water spirit living in the fountain, admired and loved it. He talked to it, but it would not answer; he tried to catch it, but it fled whenever he touched the water. He could not tear himself away from the spot, for he was so captivated by the lovely face in the fountain that he ignored all else. So there he stayed until he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which had so charmed Echo. She kept near him, however, and when, in his grief, he exclaimed, ‘Alas! alas!’ she answered with the same words. He pined away and died. The nymphs prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a flower, purple within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.” When Aunt Chatty had finished, Grace, after gazing out at the white Easter lilies a few moments, said: “I like the story, but I don’t like Narcissus. He was too selfish and ungrateful. I like the story best that you told me in the garden, the one about the ‘lilies of the field.’” Claudia May Ferrin. |
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