The Pansy Garden: A Novel

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All he knew of the forest and its beautiful spring verdure was from the first green sprig of beech that his neighbour's son used to bring him, and he would hold it over his head, and dream that he was under the beech-trees, amid the sunshine and the carol of birds. The flower was planted by a lucky hand; it throve and put forth new shoots, and blossomed every year. It became the rarest flower garden for the sick boy, and his only little treasure here on earth; he watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should profit by every sunbeam, from the first to the last, that filtered through that lonely window, and the flower became interwoven in his very dreams; for it was for him it bloomed; for him it spread its fragrance and delighted the eye, and it was to the flower he turned in the last gasp of death, when the Lord called him.

He has now been a year with his heavenly Father, and for a year did the flower stand forgotten in the window, till it withered. It was therefore cast out among the sweepings in the street on the day of moving; and this is the flower, the poor faded flower, which we have added to our nosegay, because this flower gave more joy than the rarest flower in the garden of a queen. And the child opened his eyes wide, and looked full in the angel's serenely beautiful face. At the same moment they reached the kingdom of heaven, where all was joy and blessedness.

And God pressed the child to His heart, when he obtained wings like the other angel and flew hand-in-hand with him; and God pressed all the flowers to His heart, but kissed the poor withered field-flower, which then became endowed with a voice. It joined the chorus of the angels that surrounded the Almighty, where all were equally happy. And they all sang, great and little, the good, blessed child, and the poor field-flower that lay withered and cast away among the sweepings under the rubbish of a moving day, in the narrow, dingy street.

The old black pine on the mountainside cast a long dark shadow across the thin covering of snow which covered the whole mountain and even the valley below. The cold winds blew fiercely and the old black pine waved his shaggy arms fitfully and laughed at the soft snowflakes that nestled themselves fearlessly among his long needles. The flowers have gone, but I shall brave the winter storms. I shall laugh at them as I have done for countless seasons.

Then a fiercer blast of wind struck the pine-tree and bent his tall head so low that he saw a little plant growing at his very feet. It was a hardy little mountain rose, and it had two buds already half-open. The pine-tree also heard a weary little sigh. I wish I might bloom when the others do. My buds are beautiful, but who is there to admire them?

They would have admired my blossoms. But now no one cares. I see no use in blooming at all. What nonsense you talk, little friend. The snowflakes and I will admire you. Do not be a grumbler. You are named for the Christ Child. You should be more happy and contented than other plants. The snow is growing deeper about you.

Push up and keep your head above the drifts. Care well for your precious buds, that they may open into perfect blossoms.

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You do not know yet for what purpose you were left to bloom so late. But be sure of this: When the time comes, we shall know. Then shaggy pine fingers of the old tree touched the rose with a gentle caress as he lifted his tall head once more to the winds. He did not speak again, but the little rose nestling at his feet, thought long of the old pine's wise advice. All the other flowers are dead. If I was made for a wise purpose I shall not long be forgotten. So the mountain rose lifted her leaves bravely.

She sighed no longer. She took good care of her beautiful buds, and watched them as day by day they grew. It was the day before Christmas when the buds opened lovely and white and perfect.

The old pine saw them, and bowed his head to admire the blossoms. He shook all over as he laughed down on the blossoms peeping up through the snow. That day two little children wandered hand in hand up the mountainside. Their father was the woodcutter who lived in the tiny hut below.

Their mother was the pale, sick woman who lay in the tiny hut and answered her children by neither look nor word. By their mother's bed sat the father, speechless with grief. About the room moved the kind neighbour with tears in her eyes. Then, sobbing softly, the two little children stole out of the door. Hand in hand they walked on, scarce knowing where they went.

At last they came to the foot of the black old pine. Let us go to the valley. There we will find people with kind hearts. They will care for us. There is always the Christ Child who cares. To-morrow is His birthday. We will pray that our mother may yet live. The old, white-haired pastor met the children at the church door. Together they entered and prayed. The roses, nodding in the little girl's hand, seemed now to understand why they had bloomed so late. That night the mother's fever turned. The mother began to grow better. There was joy in the little hut. Blossoms single—calyx is urn-shaped, narrowing at the top—to its lining are fastened pistils and stamens—corolla consists of five generally broad petals, varying in colour from white to deep rose pink—buds are deep pink—fruit crimson in the autumn.

He says that even cows won't eat you. I am glad of the bitter acid in my stem. I have no doubt it has saved my head many a time. And so you may stand, for I shall not touch you. If I did, the juice from your stems would probably make my hands smart and itch and burn. I should judge it to be about three feet high. I am the early buttercup. Later in the season will come the fall buttercup. It will be very much like me, save that it will not be so tall nor so large as I. I am sorry that you do not like me as well as you do the wild rose. I really have not treated you as badly as she. I have seen old Boss pass you by with just a single sniff many a time.

I'm a sort of plant tramp. I can live almost anywhere. I do not need encouragement nor praise. I am not useful, and yet I am happy. He has promised me a ride. Do you believe there is a bag of gold hidden away at the end of the rainbow? Do you think if you could only get there before the rainbow fades you would surely find the gold? Well, then, the bag of gold is no longer there. It is much nearer home, and I can tell you the exact spot to find it! Go down in the meadow where the buttercups grow, and there you will find the gold which was once hidden at the end of the rainbow.

Long ago, just as you have so often heard, the bag of gold lay at the farther end of the rainbow. But, long ago, somebody found it. Have you never heard about it? Many, many people looked for the gold, and they failed to find it. At last they came to say that no one could ever get it. It seems almost sad, then, to find out that at last the bag was certainly found by a miserly old man. When he found the gold, he wished no one to know of it. He feared that some one might need some of his precious gold. So he decided to hide his wealth in the earth. So one dark night, when black clouds scurried across the sky and not a star was in sight, the old miser went to bury his gold.

He slung the big bag over his shoulder and crept along the dark meadow where the grass was thick and tall. It was, in fact, the self-same meadow in which the fairies danced, but this the old man did not know. Now the fairies are always good and wise and loving. They do not like selfishness, and they love to do kindnesses for others. But fairies are also sometimes full of mischief. Listen, and I will tell you what one fairy did! As the old man crept slyly along, a fairy spied him.

With a laugh she ripped a hole in the bag with a sharp grass blade. Of this the old man knew nothing. One by one the gold pieces slipped down among the grasses. Little by little the bag grew lighter, but the old man did not notice, so eager was he to reach the wood before any needy one saw him. His bag was empty before he reached the wood, but all amid the grasses shone the gold which he had dropped. So all night long the fairies worked. When morning came the sun shone down on the meadow which was bright with gold, each piece set on a sturdy stem of its own. Phyllis trudged on to the pond without gathering a single buttercup.

From the hilltop she saw Jack in the middle of the pond. In his hand was a long pole, and under his feet the tottering raft. I'm not the least bit wet. So Phyllis clambered on with her brother's assistance. She sat huddled in a little heap in the centre of the raft. Jack drove his pole against the bank and pushed off.

If our ship should sink, it would be in only two feet of water. Jack scarcely looked at her. Phyllis knew that he thought her very silly. By and bye she grew used to the raft, and was no longer afraid. She even moved a little and laughed when Jack splashed in the water with the pole. Jack gave a mighty push and sent the raft in among the reeds and rushes. But, alas, the raft struck a root, and with the jar Phyllis slipped off into the water. By good fortune she landed on her feet. There the little girl stood right beside the blue flowers which she had wished for. I didn't know you were in such a hurry.

Why don't you pick them now? So Phyllis broke off several stalks and some of the long sword-shaped leaves. She could feel the water between her toes. Then Jack remembered what a cough Phyllis had in the winter. She had been obliged to stay in her room and drink flaxseed tea. Jack had really been sorry as well as lonely.

I don't want you to be ill again. So the shoes and stockings were laid in the sunshine to dry, and Phyllis sat on the bank with her blue flowers. Jack pushed off again. We are called by several names. One of these names is blue flag. They chose us as their national flower. It is still the emblem of France.

Some are a lovely brown. But we all have six petals, three of which turn back and reveal the yellow crest. The three upper petals stand erect and arch over the three stamens. But the bee is known to love my colours. Besides, he knows of the nectar I have stored up in my heart for him. Bee often alights on one of my large recurved petals. Then he creeps down into my heart for the nectar. As he does so, I shake my pollen on his head and ask him to bear it to another iris across the way. On the very next flower that he enters he drops the pollen in the place where it will fertilize, and cause the seeds to grow.

When she came to earth with a message, she first threw her rainbow bridge across the sky and allowed one end to touch the earth. You know the lovely rainbow colours. Do you not see how many rainbow colours there are in my dress? That is how I came to have the name of Iris. I grew tall and strong and beautiful, and I've always had wet feet. Even now I begin to feel quite faint and wish I might stand again in some cool water.

Then once again she tried the raft. Jack was more careful this time, and Phyllis did not try again to stand like the iris with her feet in the water. It was the festival day of the flowers. Every beauty from Flower Land flaunted her fair blossom in the clear sunshine. Every plain but useful plant sat demurely and reflected on her own importance. Every common, useless plant stood in honest wide-eyed admiration of the others. All were dressed in their very best. It was indeed a scene of wondrous beauty. It seemed a difficult thing for the judges to choose which was fairest. At the last moment there came breathlessly into their midst a new flower.

Her robe was deep blue like the sky of twilight. It was as delicately shaded as the clouds of sunset. It was trimmed with fluffy golden bands. It was jeweled with dewdrops from the pond. But no one answered the question of the judges. No one knew the fair stranger in robes of blue. She did not speak for herself. For a moment there was silence at the festival of the flowers. Then one of those wide-eyed, useless ones whispered in the judge's ear:. Surely it is Iris, the rainbow messenger.

Look again at her gown! So it was that every judge, every beauty from Flower Land, every plain but useful plant, and every common, useless plant, chose Iris for their queen of beauty. Stem stout and jointed—angled on one side—one stem may bear several flowers—from one to three and a half feet high. Leaves stiff, flat, sword-shaped, folded together for sometimes half their length, sheath-like fastening to stem. Flowers a little taller than leaves—blossoms are violet-blue with veinings of purple, yellow, white, and green—corolla six cleft—the three outer divisions are large and curved back—the three inner divisions are smaller and stand erect.

They swung and they curtsied. They scraped and they bowed. They spread their scarlet skirts and bent so low that their slender stems seemed in danger of breaking. Phyllis, as she came down the walk, caught the flutter of the gay skirts of the poppies, and drew nearer to watch the merry dance. At last the breezes passed, as those little whirling breezes have a way of doing. They left the poppies quite breathless and quiet. One poppy's neck was broken in the last wild whirl, and she stood with drooping head.

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In the very centre of the poppy bed stood a tall, stiff poppy with a fluffy white head. She was very lovely, but, being quite old, was too stiff to dance as the younger ones did. They are very rude. And the old white poppy shook her head stiffly. Do you like our garden? They shake out their four petals there, and pretend that the fields are their real homes. Some poppies are white and some are purplish-blue. Other poppies were bright yellow dresses. You may always see them dancing and shaking their full skirts. From the juice a kind of medicine is made. So you see, while here in your garden we are only ornamental, yet there are times when even poppies can be useful.

Long ago there was a king who had one beautiful daughter. To her was given whatsoever she desired. Men servants and maid servants waited to do her bidding. So it chanced that the little Princess became a spoiled and willful child. She never thought of the wishes of others. She always followed her own desires. The little Princess was vain, and admired her own beauty.

She always wore gowns of beautiful red silk. They were as soft and as gaily coloured as the petals of the gorgeous garden poppies. Every morning the gentle, careful little maid combed the Princess's long dark hair with a golden comb. At noontime she carried to the Princess a golden plate loaded with the finest ripe fruit. She offered her foaming, creamy milk in a cup of gold. At eveningtide the maid robed the Princess in a nightgown of silk, and tucked her snugly in the softest and downiest of silken beds.

When the Princess slept, the little maid drew the silken curtains of the bed, and herself slept on a couch close by, that she might waken at the Princess's least movement. The maid was always gentle, patient, and obedient, and her eyes were as true and blue as the petals of the corn-flower, and her hair as golden as the stalks of the ripe wheat in the field. One day the Princess sat on the wide veranda on the shady side of the palace.

The little maid fanned her with a fan of sweet-scented grasses.

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Afar in the field the reapers were at work in the harvest. The little maid bowed so low that you could not see the blue of her eyes, only the gold of her hair and the blue of her gown. She hastened to bring the red silk parasol, and together they found their way to the harvest field.

Now the reapers loved their king and respected him. For his sake they loved the wilful little Princess. When the Princess and her maid reached the field the workmen stopped their work for a moment and bowed respectfully before the two little girls. The Princess tossed her dark head saucily, and twirled her red silk parasol impatiently. She spoke scornfully to the honest workmen, and bade them go about their work. But the little maid smiled kindly upon the honest workmen.

So though it was to the Princess that the workmen bowed, it was into the blue eyes of the little maid that they looked. It was the flutter of her simple blue gown which they caught as they looked back across the fields. Now the Princess was weary from her long walk across the fields.

She commanded the maid to find her a place in which to rest. The little maid found a soft place on the shady side of a shock of golden wheat, and brought cool water from a stream close by. As she sat there the Princess looked far out across the fields, and away on the horizon she saw a long, slender, black streak of cloud.

She sprang to her feet and clapped her hands and called loudly to the workmen. From their places in the field they came running to do her bidding. Build me a cabin from your sheaves. I am the Princess! I am the king's daughter! The workmen sprang to do as she wished. But one old man who had long served her father, the king, bowed low before the Princess and spoke. That is not a rain cloud. See how brightly the sun shines! Is not the command of your Princess enough?

Do you refuse to obey? But your command is useless, and the sheaves are precious. The Princess was speechless and white with anger, but she still pointed to the dark cloud which was slowly sinking away. Quickly the reapers built the shelter for the Princess. They knew that the good sheaves which they wasted might have made bread for their children.

Therefore it was sadly that the reapers wrought, knowing that the long winter would surely come. Presently a tiny house was finished. With golden sheaves of the ripe grain were the floors laid. With sheaves were the walls built. With sheaves were the roof covered. When it was completed, the Princess lowered her red silk parasol, and, still frowning, passed inside.

The workmen turned again to the uncut grain and said nothing. By this time there was no cloud to be seen in all the blue heavens. The air was clear and cool. But the Princess and her little maid sat within the house of sheaves. Then without a second's warning an awful thing happened! From the clear sky came a flash of lightning. From the cloudless sky came a roll of thunder. From the harvest field shot up red tongues of flame, for the house of sheaves was on fire. The burning sheaves fell about the selfish Princess and her little maid.

Nothing could save them. Then the old man who had begged the Princess not to command the workmen's time for a useless whim turned away. He went sadly across the stubble fields and in at the great palace gates. He went straight up the steps to the throne where sat the king and queen. To them he told the fate of the two little girls.

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The parents were heart-broken. They mourned long for their little daughter. As the days went by and they sat in their loneliness they came to see that they had made a great mistake in letting their child pet her own selfishness. When they saw this, they bowed their heads and wept aloud. The following summer at harvest-time the reapers came upon two new flowers blooming in the spot where the house of sheaves was built. One flower was tall, and stood up proudly among the wheat. Its petals were as silky and scarlet as the gown of the Princess.

In the breezes it tossed its head haughtily. Then, turning slowly, they went again about their reaping, leaving the corn-flower and the poppy blooming side by side. Cultivated, grows in gardens—in Turkey and India it is cultivated for the opium it contains. Blossoms of garden poppies of numerous colours—the white poppy is the opium poppy—petals are four in number, very much crumpled in the bud—buds droop on stem, but flower is erect. In a few minutes they crawled under the fence which guarded the railroad track.

For a while they walked the ties. Phyllis's short legs began to grow weary. They are right along here! The shooting-stars were not in the least hard to find. They stood up tall and straight, and shook their blossoms out in lovely fragrant clusters. They must be at least two feet tall. Then she looked down at the bottom of the flower stems.

There were the leaves in a cluster about the foot of the flower. These leaves were oblong, and lay close to the ground. At the top of the bare stems grew the blossoms.

These flowers were in clusters of fives or sevens, their short stems starting out from the same place on the mother stem. The blossoms themselves were lovely. In colour they were white, pink, and sometimes a pale lilac. The petals were long and narrow and broader at the tip than at the base. They not spread out as petals generally do. They turned back and huddled quite close to the mother stem. In fact, they entirely hid the five brownish-green sepals underneath. But the stamens were far from being hidden. There were five of them, and they stood out brown and stiff.

Their tips came together and formed a cone which was tipped with yellow, and somewhat in the shape of a bird's bill. I see, too, why they call you shooting-stars. Once, in the time called long ago, the little stars up in the sky jogged and jostled each other sadly. There are acres of room down there. How happy we might be on earth! His Nanny dies; his alcoholic Mother sleeps with their priest; his good-for-nothing Father leaves; his indifferent brother escapes the military draft; his four sisters face adolescence in a way they know how; and he is battling with homosexuality.

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Born and raised in a big family with little heart or no compassion, Joe only has The Pansy Garden to soothe and listen to him. Readers are about to find out as this novel unravels. For more information on this book, log on to www. Veeb, tahvelarvuti, telefon, eReader.

Set in the near future, it describes life in what was once the United States and is now called the Republic of Gilead, a monotheocracy that has reacted to social unrest and a sharply declining birthrate by reverting to, and going beyond, the repressive intolerance of the original Puritans. The regime takes the Book of Genesis absolutely at its word, with bizarre consequences for the women and men in its population.

The story is told through the eyes of Offred, one of the unfortunate Handmaids under the new social order. It is at once scathing satire, dire warning, and a tour de force. It is Margaret Atwood at her best. Click 'Notify Me' to get an email alert when this item becomes available. Synopsis Product Details Shipping. Contemporary fiction Publication Date: Xlibris Corporation Country of origin: Let's Try No, Thanks.

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