“And you keep every thing else to yourself,” muttered one who had vainly tried to enlist her sympathy for another who was in sickness and trouble.
Mrs. Crook had a pretty garden, well-stocked with flowers, according to the season. She was fond of working in it, and might be seen there daily, with her sun-bonnet on, snipping, tying and tending her plants.
Children do so love flowers, and, thank God, those who live in country places have grand gardens to roam in, free to all, and planted by His own loving hand. But in town it is different, and Mrs. Crook lived just outside one; far enough away from its smoke to allow of successful gardening, not too far to prevent little feet from wandering thither from narrow courts and alleys, to breathe a purer air, and gaze, with longing eyes, at the fair blossoms. It always irritated Mrs. Crook to see these dirty, unkempt little creatures clustering around her gate, or peeping through her hedge.
“What do you want here?” she would ask, sharply. “Get away with you, or I will send for a policeman. You are peeping about to see if you can pick up something; I know you are. Be off, without any more telling!”
The light of pleasure called into the young eyes by the sight of the flowers would fade away, and the hopeful look leave the dirty faces, as Mrs. Crook’s harsh words fell on the children’s ears. But as they turned away with unwilling, lingering steps, heads would be stretched, and a wistful, longing gaze cast upon the coveted flowers, until they were quite lost to sight.
There was a tradition amongst the youngsters that a very small child had once called, through the bars of the gate: “P’ease, Missis, do give me a f’ower.” Also that something in the baby voice had so far moved Mrs. Jemima Crook, that she had stooped to select one or two of the least faded roses among all those just snipped from the bushes, and given them to the daring little blue eyes outside, with this injunction, however:
“Mind you never come here asking for flowers any more.”
This report was long current among the inhabitants of a city court, but it needs confirmation.
Mrs. Crook objected to borrowers also, and perhaps she was not so much to be blamed for that. Most of us who possess bookshelves, and once delighted in seeing them well filled, look sorrowfully at gaps made by borrowers who have failed to return our treasures. But domestic emergencies occur even in the best regulated families, and neighborly help may be imperatively required. It may be a matter of Christian duty and privilege too, to lend both our goods and our personal aid. Mrs. Crook did not think so. Lending formed no part of her creed. If other people believed in it, and liked their household goods to travel up and down the neighborhood, that was their look-out, not hers.
“I never borrow, so why should I lend?” asked Mrs. Crook. “Besides, I am particular about my things. My pans are kept as bright and clean as new ones, and if my servant put them on the shelves, as some people’s servants replace theirs after using, she would not be here long. No, thank you. When I begin to borrow, I will begin to lend, but not until then.”