J U N IO R K I N G ’S BUS INESS edited by Martha S. Hooker
me
A Handful of ~ S u n ô l i
by HELEN FRAZEE-BOWER
hen the frost was on the ground and the last b u rn ish e d d r if t o f maple leaves was turn
there will burst a shower of golden blossoms, like a handful of sun light.” “ It’s a little like the Lord Jesus coming out of the grave, isn’t it?” Barby said. “ It’s very much like that, dear. That’s why the spring of the year is so lovely. It’s as though every thing in nature is trying to speak to us of the resurrection. And that’s why the long, dark winter does not seem so long and dark — because we know it’s just a time of waiting for a brighter day.” “Just a time of waiting,” mused Barby. “ That’s kind of nice.” Through the winter days that followed, Barby thought often of the little, brown bulbs asleep in the earth. When the snow lay like a soft, white blanket over all the world around, she wondered if the bulbs thought of it as a blanket or wheth er it only seemed cold and still to them. “ It’s just a time of waiting,” she whispered. “ You’ll be a handful of sunlight yet.” Once when it turned very cold after a hard rain, the branches of all the trees were rimmed with ice and every bush looked as though it was carved from crystal. Barby watched the blackbirds with their ruffled feathers and their bright yellow bills perched upon the icy branches, looking for all the world like cardboard cutouts on trees of silver plastic. They looked so cold and uncomfortable that, in com parison, her little, brown friends in the earth seemed to have much cozier quarters. But now it was spring again! The sun was bright and warm upon the young grass; the maples were in new leaf; here and there the lawn was dotted with a sprinkling of wood-violets; and outside the den
window Aunt Emmy was calling, “ Come and look, Barby. The daffo dils are out!” Sure enough, almost overnight the yellow cups had opened and Aunt Emmy was holding a cluster just like a handful of sunlight. “Don’t cut them all,” pleaded Barby. “May I take some to the Junior Department on Sunday?” “ Of course. What could be nicer than sending them to God’s house?” Just then Benjie came around the co rn e r . “Where mine?” he demanded. Aunt Emmy held out a daffodil to him but he shook his head. “Where mine?” he persisted, and walked over to the fence. They fol lowed him. “Where are your what, honey?” Aunt Emmy asked. “Where my flowers?” “Did you p la n t som e th in g , Benjie?” “Benjie plant,” he said, and began digging in the earth. Aunt Emmy knelt to help him and presently they uncovered four hard, brown objects. Barby giggled. “No wonder he didn’t get flowers. He planted marbles! You can’t get daffodils from marbles.” “Why?” Benjie wanted to know. “Because marbles are not living things. There is no life in them,” said Aunt Emmy. “Why?” Benjie persisted. A u n t Emm y put her arms around the small boy. “Maybe it’s like this, Benjie,” she said. “Maybe it’s just because they are so cold and hard. Do you remember when we cut the bulb, Barby, and found the baby plant curled up inside? If we could cut this marble we would find' it hard and stony all the way through. Just like some hearts,” she added, “no life in them.”
ing to a sodden heap under the bare trees, Barby helped Aunt Emmy put the bulbs in the earth. “ What w i l l th e y be?” she wanted to know. “Daffodils,” said Aunt Emmy. “How do they know to be daf fodils?” Aunt Emmy smiled. “How did •you know to be a little girl?” she asked. “ That’s easy,” Barby said, “my parents are people so, of course, I would have to be a little girl ■— or else a little boy, like Benjie.” Over by the fence small Benjie was busy with his own planting. He toddled back and forth on his fat, little legs, poking holes in the ground and pressing the moist earth with his baby fingers. “Well, the parents of these bulbs were daffodils so they will be daffo dils too,” said Aunt Emmy. “ That’s the way it is with flowers as well as people. Sit down a minuté, Barby, and let me show you some thing.” Aunt Emmy cut one of the bulbs across and showed Barby the tiny plant curled at its base. “ There it is — the baby daffodil asleep in its little, brown basket.” “Really? And won’t it mind being put in the earth? It seems so cold and dark to me.” “ It takes the darkness and the cold to make it grow, dear.” “Oh? But it seems a little like a grave to me. I don’t like graves.” Barby shuddered. “Nobody likes graves, of course,” Aunt Emmy said. “ But some graves hold wonderful surprises just the same. One day out of this cold, dark earth where our bulbs are sleeping,
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