{"id":75,"date":"2021-07-05T11:49:19","date_gmt":"2021-07-05T15:49:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/thebookofsmall\/?post_type=chapter&p=75"},"modified":"2022-02-02T10:15:47","modified_gmt":"2022-02-02T15:15:47","slug":"the-orange-lily","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/chapter\/the-orange-lily\/","title":{"raw":"The Orange Lily","rendered":"The Orange Lily"},"content":{"raw":"Henry Mitchell\u2019s nursery garden was set with long rows of trees, shrubs and plants. It sat on the edge of the town. In one corner of its acreage was the little grey cottage where Henry and his wife, Anne, lived. They were childless and well on in years, trying honestly to choke down homesickness and to acclimatize themselves as well as their Old Country plants to their step-land.\r\n\r\nSmall came into the nursery garden taking the gravel path at a gallop, the steps at a jump, tiptoeing to reach the doorbell\u2014then she turned sharp against the temptation of peering through the coloured glass at the door-sides to see sombre Anne Mitchell come down the hall multicoloured\u2014green face, red dress, blue hair. The turn brought Small face to face with the Orange Lily.\r\n\r\nThe lily grew in the angle made by the front of the house and the side of the porch. Small\u2019s knees doubled to the splintery porch floor. She leaned over to look into the lily\u2019s trumpet, stuck out a finger to feel the petals. They had not the greasy feel of the wax lilies they resembled, they had not the smooth hard shininess of china. They were cool, slippery and alive.\r\n\r\nLily rolled her petals grandly wide as sentinelled doors roll back for royalty. The entrance to her trumpet was guarded by a group of rust-powdered stamens\u2014her powerful perfume pushed past these. What was in the bottom of Lily\u2019s trumpet? What was it that the stamens were so carefully guarding? Small pushed the stamens aside and looked. The trumpet was empty\u2014the emptiness of a church after parson and people have gone, when the music is asleep in the organ and the markers dangle from the Bible on the lectern.\r\n\r\nAnne Mitchell opened the cottage door.\r\n\r\n\u201cCome see my everlasting flowers, Small\u2014my flowers that never die.\u201d\r\n\r\nWith a backward look Small said, \u201cWhat a lovely lily!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cWell enough but strong-smelling, gaudy. Come see the everlastings.\u201d\r\n\r\nThe front room of the cottage was empty; newspapers were spread over the floor and heaped with the crisping everlasting flowers, each colour in a separate pile. The sunlight in the room was dulled by drawn white blinds. The air was heavy\u2014dead, dusty as the air of a hay loft.\r\n\r\nThe flowers crackled at Anne\u2019s touch. \u201cEnough to wreathe the winter\u2019s dead,\u201d she said with a happy little sigh and, taking a pink bud from the pile, twined it in the lace of her black cap. It drooped against her thin old cheek that was nearly as pink, nearly as dry as the flower.\r\n\r\n\u201cCome, Mrs. Gray\u2019s wreath!\u201d She took Small to the sitting-room. Half of Mrs. Gray\u2019s wreath was on the table, Anne\u2019s cat, an invalid guinea hen and Henry huddled round the stove. The fire and the funereal everlastings crackled cheerfully.\r\n\r\nPresently Small said, \u201cI had better go now.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYou shall have a posy,\u201d said Anne, laying down the wreath.\r\n\r\n\u201cWill there be enough for Mrs. Gray and me too?\u201d asked Small.\r\n\r\n\u201cWe will gather flowers from the garden for you.\u201d\r\n\r\nThe Orange Lily! Oh if Mrs. Mitchell would only give me the Orange Lily! Oh, if only I could hold it in my hand and look and look!\r\n\r\nAnne passed the lily. Beyond was the bed of pinks\u2014white, clove, cinnamon.\r\n\r\n\u201cSmell like puddings, don\u2019t they?\u201d said Small.\r\n\r\n\u201cMy dear!\u201d\r\n\r\nAnne\u2019s scissors chawed the wiry stems almost as sapless as the everlastings. Life seemed to have rushed to the heads of the pinks and flopped them face down to the ground. Anne blew off the dust as she bunched the pinks. Small went back to the lily. With pocket-handkerchief she wiped the petals she had rusted by pushing aside the stamens.\r\n\r\n\u201cThere are four more lilies to come, Mrs. Mitchell!\u201d\r\n\r\nAnne lifted the corner of her black silk apron.\r\n\r\n\u201cThat lily has rusted your nose, Small.\u201d\r\n\r\nShe scrubbed.\r\n\r\nSmall went home.\r\n\r\n\u201cHere\u2019s pinks,\u201d she said, tossing the bunch upon the table.\r\n\r\nIn her heart she hugged an Orange Lily. It had burned itself there not with flaming petals, not through the hot, rich smell. Soundless, formless, white\u2014it burned there.","rendered":"

Henry Mitchell\u2019s nursery garden was set with long rows of trees, shrubs and plants. It sat on the edge of the town. In one corner of its acreage was the little grey cottage where Henry and his wife, Anne, lived. They were childless and well on in years, trying honestly to choke down homesickness and to acclimatize themselves as well as their Old Country plants to their step-land.<\/p>\n

Small came into the nursery garden taking the gravel path at a gallop, the steps at a jump, tiptoeing to reach the doorbell\u2014then she turned sharp against the temptation of peering through the coloured glass at the door-sides to see sombre Anne Mitchell come down the hall multicoloured\u2014green face, red dress, blue hair. The turn brought Small face to face with the Orange Lily.<\/p>\n

The lily grew in the angle made by the front of the house and the side of the porch. Small\u2019s knees doubled to the splintery porch floor. She leaned over to look into the lily\u2019s trumpet, stuck out a finger to feel the petals. They had not the greasy feel of the wax lilies they resembled, they had not the smooth hard shininess of china. They were cool, slippery and alive.<\/p>\n

Lily rolled her petals grandly wide as sentinelled doors roll back for royalty. The entrance to her trumpet was guarded by a group of rust-powdered stamens\u2014her powerful perfume pushed past these. What was in the bottom of Lily\u2019s trumpet? What was it that the stamens were so carefully guarding? Small pushed the stamens aside and looked. The trumpet was empty\u2014the emptiness of a church after parson and people have gone, when the music is asleep in the organ and the markers dangle from the Bible on the lectern.<\/p>\n

Anne Mitchell opened the cottage door.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome see my everlasting flowers, Small\u2014my flowers that never die.\u201d<\/p>\n

With a backward look Small said, \u201cWhat a lovely lily!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell enough but strong-smelling, gaudy. Come see the everlastings.\u201d<\/p>\n

The front room of the cottage was empty; newspapers were spread over the floor and heaped with the crisping everlasting flowers, each colour in a separate pile. The sunlight in the room was dulled by drawn white blinds. The air was heavy\u2014dead, dusty as the air of a hay loft.<\/p>\n

The flowers crackled at Anne\u2019s touch. \u201cEnough to wreathe the winter\u2019s dead,\u201d she said with a happy little sigh and, taking a pink bud from the pile, twined it in the lace of her black cap. It drooped against her thin old cheek that was nearly as pink, nearly as dry as the flower.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome, Mrs. Gray\u2019s wreath!\u201d She took Small to the sitting-room. Half of Mrs. Gray\u2019s wreath was on the table, Anne\u2019s cat, an invalid guinea hen and Henry huddled round the stove. The fire and the funereal everlastings crackled cheerfully.<\/p>\n

Presently Small said, \u201cI had better go now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou shall have a posy,\u201d said Anne, laying down the wreath.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill there be enough for Mrs. Gray and me too?\u201d asked Small.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe will gather flowers from the garden for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Orange Lily! Oh if Mrs. Mitchell would only give me the Orange Lily! Oh, if only I could hold it in my hand and look and look!<\/p>\n

Anne passed the lily. Beyond was the bed of pinks\u2014white, clove, cinnamon.<\/p>\n

\u201cSmell like puddings, don\u2019t they?\u201d said Small.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy dear!\u201d<\/p>\n

Anne\u2019s scissors chawed the wiry stems almost as sapless as the everlastings. Life seemed to have rushed to the heads of the pinks and flopped them face down to the ground. Anne blew off the dust as she bunched the pinks. Small went back to the lily. With pocket-handkerchief she wiped the petals she had rusted by pushing aside the stamens.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are four more lilies to come, Mrs. Mitchell!\u201d<\/p>\n

Anne lifted the corner of her black silk apron.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat lily has rusted your nose, Small.\u201d<\/p>\n

She scrubbed.<\/p>\n

Small went home.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s pinks,\u201d she said, tossing the bunch upon the table.<\/p>\n

In her heart she hugged an Orange Lily. It had burned itself there not with flaming petals, not through the hot, rich smell. Soundless, formless, white\u2014it burned there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":9,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-75","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/75","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/75\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":76,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/75\/revisions\/76"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/75\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=75"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=75"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=75"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thebookofsmall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=75"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}