Lily Day
It was surprising, how many people were of the same mind that week. The cause of it was lilies. It seemed as if there must have been a convention of lilies held in Fairview at that time, for they were out in full glory.
The tall tiger lilies blazed and glowed in the sunshine; the day lilies opened their white bells, the yellow lilies gleamed like gold, and away down on Silver Lake, lovely pond lilies, cool, and pure, and white, with golden hearts, lay amid broad green leaves.
The people who first got the idea in their heads that it would be nice to put some lilies in the church that week, were very young people. In fact, it came into one little head first—Kitty Grey’s.
And how could she help thinking up all manner of splendid plans, when she lived so near to the beautiful lake that from her window up-stairs she could look across to the other shore and see here and there white blossoms on the water. She clapped her hands with joy when she first discovered them, and ran down-stairs crying:
“They’re out! They’re out! Mamma, can’t Ray and I go in the boat and get some pond lilies right away now?”
Silver Lake was a shallow little thing—a saucerful of water, papa said—and Ray, though a little fellow, could manage a boat nicely. Mamma readily gave consent, and it was but a few minutes before Kitty sat in the stern of the boat, drawing her hand through the water, her very dearest friend Mabel in the bow, and Ray rowing with all his might to the spot where those wonderful lilies floated white and fair.
“I know what we’ll do,” Kitty said, as they filled the large basket they had brought with them as full as it could hold. “We’ll trim the church for to-morrow.”
“So we will,” said Mabel.
And Ray said:
“All right; that will be splendid. I’ll get a lot of ferns to put with these.”
About that time, old Mrs. Parks was walking her garden, trimming off dead leaves and cutting flowers. She came along to a large bunch of red lilies, and clipped them off.
“We haven’t had any flowers in church this long time,” she said to herself. “I’ll just send these over. They are such handsome things, it’s a pity everybody shouldn’t enjoy them.”
So she brought them into the house, got down from the top shelf of the pantry an old blue pitcher, and putting her flowers in it, filled it with water, promising herself to take them to the parsonage between daylight and dark.
“Cinthy’s tasty, and she can fix them up in shape for the church,” she said.
Cynthia Morrow was the minister’s daughter. She herself had a plan for making the little church beautiful—to smile a welcome to the Sabbath morning.
Down at the end of the garden was a plot of day lilies. They belonged to her. She had put them out herself, and watched and watered them, and waited for them, and now this week they blossomed out in queenly beauty. She intended to surprise her father next morning. How pleased he would be to find his favorite flower on the pulpit desk, its pure whiteness and its rare sweetness sending up incense with the songs of praise.
The next one who gathered lilies was Miss Alice Lynde. She was a young lady from New York, spending the summer with her uncle in Fairview.
Miss Alice took long walks every day over the fields and hills, and so her cheeks, which were pale when she came from the city, were getting to be the color of wild roses.
This morning her walk happened to be longer than usual. She went farther out into the country than she had ever been before, lured on by a glimpse of bright yellow flowers she could see in the distance. They turned out to be lilies. Miss Alice was delighted. She filled her arms with them at once, thinking while she chose the finest blossoms what a lovely bouquet she would make for the church.
It would seem as if all the people who had been gathering lilies that day had made an appointment to meet at the church after tea that evening, but they never had, though they all met.
Nobody felt quite at liberty to carry their flowers to the church. It might look as if they had set up to interfere with somebody’s else arrangements. So all made their way to the parsonage at that pleasant time between the day and night when country people run in to see each other.
Each one found that Cynthia was already at the church; gone to carry over some flowers, her mother said.
What was Cynthia’s surprise, as she stood on the platform arranging her vases, to see Kitty and Ray come in tugging a large basket full of pond lilies and ferns.
“Oh, what beauties! I am so glad you brought them,” Cynthia was saying when Mrs. Parks put her head in at the door.
“I s’pose you’ve got flowers enough without these,” she said, holding out a great bunch of red lilies.
“Oh, no, indeed!” Cynthia said. “How pretty they will be with the white ones! I wish we had somebody to help us arrange them.”
While they were all bending over the flowers admiring them, a little rustle was heard, and when they looked up, there was Miss Alice gliding softly down the aisle with a great sheaf of yellow lilies in her arms. She made a pretty picture to the children’s eyes, her white dress and white hat, her smiling face, and the lovely flowers.
Their admiring “O—h—” was not meant for the flowers alone.
“I should say that all the lilies in the country have agreed to come here and hold a meeting,” said Mrs. Parks.
Miss Alice pulled off her gloves and went to work. She knew just how to arrange flowers. Mrs. Parks went home for some pans, Ray went for water, and Kitty hunted up some vases, while Cynthia sorted the flowers.
How lovely it was when all was done! There was a bank of pond lilies and ferns just under the pulpit. There was a mound of red and white lilies on the table, and vases on the desk of pure white and green only. Cynthia said that must be so. And then there was a masterpiece of beauty, made by Miss Alice’s skilful fingers—a sort of pyramid of flowers, all colors mingled, with feathery ferns drooping about the whole.
Next morning at church everybody was surprised, because, as a rule, they did not have flowers in church at Fairview, beyond a simple handful in a vase. Nobody, though, was more surprised than the self-appointed flower committee themselves were when the minister’s text was announced. They could not resist smiling at each other.
You see Mr. Morrow had been noticing the flowers rather more than usual that week. Even while he was considering what his text should be, his eye fell on a cluster of tall white lilies. He found himself studying their graceful shapes, their whiteness and fragrance, and then began to wonder at the thought that the same great God who made the worlds, made the tiny flowers, and that he took so much pains, making so many different shapes and colors, each with its own rare fragrance, to please us because he loves us.
It was not strange, then, that Mr. Morrow’s text should be, “Consider the lilies.”