The Primrose Ring | Page 2

are listed on its staff; its nurses rank at the head. It has
outspanned the greatest dream of the Founder--professionally. And
twelve times a year--at the end of every month--the trustees hold their
day; which means that all through the late afternoon, until the business
meeting at five-thirty, they wander over the building.
Now it is the business of institutional directors to be thorough, and the
trustees of Saint Margaret's, previous to the 30th of April, never forgot
their business. They looked into corners and behind doors to see what
had not been done; they followed the work-trails of every
employee--from old Cassie, the scrub-woman, to the Superintendent
herself; and if one was a wise employee one blazed conspicuously and
often. They gathered in little groups and discussed methods for
conservation and greater efficiency, being as up to date in their
charities as in everything else. Also, they brought guests and showed
them about; for when one was rich and had put one's money into

collections of sick and crippled children instead of old ivories and first
editions, it did not at all mean that one had not retained the same pride
of exhibiting.
There are a few rare natures who make collections for the sheer love of
the objects they collect, and if they can be persuaded to show them off
at all it is always with so much tenderness and sympathy that even the
feelings of a delicately wrought Buddha could not be bruised. But there
were none of these natures numbered among the trustees of Saint
Margaret's. And because it was purely a matter of charity and pride
with them, and because they never had any time left over from being
thorough and business-like to spend on the children themselves, they
never failed to leave a shaft of gloom behind them on Trustee Day. The
contagious ward always escaped by virtue of its own power of
self-defense; but the shaft started at the door of the surgical ward and
went widening along through the medical and the convalescent until it
reached the incurables at an angle of indefinite radiation. There was a
reason for this--as Margaret MacLean put it once in paraphrase:
"Children come and children go, but we stay on for ever."
Trustee Day was an abiding memory only with the incurables; which
meant that twelve times a year--at the end of every month--Ward C
cried itself to sleep.
Spring could not have begun the day better. She is never the spendthrift
that summer is, but once in a while she plunges recklessly into her
treasure-store and scatters it broadcast. On this last day of April she
was prodigal with her sunshine; out countryward she garnished every
field and wood and hollow with her best. Everywhere were flowers and
pungent herby things in such abundance that even the city folk could
sense them afar off.
Little cajoling breezes scuttled around corners and down thoroughfares,
blowing good humor in and bad humor out. Birds of
passage--song-sparrows, tanagers, bluebirds, and orioles--even a pair of
cardinals--stopped wherever they could find a tree or bush from which
to pipe a friendly greeting. Yes, spring certainly could not have begun
the day better; it was as if everything had said to itself, "We know this
is a very special occasion and we must do our share in making it fine."
So well did everything succeed that Margaret MacLean was up and out
of Saint Margaret's a full half-hour earlier than usual, her heart singing

antiphonally with the birds outside. Coatless, but capped and in her
gray uniform, she jumped the hospital steps, two at a time, and danced
the length of the street.
Now Margaret MacLean was small and slender, and there was nothing
grotesque in the dancing. It had become a natural means of expressing
the abundant life and joyousness she had felt ever since she had been
free of crutches and wheeled chairs; and an impartial stranger, had he
been passing, would have watched her with the same uncritical delight
that he might have bestowed on any wood creature had it suddenly
appeared darting along the pavement. She reached the corner just in
time to bump into the flower-seller, who was turning about like some
old tabby to settle himself and his basket.
"Oh!" she cried in dismay, for the flower-seller was wizened and
unsteady of foot, and she had sent him spinning about in a dizzy
fashion. She put out a steadying hand. "Oh . . . !" This time it was in
ecstasy; she had spied the primroses in the basket just as the sunshine
splashed over the edge of the corner building straight down upon them.
Margaret MacLean dropped to one knee and laid her cheek against
them. "The happy things--you can hear them laugh! I want all--all