The Discontented Rose

By Mildred Bentley

Annotations by Kristina Bowers

There was once a little wild rose that was taken away from her country home to live with her city cousins. The Sweet Briar[1] family, you must know, were the highest aristocracy of all the country side. For more than a hundred generations, they had been lords of the soil, holding their real estate with their own armed retainers.[2] So, though quiet and unpretending, they were a proud and unapproachable old family. 

When the city gardener came one day to take away the little, wild rose, Madam Sweet Briar received him with dignity, nodded and waved to him in a polite manner, sighed a sweet, little sigh, and smiled a rosy smile, and hoped he would treat her daughter tenderly. And as she said it, she slily gave him an ugly scratch, as a warning of what he might expect from the family, unless its members were treated with consideration, so the gardener took up the wild rose with the greatest tenderness and care, and bore her away. The tall ferns waved a gracious adieu, the clover blossoms bobbed homely, little courtesies to her, the hummingbird kissed her, the bumblebee buzzed about her and said he should come to see her in her new home very soon, and her mother, Madam Sweet Briar, wept and sighed and blessed her. 

Away and away, over miles of dusty road, the little, lonely rose was carried. She began to faint and droop long before the journey was done, but the gardener placed her gently in the shade, and bathed her in cold water. So after awhile she grew strong and brave, and held up her head and took heart. 

It was a fine place where she lived now, fine, but lonely. She missed the green, waving ferns, the clover blossoms, and the old rail fence she used to rest on. She had a pretty, painted lattice, now, but she did not take to it kindly for many days. But there were some brave, little roots working away at her feet; their active little mouths drew from old mother earth nourishing, strengthening food, and the falling rain soothed her, and the sun warmed her, and so she got over her homesickness, and grew well and strong and happy; and when the time for blossoms came, a beautiful, little, pink flower came timidly forth and crowned the rose. 

A proud and happy rose was she that day. The gardener noticed her and praised her, and all the world looked beautiful. But there were other roses in the garden, whose cultivation had made them proud and vain. 

“I wonder if she calls that a rose? the little, countrified thing!” said Madam Hundredleaf,[3] drawing herself up in pride, and bustling with spiteful thorns, as she said it. 

“It looks like a dwarf apple blossom,” returned Madam Velvet Rose.[4] “Only five petals—and such a faint color! I wonder she has the impudence to hold her head up in our presence.”

“I am sure I think she is pretty,” said Mrs. White Rose,[5] who was a bride, and a very sweet, young creature. “Indeed, I have heard that our grandmothers were all like her, and it is only because we have been treated so kindly that we are any different.”

“For my part,” returned Mrs. Hundredleaf, “I never have believed that story about the low origin of the Rose family. Some spiteful gossip invented the whole story, I have no doubt.”

“That has always been my opinion,” said Mrs. Velvet, proudly. “But it is a shame and a disgrace to have that little, plain, countrified thing claim relation to us. It will only start the old story again.”

“That is true enough,” broke in Mrs. Damask Rose,[6] getting quite red in the face. “I am vexed at the little upstart. I could scratch her well if she was within reach.”

“Please don’t talk so loud,” pleaded the gentle, White Rose. “Please don’t; the poor, little thing will hear you, and she is lonesome and timid already.”

The caution had come too late. The poor, little wild rose had heard all the unkind words, and the world was beautiful no more. She looked down upon the little blossom that had seemed so lovely, but it appeared poor and small and pale; the wind passed over it, and the little pink petals fluttered to the earth; the merry, little buds wrapped their green coats tight about them, and hope and joy died in their hearts. 

So they all hid their pretty faces in their green jackets and cried bitterly. 

“We don’t ever want to be little, homely roses; make us larger, fuller, sweeter, and brighter. Oh dear! Oh dear!”

The poor, little wild rose was wilder than ever. When she heard the cry of the buds, she had not the least idea how to change the little plain flowers. Should she flounce them or crimp[7] them, or ruffle or scallup [sic][8] them? Should she put two or three together and make one large one? What could she do? She asked the sun, the rain, the earth, the wind. But no one could help her. The sun could paint them. 

“Nothing but the regular tints, ma’am,” he said. “That is all I can possibly do for you. I’ve a vast deal of work, and can’t undertake any extras!” And away he glanced and danced. 

“Dear me, don’t ask me,” said the wind. “I am so fidgety and nervous, I should die if I stood long in one place. I can’t be of any service to you, unless you need change of air.” And away he flew. 

The rain could not help her, either. 

“Sorry for you, if you are in trouble,” he cried; “but I can’t tell you anything about your ruffling and fussing. Just keep cool, keep cool—that’s always my advice—keep cool, I say, and soak your feet well.” And away he splashed and dashed. 

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” moaned the little wild rose, wringing her hands till they bled from the scratches. “No one will help me! what shall I do?”

Then old mother earth made answer. 

“Be your own sweet, simple self. Be true and natural, and you will be beautiful.”

But all in vain the wise mother spoke, all in vain the thirsty mouths sent the rich juices coursing through her veins. Her heart was dizzy and sick, and one by one the discontented buds dropped their heads and died. The wild rose watched them in sorrow. She longed unspeakably for her wildwood home, the waving of the ferns, the nodding of the clovers, the music of the brook, and the song of the birds. 

The city garden blossomed in glory and pride. Lilies and roses and pansies and geraniums all flaunted their bright colors on the air. The greenery of June darkened into the deeper hue of midsummer, and flushed and flamed with the fevers of autumn. But the little wild rose was dead—its freshness, sweetness, beauty, life, were gone forever from earth. 

Ah! little wild rose, you are not the only one who has come to dismay and death, by trying to be what you were not made to be.

Bentley, Mildred. “The Discontented Rose.” The Little Corporal: An Illustrated Magazine for Boys and GirlsI. 11, no. 4 (October 1, 1870): 112. 

[1] The Sweet Briar Rose (Rosa rubiginosa), also known as eglantine, is native to Western Asia and Europe but has been cultivated in N. America (USDA). This rose represents poetry (Ingram, 1869, 110).

[2] Retainer: The act of a client by which the services of a lawyer, counselor, or adviser are engaged. (Merriam-Webster)

[3] The Hundred Leaf Rose (Rosa centifolia), also known as cabbage rose, are named for their ability to bloom with a hundred or more petals. (American Rose Society)

[4] The Velvet Rose could refer to many species of rose including Rosa ‘Brown Velvet’, Rosa ‘Flower Carpet Red Velvet’, Brugmansia ‘Velvet Rose’ or Angel’s Trumpet, and Rosa ‘Tuscany Superb.’

[5] The White Rose (Rosa alba) symbolizes silence according to Ingram (1869, 24).

[6] The Damask Rose (Rosa damascena) is highly fragrant and is used in producing perfume, rose water, and dried petals in potpourri. According to Ingram, “this…species has been held in high esteem for nearly two thousand years” (1869, 23).

[7] Crimp: To pinch or press together. (Merriam-Webster)

[8] Scallop: To shape or cut in a scallop pattern. (Merriam-Webster)