STATE POMOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 53 



But Edith had not. Her mother had never tolerated even one 

 house plant, because "they are nothing but weeds, anj'way," she de- 

 clared, "darkening the windows and littering the house." And 

 Edith's father as stoutly opposed an out-door Hower garden, because 

 "good land that would grow potatoes and corn shouldn't be thrown 

 away on a mess of pros}' weeds !" 



Acres and acres of land Edith's father had in his homestead farm ; 

 land enough to grow all the corn and carrots and cabbages he cared 

 to raise ; time enough to set onions and plant fodder corn and kidney- 

 eyed beans, even to the sill of the house door that opened into the 

 back garden, but no room or time to be given to the dear flowers 

 whose fragrance and beaut}' helps so much in making life cheery. 



So the Quints' front yard had grown up to briers and sapling 

 lilacs and rank witch grass, slowly choking out the life of the brave, 

 old snowball bush and peony roots that a busy house mother, years 

 before, had taken from her butter-making and dish-washing to plant ; 

 but, now, for thirty years, the witch grass and the lilac sprouts had 

 had their own way, and the old flowering plants, after such a brave 

 but bootless struggle, had succumbed and all that remained of 

 Grandma Quint's flower garden was a rank swamp in one corner of 

 "Bouncing Bet" and "Butter and eggs." They wouldn't die. 



"Please, Miss Huldah, please may I have just one of these pretty 

 plants you have piled against the fence?" a child's shrill voice piped 

 one October morning, and looking up, Huldah saw Edith's round 

 face peeping through the pickets, while she eagerly pointed to a heap 

 of thrifty petunia plants that she had uprooted for lack of garden 

 room, and that they might not sow the ground with ripened seeds. 

 The topmost plant on the rubbish heap she had piled for removal — 

 seedling though it was — had put out a single bright crimson blos- 

 som, with plenty of buds promising more. 



"It's such a pretty little red trumpet of a flower, and you've 

 thrown it away : please. Miss Huldah, may I have it?" 



"Bless you, dear child, yes. Just so many of the plants as you 

 like." And the rejected petunia with its root ball of earth and 

 healthy, green top crowned with a flaring, flaanting, crimson blos- 

 som, was carefully lifted, wrapped in damp moss, and given into the 

 eager, up-stretched hands of the little girl. 



She scampered home with her prize as fast as her little, racing 

 feet could carry her. When she reached the shed door, she hid the 

 brown parcel under its sill and went foraging round for an old tomato 

 can she had seen in the rubbish of the back yard. 



