162 THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



"Now Miss Marie, she's savin' like, not through 

 meanness, but because she's got the good Irish heart 

 that boils against payin' rint, and she's hoardin' crown by 

 shillin' till she kin buy her a cabin and to say a pertaty 

 patch for a garden, somewhere out where it's green ! 

 Faith! but she'll do it too; she's a manager! Yez 

 had orter see the illigant boned turkey she made out o' 

 veal, stuck through with shrivelled black ground apples, 

 she called 'puffles' ! an glued it up foine wid jelly. 

 Sez I, 'They'll never know the difference,' but off she 

 goes and lets it out and tells the makin' uv it ter 

 every woman on the hill, that's all I hev agin her. 

 She's got a disease o' truth-telling when there's no need 

 that would anguish the saints o' Hiven theirselves ! 



"'I kin make better 'n naturaler-lookin' hats fer 

 nothin', here at home, than they keep in N' York,' she 

 says after looking out the back window a piece. 'And 

 who'll help yer?' says I, 'and where'll yer git the 

 posies and what all?' 



"'I bought some bolts o' ribbon to-day/ says she, 

 smilin'; 'and fer the rest, the garden, you, and I will 

 manage it together, if you'll lend me a shelf all to meself 

 in the cold closet whenever I need it ! ' Sure fer a mo- 

 ment I wuz oneasy, fer I thought a wild streak run 

 branchin' through all the boss's family!" 



