In the Beginning 7 
and we might have gone on planting the common annuals and 
extending our nine beds to an indefinite number, had not the 
following year been one of great drought. I am not good at 
remembering figures, but the toil of that summer burnt in two 
numbers on my mind. For just thirty-five evenings Adam 
and I dragged fifty buckets of water from the well to irrigate 
our widely separated plantations. The rose bed, which was 
several hundred feet from the well, required nine buckets of 
water to give each struggler just a sip, on which we thought, 
considering the season and our heroic efforts, that out of 
common gratitude, the roses ought to have contrived to get 
along. But they did not even try. There is no codperative 
spirit in flowers. They will not accommodate themselves to 
your necessity, and be thankful for half loaves when there is 
no bread. The only side-light of appreciation we got for our 
pains came from our old Irish cook, who remarked to me one 
day that ‘‘we made a pretty picture on the lawn,” which was a 
great concession, considering she had to launder my draggled 
white frills and Adam’s duck trousers. I tried to get what 
comfort I could from the esthetic side of our never-ending 
labor, and when a trifle fagged, I would suggest to Adam, 
“that we group ourselves for Marcella’s benefit.” 
Vainly did we empty the well on the parched earth; thrice 
did we plant some beds, nothing succeeded. At the end of the 
summer we came across the most tragical little growths. In 
clearing up a nasturtium bed, where aster seeds had also been 
planted, I discovered a single wee anomalous plant about 
three inches high, bearing a morsel of bloom less than half an 
inch across; and this rarity proved to be an aster. I also 
found morning glories with only two leaves, proudly bearing 
a miniature terminal flower on its four-inch vine. Poppies 
were mere threads of growth, with quarter inch flowers. 
Everything had peaked and pined. 
