December, 1914 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



1 53 



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Roseberry Gardens is not a historic account of an actual nursery, although I 

 dare say it is typical of other days and many of the older nurseries, when the 

 nursery business was more leisurely and perhaps more scholarly than to-day. To one who has ever been in touch with 

 the growing of plants there is a poetry and charm in the life of the place which no other business possesses. And if the reader 

 finds a little of the sheer happiness there is in having to do with the exquisite young life, the story will have been worth while. 



(Continued from page 122, November Number) 



MISS HEWSON,' I says, 'belike 

 ye're not aware that 'tis not of 

 hersilf yer mother is think- 

 in', but of children an' grand- 

 children and of makin' the place beautiful 

 for thim. 'Tis yersilf and yer children 

 afther you that'll see the full beauty of 

 that rhodydendron.' 



"At that she quieted down a bit an' 

 let the old lady buy two or three plants. 

 But 'twas not long before she began 

 again wit' her 'Now mother!' She 

 spint but fifty dollars, did the old lady. 

 She'd have spent two hundred and fifty 

 if the daughter'd let her alone! " 



'"Oh, Miss Hewson,' I says to myself, 

 'indeed you'd do better if you'd as 

 much since as yer mother. And you'd 

 give a lot of that same State of Pinnsyl- 

 vania if you was as young and good 

 lookin' as the gur-rl we have in the office ! ' 



" 'Tis a pity," said Michael shaking 

 his head, "for a gur-rl to grow up like 

 that. But her father's a State Sinator, 

 and what can you expect!" 



Chapter V 



On the May morning when we first 

 met Michael O'Connor (when the grumb- 

 ling teamster had at last gone down 

 the road), he returned to the office and 

 sat down beside the big desk where the 

 young secretary was established. 



"Thank Hiv'en that's done!" said 

 Michael fervently. " 'Tis like a nightmare 

 sittin' on the chist of the Roseberry Gar- 

 dens till Tompkins is off in the mornin'." 



The young secretary laughed and 

 pulled a bunch of lists from a drawer. 



"Tell me about these, Michael." 



They were orders to be given to the 

 different foremen. Michael drew out a 

 case and put on large steel spectacles. 

 She held up one for his scrutiny. 



"Pete?" inquiringly. He shook his 

 head. "He's not sinse enough for that. 

 Give that to O'Mallev. Here!" He 



took the lists in his hand. "This, and 

 this, and this — that'll keep him busy." 



He sorted the orders carefully and 

 slowly according to the intelligence re- 

 quired and convenience in digging. 



"We must send a man to-morrow to 

 do planting at the Babies' Home," said 

 Roberta. "Who's the one to send?" 



Michael puckered his lips a moment 

 then his face lightened. 



"Brian," he said, "sind Brian. 'Tis 

 a foine lad he is and knows the plants 

 well, but he can't keep from the dhrink. 

 'Tis a pity a man would wish to take 

 leave of his sinses for the sake of puttin' 

 things down his t'roat! Sind him! 

 'Tis only milk and infants' food he'll 

 get and not a dhrink wit'in ten miles! 

 'Tis just the place for him." 



The girl clipped the lists together in ac- 

 cordance with Michael's suggestions, ini- 

 tialed them, pushed the order-book aside. 



Michael picked up his felt hat, started 

 to go, then suddenly turned. 



"I was forgettin'!" he exclaimed. "I 

 know ye had to go in airly yesterday 

 about that shipment, but 'twas a pity! 

 Mister Herford, Mr. Maurice J. Herford, 

 was here?" 



"Was he?" asked Roberta carelessly. 



"He was that! An' so dissap'inted 

 at not gettin' a sight of yez, he c'u'd buy 

 nothin' — nothin' at all, at all!" 



Roberta's eyes laughed. "Too bad!" 

 she said. 



"Yes, so I thought. It wint to my 

 h'arrt to see my little man so disap- 

 p'inted-like, so I tuck him out to the 

 houses, an' I showed him the Magnolia 

 pavijlora you was forcin', an' I gave him 

 wan branch. I said I knew — " he 

 smiled beamingly — "you was forcing 

 them for him, knowin' his intrust in 

 magnolias." 



"Michael!" exclaimed the girl, "how 

 could you! " 



"How c'u'd I not?" he demanded. 

 "There was the foinest little man that 

 comes out to Roseberry Gardens. How 



c'u'd I let him go home so forlornsome 

 and lookin' like there was nothin' in 

 life at all, at all? Don't ye give a flower 

 to a b'y or girl in the street that looks 

 hungry for it? An' if so little a thing 

 w'u'd make a man happy, 'tis not 

 yerself, Miss Davenant, that w'u'd have 

 the h'arrt to refuse!" 



Roberta laughed helplessly. 



Michael was already disappearing. 

 Left alone in the dingy office, a look of 

 vexation clouded the girl's face, then she 

 laughed. One couldn't get really cross 

 with Michael. She looked at the clock. 



"Eight," she said It would be an 

 hour and a quarter before the coachman 

 would bring Mr. Horace Worthington 

 and the mail. She took her hat from 

 the nail and went out into the gay May 

 morning. 



On one side of the office was a wide 

 plowed field, in which the men were 

 preparing to plant corn, to give the land 

 its sabbatical year. Perched on the 

 fence was a solemn row of blackbirds, 

 waiting for the sowing to begin — all with 

 their eyes on the furrows. 



But she went the other way, past the 

 rows and rows of dogwood whose petals 

 were beginning to open. The red flower- 

 ing ones looked as if a flock of scarlet 

 butterflies had just lit on their dark 

 branches. Through the arched gatewav 

 n the hemlock hedge and along the 

 broad grass path she went. Down the 

 path she had caught sight of Mr. Trom- 

 mel, basket on arm, bending over the 

 gorgeous azaleas. 



"Good morning, Uncle Rudolph!" 



"Good morning!" he responded. 

 "You can help me a bit, I think. What 

 iss the color?" 



He clipped off a blossom and held it 

 up. She looked at it critically. 



"The petals are rose-color and the 

 buds garnet. I think I should say just 

 that. You can't make a mixture of the 

 colors. They aren't mixed; they're 

 distinct." 



