12 



THE GARDEN- MAGAZINE 



February, 1913 



be in early March — not February. It's 

 colder there than here, you know, and the 

 season's a bit later. I would have on an 

 old dress and big gloves and she would 

 let me cut the easiest branches. 



"First the dead wood must come out. 

 Then the weak shoots — I used to cut out 

 those. 'To him that hath shall be given,' 

 she used to quote as she pointed out the 

 big, strong shoots that must be left and 

 showed me the little ones that I could 

 cut. ' It's gardening, and Scripture, 

 and I believe it's finance also.' 

 But the more artistic business such 

 as we saw Uncle Hermann doing 

 — that she always did herself. My 

 work was to stand by and hold the 

 tacks and hammer and the little 

 strips of cloth. Afterwards, I 

 would pull away the cut branches, 

 rake them into a pile and then we'd 

 burn them together — a glorious 

 bonfire we'd have. I can smell it 

 yet — the scent of the burning wood 

 in the clean March air. The air 

 has come off the snowbanks, and 

 you know it. But it would be 

 warm sunshine, quite warm by our 

 old house, even when there's snow 

 up under the big hemlocks " 



"Then?" I questioned, for Clarky 

 had stopped. 



"Then we'd sit down on the 

 doorstep a bit and rest after work- 

 ing and look off at the hills. That 

 ■ is, my mother would look off at the 

 hills, but I would poke in the 

 brown grass beside us to find the 

 hard little points of crocuses coming 

 up. My mother used "to say they 

 were wrong in changing the calen- 

 dar — it was then the year began, 

 not January." 



i "But what did you see? " I begged. 

 I- "From the doorstep? Oh, we 

 looked over the tops of orchard 

 trees, then rough, broken pasture I began 

 land; then over the meadows and river 

 to a little town. We could see the roofs 

 and the smoke rising ; hills that were 

 thickly wooded behind it; then the blue 

 of distant ranges beyond and beyond! 

 There would be hardly a sign of life 

 in the trees now, but just a little later 

 there's the faintest haze over them, first 

 at the edge of the pasture land. You 

 think it's the atmosphere, but it isn't, 

 it's the coming alive. Oh, and then you 

 watch or you miss something! The 

 branches are dark and distinct — it's only 

 in the very tips, where the twigs are so fine 

 you can't see them, that there's life. 

 There's a moment when the tops of big 

 oaks in the distance have an aureole of 

 pale gold; there's just one moment when 

 the black birch has the color of an amethyst. 



"Did you never see it?" she demanded. 



"Never," I said. "I'm not a poet, 

 Clarky, besides I've only been to the 

 country in summers — July and August — 

 and then to hotels." 



Clarky was silent a moment, then 



"You've something to live for, Miss 

 Caroline," she said quietly, "I'd get well, 

 if I were you, just for that." 



Chapter II 



After this day, we watched Uncle Her- 

 mann — that is, I watched him. After 

 he had the roses done to his taste, he began 

 lifting with a fork something that was on 

 the narrow little side-beds and making piles 



to sit up for a half-hour a day in the big chair by the window 



of brown stuff in the walks. Then he would 

 get down on his knees on the bit of old 

 carpet he had brought with him to lay on 

 the chilly flagging of the walk, and poke 

 in the beds. 



"He has a lot of young things coming up 

 there, I'm sure," said Clarky. "He can't 

 dig with a spade — he might hurt them — 

 he's got some sort of a funny little old 

 weeding fork, and he's loosening the soil." 



"How does he know where they are?" 



"Oh, he'll know where everything is; 

 you always do." 



"What do you think he has there?" 

 I asked. 



"It's his bulbs he's looking for — winter 

 aconite, snowdrops, scilla, they'll be show- 

 ing — perhaps the tips of daffodils. Then 

 he'll want to see if anything's been hurt. 

 Hollyhocks might have rotted, you know. 

 Besides, he might find a pansy in bloom." 



"He might give it to me if he does," I 

 grumbled. But Uncle Herman had no 

 idea how interesting he was. 



Toward the end of March we had day 



after day of rain. I sat by the window my 

 allotted time, looked down at the yards 

 among which Uncle Hermann's golden- 

 candlestick arrangement of roses shone 

 resplendent, and I did some thinking. 

 Then came the sunshine. 

 "Uncle Herman will be gardening to-day, 

 surely," said my nurse. 



"Clarky," I replied, "I don't want to 

 watch Uncle Hermann, I want to talk. Have 

 you any sporting blood in you? Are 

 you good for something reckless?" 

 Clarky laid down the thick 

 steamer-rug — she was placing the 

 pillows for me in the chair. "Very 

 reckless?" she asked. 



"Very. Listen. There's a little 

 old house up in your country that 

 eblongs to me. My grandmother 

 lived in it years and years ago. 

 | . There's no one in it now, I believe. 

 I was there once when I was a 

 little girl, but all I remember is an 

 apple-tree that you could climb, 

 some yellow lilies along by the stone 

 wall, a pasture that had a brook in 

 it — there are hills, I know. It's 

 in Enderby — that's farther north 

 than you were — New Hampshire. 

 Will you go up there with me, just 

 you and I? Will you go next week? 

 I want to see the trees come alive ! 

 I want to poke in a garden-bed 

 like Uncle Hermann! I want to see 

 those dear little things come up 

 and loosen the soil for them! I 

 want to make a gorgeous seven- 

 golden -candlestick thing out of a 

 climbing rose! But there mayn't 

 be one there — still we can plant 

 it. Will you come?" 



Clarky looked at me a moment. 

 "You haven't walked yet," she 

 began slowly. 



"Only to the big chair," I said, 

 ' ' but I'm going to — besides, I could 

 lie down on a rug or a mattress and 

 poke in a garden-bed beautifully." 



Clarky considered, scanning me closely. 

 "It's time for your egg-nog," she said at 

 last by way of answer, and went to fetch it. 

 It was a full half-hour that Clarky kept 

 me hung up in the air waiting for the egg- 

 nog and the answer. 

 At last she came. 

 "Well?" I asked, "Will you come?" 

 "We'll have to find out if it's possible, 

 I mean, if the place is possible," she began. 

 "I've been telephoning. Mrs. Pritchard 

 says she will stay with you for a few days, 



while I " 



"Aunt Cassandra!" I exclaimed aghast, 

 "but go on, Clarky, a few days won't 



kill me " 



"Mrs. Pritchard will take care of you 

 for a few days," repeated my nurse, "and, 

 if you're willing, I'll go up to the little 

 place in New Hampshire and find out if 

 the thing's practicable." 

 "Good for you, Clarky!" 

 "You must not count on it too much, 

 Miss Caroline," she said. "The roof of 



