--■'■ "" iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii i iiii ii iiiinnnnwmww iiiiii i ni i ii i iii ii Bii i twMMm ii 



May. 1 i> 1 3 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



255 



under the lilac bush, just where the wall 

 began and he went on preaching con- 

 tentedly, not minding in the least the 

 change in his audience. She brought Herb 

 Robert, hard little polypody ferns, tiny 

 white violets and wood violets, baby hem- 

 locks and maples. I planted these, stick- 

 ing them into the chinks in the wall that 

 we had stuffed with soil; they grew as if 

 they had always been there. I thought it 

 the loveliest kind of gardening. 



We brought the wild gardening into the 

 house also: violets, and fringed polygola, 

 star-flower and anemones, and one and 

 another of the lovely little things I didn't 

 know. Clarky didn't pick them but 

 took them up, brought them home on top 

 of the pail of muck and we put them in 

 little pots in our living-room. Not ortho- 

 dox flowerpots, we hadn't any, but small 

 wooden boxes and any little china or 

 brass thing that would hold water and 

 have room for the flower with a bit of 

 earth beside. 



The loveliest of all was the bloodroot; 

 we had a round, pale green, Japanese 

 dish filled with that on our table. Just 

 at breakfast, the sunlight, coming through 

 our small, old-fashioned window-panes, 

 touched the table; then I would move the 

 little dish of bloodroot into it. One after 

 one the dazzling white petals would open 

 as we watched. I thought I had never 

 seen anything so lovely. 



When the flowers had passed, I set out 

 the little plants in Clarky's garden. Much 

 kinder it seemed than to pick and throw 

 them away. We felt that for all our pleas- 

 ure from them we had yet done them but 

 slight injury. 



Chapter IX 



THHE creaking of a wagon wakened me. 

 ■*■ I sat up to listen sure I must be mis- 

 taken; no one ever came up our hill. 

 The fox-sparrows in the roses were tril- 

 ling their adorable little trill, three sweet 

 notes, then the trill much higher. Usually 

 it was they that wakened us. Sometimes 

 there would be a dozen in the roses below 

 the house. A thrush there was too, over in 

 the ravine and another that answered him. 



But the creaking of the wagon was un- 

 mistakable. It was coming nearer. Pres- 

 ently it came in sight. I saw it easily 

 enough for the old road had been close to 

 the house: it was a lumber- wagon, with up- 

 right stakes around the platform: two horses 

 a.nd a man driving — a man in corduroys 

 with a canvas coat like Clarky's and a bat- 

 tered felt hat on the back of his head. The 

 wagon passed, and from the sound went up 

 toward the hill and the pines. 



We were at our early supper when it 

 passed again. It was not yet dusk; Mrs. 

 Tarbox had just come in with a plate of hot 

 biscuit; she set it down suddenly on the 

 table and rushed to the window. 



"My land!" she said. "Steve McLeod 

 with a load of wood ! Fifteenth of May an' 

 he's just begun haulin'! " She dropped into 

 a chair aghast. 



I didn't perceive the wickedness of going 

 down hill with a load of wood of a May 

 evening, I was only aware that it was a 

 man on my hill; long sought, ardently 

 desired. He might be useful. 



"Do you think I could get him to dig 

 my garden?" I asked eagerly. 



Mrs. Tarbox eyed me severely. "My 

 Land!" she repeated. "'Twouldn't do 

 at all! That's Steve McLeod, Caroline!" 



"Couldn't he dig my garden?" I asked 

 again. 



"I don't like you should have anything 

 to do with him. Steve McLeod ain't all he 

 should be," said she ominously. 



"None of us are," I responded, "but what 

 has he done?" 



"Why," she said judicially, puckering her 

 forehead, "I don't know as he's done any 

 thin' special, it's what he ain't done. 

 He' ain't like other folks, And he's shif- 

 less, terrible shif'less. 



"He's always the las' one in town to get 

 his seeds in. He's always doin' things at 

 the wrong time — jes' as you see now — 

 he's hauling wood and he'd ought to be 

 plowin', an' when he'd ought to been 

 haulin' wood, when they was sleddin' 

 he was doin suthin' else, Heaven knows 

 what! He's settin' up when he ought to 

 be to bed and to bed when he'd ought to 

 be up and doin'. Mis' Sile Holman who 

 lives jes down the road from Steve says he 

 sets and reads dretful late — sometimes it's 

 eleven, sometimes twelve o'clock 'fore he 

 puts his light out. It really made her 

 poorly worriting about it an' settin up to 

 see how late it would be when Steve did put 

 his light out. He ain't got good sense. 

 He put his potatoes up the hill where the 

 ground wa'n't good and when Sile Holman 

 asked him why he did sech a fool thing he 

 gave a dretful fool reason." 



"What was it," I asked, interested. 



"He said he liked the look of the moun- 

 tain from there!" 



"'What's that got to do with potaters,' 

 says Sile. 



" 'Lots,' says he, 'I have to spend so much 

 time hoein' the durn things I want suthin' 

 to look at 'sides the potater patch while 

 I'm a-doin' it.' 



"Folks think he ain't really responsible. 

 He's got a brother though, that's right 

 smart — Alan McLeod. He's a big doctor 

 down to Boston." 



"I ain't sayin' Steve's bad, but he's 

 foolish and he ain't like other folks. Still, 

 I s'pose he might stop an' dig up a place for 

 you, he's jes' that shif'less. If he was doin' 

 right he'd be gettin' his plowin done an' 

 have no time for nothin'. 



"You'll ask him?" I said. 



"Cert'nly I will, but he ain't much to 

 have 'round." 



I was drinking my early coffee the next 

 morning when I saw Stephen McLeod's 

 "team" as Mrs. Tarbox called it, coming 

 slowly up the hill. (Clarky gave me my 

 little cup of black coffee as early as six now, 

 if I was awake — our schedule had been 

 shoved forward — for I woke so much earlier 



and to square things had a long afternoon 

 nap, like a baby.) 



Just as the wagon passed Mrs. Tarbox 

 must have seen it too for I heard hasty 

 steps across the kitchen floor, then the slam 

 of the back door, then — 



"Steve!" 



"Who-a s-s-sh!" was the response. 

 "Morning, Mrs. Tarbox." 



Then a colloquy in which Mrs. Tarbox 's 

 strident tones alternated with a man's 

 voice that was singularly low and musical 

 as much of a relief as the ripple of the 

 water after a motor boat has let off its 

 whistle. 



Presently she came to my room. "He 

 says he'd jes' lieves, Caroline, an' he wants 

 to speak to you about it." 



Clarky helped me on with my mocassins 

 and put a long cloak over my wrapper, a 

 scarf around my head and I went out to the 

 doorstep. 



The man who was standing by his wagon 

 came toward me, pulling off a dilapidated 

 felt hat and baring a thick mass of bright 

 brown hair. He was tall, rather loosely 

 built, younger than I had thought; I 

 couldn't see his mouth, the ragged beard 

 hid it; his eyes were the eyes of a visionary. 

 He reminded me a little of the "Apple-seed 

 Johnny" of legend and history. 



" You are Mr. McLeod ? " I asked. 



"Yes, I am Stephen McLeod. Mrs. 

 Tarbox says you wish to make a garden. 

 Can I help you? I should like to?" 



He spoke hesitatingly, a little shyly, but 

 the voice was singularly pleasant. 



"I can't get any one to dig it," I said. 



"That I can do for you," he answered, 

 "where had you planned to put it?" I 

 went with him to the little place back of 

 the woodshed where evidently had been 

 some planting before. He looked at it 

 dubiously. 



"Don't think it's very sightly," he said, 

 " there's lots better garden-spots than this 

 up here. You've got the finest hill in all 

 Enderby." He went over by the apple trees, 

 and stood looking at the house. 



"There's the place," he said, pointing 

 just below the roses. "You've got the 

 mountain to look at, 'stead of the side of 

 the wood-shed and you'll see the trees 

 beyond. When you've been weeding 

 and stand up to straighten your back, 

 you want something to look at," he ex- 

 plained. 



I thought of the potato field and smiled. 

 "It is a good place," I said, "I can look 

 down on it from my windows." 



He was looking at the ground. "Have 

 to plow it," he said, sod's too tough for 

 digging. I'll bring the plow to-morrow — 

 't won't take long, but I'll have to have it. 



He did. It wasn't easy plowing. There 

 was one root of an elm that he kept 

 striking. I liked to see the horses strain 

 at the collars and go plunging over the 

 rough land, pulling the plow through the 

 stubborn soil. I liked to see the sods roll 

 over and the thick, black earth turn up. 

 (To be continued) 



