168 
T II E GARDEN M A G A Z I N E 
April, 1915 
mmm 
Luther,. like most reformers, wass nar- 
row. If one agreed not with him he 
should go to Hell? A Switzer thinks 
for himself!” he said with pride. 
The summer went on quietly and 
happily. Paul Fielding came and went, 
note-book in hand, but scant help did 
he get from Michael. 
“’Tis never a gardener he’ll make, 
that lad. He looks straight at a rho- 
dydendron, a foine album grandiflorum : 
“’Tis a foine snowball!’” says he. 
“It is indeed,” says I, “the foinest 
snowball ye’d see in a week’s journey. 
Ye’d best put it down in your book. 
And Reilly says that whin he saw 
Washy’s potato patch down by the 
‘End Entirely,’ he says: ‘What is it,’ 
says he. ‘It’s privet,’ says Reilly. ‘In- 
deed,’ says he and he puts it down in his 
book. I hear that it’s writing a play 
he is! ’Tis well, indeed; a play ’ll suit 
him better than work!” 
But Paul Fielding had another talent 
besides his garden enthusiasm, which 
was more or less intermittent. He had a 
good saddle-horse, and many a morning 
he would be at the Davenant house 
before the good ladies were astir and 
before Roberta was off for her early 
session with old Trommel, bringing 
with him Major Pomerane for a chaperon 
and backer. The Major was a distant 
connection of his. 
Roberta never could resist a horse, 
and Paul Fielding was bright enough to 
discover it. The three would be off in 
the charm of the early morning and come 
back for eight o’clock breakfast in the 
Davenant garden, where Miss Adelaide 
would join them, feeling rather wicked 
but none the less enjoying it greatly. 
“You’ll never accomplish it, my 
boy,” said Major Pomerane as the two 
went off together. 
“You might have done something a 
year ago, but she’s got her head so full 
of those old fossils at the Roseberry 
Gardens, you’ll never dislodge her. 
Why man alive, no one ever was dis- 
lodged from Roseberry Gardens in all 
its days! One just lives until he fairly 
totters about the place, and then he dies. 
I believe a typewriter girl got out, but 
she never was of it — never was infected. 
Roberta’s got it and got it bad. 
“Besides, what’s the gray-haired fel- 
low’s name that keeps coming all the 
time!” 
“Herford,” said Paul Fielding, dis- 
gustedly. 
“That’s it, Maurice Herford. He 
could buy and sell you and Paradise 
Park dozens of times over. He’s an- 
other old dodderer over gardens. You 
may have the pleasure of seeing him 
and Roberta drive by in a handsome 
auto when vou’re afoot.” 
Chapter XII 
“Would ye like to larn to bud, Miss 
Davenant?” inquired Michael, one early 
August morning. 
“’Tis evident ye know all that’s 
necessary about bloomin’ and blos- 
somin,’ but I mean wid a buddin’ knife 
and a budstick and Michael O’Connor 
and over by the Farm? I’m buddin’ 
over there wid Pat McCune. He’s 
tyin’ for me, but I can keep ahead of the 
two of ye’s.” 
“Indeed I would!” said Roberta. 
“There’s that f’r you,” he handed her 
an ivory-handled, thin bladed clasp- 
knife, and then a small bundle of twigs. 
“You’re to be assistant an’ the assistant 
must carry the equipment. ” 
They went along the narrow, shaded 
road, the back road from the office. On 
each side past the narrow fringe of 
young over arching trees the nursery 
plantation stretched. Along the fence 
was a tangle of trumpet-vine, open wide- 
throated, flame-colored bells. There were 
rows and rows of the white baccharis, 
fluffy as seeding dandelion turned shrub, 
and the tall feathery coral of tamarisk 
bushes, smoke-trees in a purplish mist, 
echoing perfectly the faint haze of the 
August morning. 
“I’m after thinkin’,” commented 
Michael complacently, “that th’ Al- 
mighty must have a high opinion of 
folks like you and me and Mr. Worth- 
ington and Mr. Trommel and Mr. 
Maurice J. Herford. He makes so many 
things to be enj’yed exclusively by .us. 
The way most people call f’r plants 
(until ye teach thim better) makes me 
fair disgusted! Ye’d think the Al- 
mighty made no hedge but the Cali- 
fornia privet, and no shrubs at all, at 
all, but Hydrangea paniculata, and 
Spirea Van Houttei and Berberis Thun- 
bergii, p’raps a variegated weigela, an’ 
maybe the common althea— that oi 
w’u’dn’t put in a Williamsburg back- 
yard! That there wasn’t a vine in the 
worrld, but a Hall’s honeysuckle and 
niver a rose but a Crimson Rambler. 
’Tis plain, I say, that he values you and 
me and Mr. Maurice J. Herford! 
“Does annyone ask for that?” he 
demanded, pointing to a beautifully 
shaped shrub, with smooth-rounded 
foliage, like that of a miniature orange 
tree and small clustered berries of 
wonderful blue, between peacock blue 
and turquoise. ’Tis Symplocus cratce- 
goides, but niver a person calls for it, 
except Maurice J. Herford!” 
They were now within sight of the 
fruit plantation and brilliant in the 
landscape showed the red flannel shirt 
of Pat McCune, as vivid as Gari- 
baldi’s. 
“Yonder’s the signal,” said Michael, 
“ 'tis here the thrain stops.” 
“Now thin,” said Michael as he 
settled himself on a funny little bench a 
foot high and a foot and a half long, 
mounted on thick wooden runners like 
an old-fashioned home-made sled, and 
pointed to a companion one for Ro- 
berta. 
“Now thin, ye’ve larnt from Trommel 
how to tie after a graft?” 
“Yes,” said Roberta. 
“Thin take this raffia and tie after 
me. Not too tight or ye’ll strangle, 
but tight enough; and watch how I bud! 
Tie every other wan, thin ye can keep up 
wid me an leave enough f’r Pat McCune.” 
Michael’s fingers worked rapidly and 
deftly, but his mind went back in 
reminiscence. 
“A year ago to-day I was buddin’ 
also, not here but over yonder. And 
who sh’u’d I see standin’ beside me but 
Mr. Maurice Herford. 
“‘Michael, says he to me, ‘will ye 
come abroad wit me, to thravel and see 
the gardens in England and France,’ 
says he. 
“‘How can I,’ says I, Took at my 
buddin’ just begun.’ 
“‘Whin will ye be t’rough?’ says he. 
“ ‘The ninth day of September,’ says I. 
“‘And the ninth day of September, 
in the morning, comes Maurice J. 
Herford — I was half-way down the 
last row. 
“‘Ar’re ye through buddin’, Michael?’ 
says he, ‘’Tis the ninth day of Septem- 
ber.’” 
“‘I’ll be whin I finish this row,’ says I. 
He stands there an’ says nothin’ 
till the last tree is done. 
“Thin he says, ‘’Tis the ninth day of 
September and ’tis Chusday. The Furst 
Bismark sails on Thursday. Now will 
ye go?” 
“And you didn’t go, Michael?” 
“I cu’n’t. What w’u’d the place do 
widout me. Beside, what w’u’d. I do 
away from it? I’d be like a duck on a 
mountain top.” 
Meanwhile Roberta had been watch- 
ing. “Let me do some now,” she 
said. 
“Very well, and I’ll tie f’r you. Mind 
ye don’t cut too deep; just t’rough the 
bark and careful wid the eyes. A clean 
smooth cut; slip it under the bark w r id 
just the eye stickin’ out and ’twill niver 
know what’s happened to it!” 
Roberta did the operation fairly 
deftly for a beginner and presently she 
and Michael were hitching down the 
row, sideways, crab-fashion, Roberta 
ahead, Michael next, superintending 
and tying, moving along on their funny 
little benches. 
(To be continued) 
