# Artichokes to Herbs

... and despite the fact that printed letters are less characteristic than written ones, I was speedily able to evolve a very correct impression of the person who had made the inscription. ... The capital W—always an eloquent letter—put her height at five feet and five inches, endowed her with slenderness and grace, and gave her hair that was red copper in the sunlight, warm brown eyes, a mouth that was like the folded petals of a deeply pink rose, and a fascinating dimple in her chin.
Artichokes to Herbs
by
Ralph Henry Barbour
AUTHOR OF “LADY LAUGHTER,” “KITTY OF THE ROSES,” ETC.
WANTED! BOY TO WORK IN GARDEN. APPLY WITHIN.
THAT was the legend that stared at me that May morning as I returned from the post-office. The ink was, I think, scarcely dry on the fresh new shingle, and, “It is probable,” I reflected, looking up and down the empty village street, “that I am the first to see it.” I studied it and pondered.
Some years before, I had amused myself with the science of determining character by handwriting. It was at a time when the thing was something of a fad, and I had attained to a degree of proficiency that had placed me in demand at social affairs. I had only to frown for a moment over the merest scrap of writing in order to describe with startling accuracy the character and even the outward appearance of the writer—providing only that I knew the person. And so this morning, tucking two magazines, a bundle of proof, and yesterday's New York Times under one elbow, I concentrated on that sign.
The fact that the letters had evidently been made with a paint-brush dipped in writing-ink, and that the ink had spread and trickled, might have dismayed a less adept student. But despite this handicap, and despite the fact that printed letters are less characteristic than written ones, I was speedily able to evolve a very correct impression of the person who had made the inscription.
I shall not weary you by following all the clever mental processes by which I arrived at my results, although, not to astound you too greatly, I will explain that the sex of the person was determined by noting that, while most of the letters conformed more or less closely to the accepted styles of printed characters, others, notably the N's and Y's, were traced in script. Consequently the person was a female, and, judging by a certain impetuosity discernible in the performance, young; I placed the age at twenty.
The lower hooks of the Y's told me that she was cheerful, energetic, generous, possibly quick-tempered, forgiving, fond of music, flowers, and out-of-doors, and had a passion for gardening. The capital W—always an eloquent letter—put her height at five feet and five inches, endowed her with slenderness and grace, and gave her hair that was red copper in the sunlight, warm brown eyes, a mouth that was like the folded petals of a deeply pink rose, and a fascinating dimple in her chin.
I think it was the shape of the N's—or it may have been the way in which the P's were carried below the line—that told me her voice was crisp and sweet and her laugh for all the world like the gurgle of water over golden pebbles. And, finally, it was the exclamation point which informed me that she was partial to blue and frequently appeared in a wide-brimmed straw hat which had a most annoying way of flopping over her face just when I—that is, when one didn't want it to.
It took less time to make these discoveries than it has taken to recount them, and long before I had arrived at the last of them I had made up my mind. Here, I told myself, was an opportunity not to be neglected. I was, for the time, out of employment, so to speak, and, while I had never helped in a garden, I could, I firmly believed, soon make myself quite invaluable to my employer. Besides, the sign made no request for skilled labor. At least, I could apply.
The small white gate swung creakingly between the greening lilac bushes, and I strode valiantly up the red brick walk. Beside me pink and white and yellow tulips still flamed. The breeze rustled the Times under my arm with an agitation which, I confess, threatened to communicate itself to me. I had never before applied for employment, and, had the distance between gate and front door been greater, I am convinced that I should have turned back. But I didn't. I pulled an old-fashioned crockery knob, and somewhere inside the little white house a bell jangle-jingled. Footsteps neared the door. I composed my features and propped my courage.
“Well?” It was an angular woman with wispy gray hair and steel-rimmed spectacles who opened the door and coldly interrogated me. As she spoke she wiped her knobby fingers on a faded blue apron. I smiled disarmingly.
“I would like to see Miss—er—the person who wants a boy.”
“Oh,” she said, and viewed me with distressing suspicion through the blurred lenses of those appalling spectacles. “Who'll I tell her wants to see her?”
“She—er—she wouldn't know my name,” I replied with one of my best bows. “Just tell her I came about the advertisement.”
“Humph!” she said. She drew aside as if granting me admittance, but in the next instant barred my way with a thin but capable arm. “That's all very well,” she went on, “but if you've got anything to sell, we don't want any, young man!”
“I am offering only my services, madam,” I replied, and slipped under the arm.
“Well, you can go in there.” She pointed doubtfully toward an open door, viewed me askance, and went muttering away. I found myself in twilight, alone with a marble-topped table and horsehair furniture and the family Bible. I wished for an instant that] I had not decided to seek employment. There was something about that room——
“You wanted to see me?”
She had entered while I was returning the accusing frown of the family Bible. In the hallowed twilight she failed for a moment to see me clearly, I think, for it was not until I had replied that the color stole into her cheeks.
“If you please,” I said. “I was passing and happened to see your sign. Miss—er——”
She refused my invitation. "Won't you sit down?” she asked just a trifle breathlessly. I seated myself fearfully on a slippery mound of horsehair. “You know of a boy who would perhaps like to come here?” she went on.
“Yes. Or, that is to say, possibly not exactly a boy. Not a boy in the generally accepted meaning. Of course the term boy is—er—relative. What I mean to say is that—er—” My words trailed away into silence. Applying for a position was much more difficult than I had realized. I smiled what I hoped was an easy and confident smile. I don't believe now that it was.
“Perhaps,” said she, “you had better tell me who he is. Probably I know him.” She seemed quite self-possessed now and easily attained the smile I had failed at. I had meant to work up to the revelation of the identity of my candidate by easy stages, to prepare her for it, but instead I found myself replying baldly:
“I am.”
She did not appear in the least surprised. “I'm afraid,” she continued, smiling politely, “you didn't read the sign very attentively. I advertised for a boy.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, throwing one knee nonchalantly across the other to show her that I was quite at ease, and narrowly escaping sliding to the floor; “but I can do anything that a boy can. In fact, as I was explaining, the term boy is capable of—er—a wide range of meaning. In spite of the fact that I am twenty-eight, I still look on myself as a boy. I——”
“Can you weed?”
“Oh, yes! That is, I see no reason why I shouldn't be able to. As I understand it, weeding consists of chopping the soil up with a hoe. I'm sure I could do that as well as a younger—boy.”
“The sort of weeding I want performed is done with the hands and not with the hoe. Have you ever worked in a garden?”
“I once assisted at the transplanting of a purple clematis. The lamentable fact that the clematis afterward died is not to be attributed to any lack of skill on my part. It was a most anemic-looking vine in the first place. Then I have occasionally helped my mother cut flowers. I usually held the basket.” I smiled hopefully.
She shook her head. “I'm afraid,” she said, “that you aren't sufficiently experienced.”
“But I am very quick to learn. You'd only have to show me what you wanted done——”
“I'd be afraid you would pull up the vegetables with the weeds,” she replied. “Besides”—and a ghost of a smile flitted across her face—“I don't believe the wages would be large enough to tempt you.”
“But you don't know,” I said eagerly. “I—I'd work for very little—a mere pittance; only enough to keep soul and body together. I think that is the correct expression.”
“I pay only fifteen cents an hour, and that, I fear——”
“But that is a dollar and twenty cents a day; eight—er—eight dollars and forty cents a week——”
“You're counting Sundays,” she interrupted. “I shouldn't want you Sundays.”
“Then seven-twenty a week, or twenty-eight dollars a month. Twenty-eight dollars a month is not so bad. I—I'll take it.”
But she shook her head again. “I don't think you'd do,” she said. “I'm very sorry.” She smiled quite kindly.
“You're making a great mistake,” I warned her. “I am positive that I have in me the making of a fine gardener. I have always been extremely fond of flowers and vegetables. I have a genuine passion for artichokes.”
“I don't raise artichokes,” she replied. She stood up and I was forced to conclude that the interview was at an end. I also arose—very carefully.
“Perhaps,” I ventured, “you wouldn't mind taking my name and address in case—er—you were unable to find any one else.” Maybe my very evident disappointment touched her. At all events she nodded. “William Hodge, lady, and I live——”
“Hodge?” she asked a trifle skeptically.
“Well, it's not my real name, but in all the books I have read the—the farmers are called William—or Bill—Hodge, and I thought——”
“It will do very well,” she said gravely. “And the address?”
“In care of Mrs. Saunders.”
“Then,” she said without a flicker of a lash, “you live quite close by, don't you?”
“Er—just across the fence. That would be an advantage, don't you think?”
“Possibly. It would make it easy for you to get to work early. Say by half-past six.”
“Half-pa— Oh, yes, certainly!”
“Then I will let you know if I should require you,” she said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I managed a very passable bow as I stepped through the door. “In regard to references——”
“Yes?” she asked, pausing in the act of closing the portal.
“I can show you an excellent letter of recommendation from my last employer.”
“The lady you helped to transplant the unfortunate clematis?”
“Oh, no, I was not—er—regularly employed on that occasion. My last place——”
“I shall be very glad to read your letter in case I—decide to employ you.”
The door closed slowly but irrevocably. On the way down the path I congratulated myself on the success with which I had predicted at least her outward appearance by my almost marvelous gift. I had been absolutely correct even to the dimple!
II
“Good morning. I trust the—er—cabbages are doing well?”
“The cabbages are not yet planted,” she replied, acknowledging my greeting with a sober inclination of her head. She wore blue, just as I had foretold she would, and that disagreeable but entirely becoming floppy hat did not wholly hide from me the knowledge that her brown eyes held in them a gleam that was not merely sunlight. She dusted her gloved hands lightly together and observed me gravely across the picket fence. “I wonder,” she said after a moment, “if you are aware that you are standing in Mrs. Saunders's rhubarb bed.”
I looked down. “Are those funny greeny-pinky knobs that I see rhubarb?” I asked interestedly. She nodded. I moved my feet cautiously. I had demolished only one. “It will probably recover,” I murmured.
She moved nearer and viewed it through the pickets.
“You have killed at least two pies and a quart of sauce,” she said severely.
“I am sorry about the pies and tickled to death about the sauce. You haven't filled that position yet?”
“Not yet. In fact, you are so far the only applicant. Mister——”
“Hodge,” I prompted. “Then I may still hope?”
She frowned. “Do you think that walking on the rhubarb recommends you for the position?”
“But how was I to know that Mrs. Saunders had rhubarb planted here? It is a very poor location for rhubarb, which demands a great deal of sun.” I examined her face anxiously. Evidently I had scored. I went on with added assurance: “Yes, a great deal of sun and moisture and—er—humus.”
She laughed. “What a lot you know!” she said. “Have you been studying?”
“A little,” I owned. “Mrs. Saunders loaned me a seed catalogue. I found it quite rich in information. Now, for instance, take beets—you see, I've only got as far as the B's—beets should be sown very early in the spring, in drills fifteen inches apart. Cover the seed to the depth of one inch and later thin out to—er—twelve inches—No, that's asparagus. Let me see now. Beets—beets——”
“I thin mine out to six inches apart.”
“Correct! Six inches is right. The soil should be deeply fertilized and well cultivated.”
“Admirable!” she applauded.
“It's really nothing,” I murmured modestly. “Ask me about anything as far as cabbage except broccoli. My book was singularly silent on the subject of broccoli. It informed me that the vegetable resembled the cauliflower, but was hardier, and as I haven't got as far as cauliflower yet——”
“But of course you are up on beans?”
“Yes, I flatter myself that I know beans, although I'll acknowledge that the subject is a confusing one. There are so many varieties, you see: dwarf and pole and—and English and green-podded and wax-podded—oh, a most confusing array of beans. I'd much rather you examined me on artichokes. I am thoroughly prepared on artichokes.”
“But I am not. I've never grown them.”
“'The artichoke,' I began glibly, 'is a most delicious vegetable, rapidly gaining in popularity. The heads are usually boiled, and the bottom of each scale eaten with salt and butter. In France they are frequently baked with a dressing of fresh butter, forming a most savory delicacy. The seeds should be sown in April or May, and——'”
“One hundred,” she interrupted.
“Thanks. And don't you think that my knowledge of vegetables as far as cabbage is enough to warrant a trial? Suppose you set me to weeding the A's and B's to-day. To-night I have no doubt I could progress as far as—as— What comes after cabbage?”
“The cabbage worm,” she replied.
“Cauliflower and carrot!” I said triumphantly. “And celery. To-morrow you'll find me half-way through the C's! What do you say?”
“Book-learning is all very well, sir, but practical knowledge is better. Suppose you look over there and tell me what you see growing.”
“Are they—are they all A's and B's?” I faltered.
“Four of them are. Which, Mister—Hodge, are the beans?”
“Well, of course, beans,” I muttered, “are difficult. But let me see.” I viewed the neat rows of green sprouts and leaves attentively. “The beans,” I decided finally, “are those things with the arrow-shaped leaves.”
“Right. And next to the beans?”
“Beets,” I hazarded.
“Lettuce, silly!”
“But I haven't got to lettuce yet. That wasn't fair!”
“Then tell me which the beets are.”
“I—I don't see any. Besides, beets grow underground. If you'll let me come over there and pull up some of those things I'll tell you in a minute. And, anyway, I don't see that the ability to distinguish a beet from a—a broccoli is a necessary attribute of the skilled weeder. Every man to his trade, say I. I'm a weeder, not a horticultural detective. It doesn't make a particle of difference to me whether I'm weeding beets or cabbages. Show me a weed and I know it instantly, and it were better for that weed that it had never been born!”
“We-ll,” she said, “perhaps—if I can find no one else——”
“And then there's that letter of recommendation,” I reminded. “When you've read that you won't hesitate a minute.”
“You have it with you?” she asked.
“I'm sorry to say I haven't. But it will take me only a few' minutes to—I mean I can soon find it.”
“Bring it to-morrow,” she said, “and I'll read it. But I won't promise more.”
“But you're not going now!” I protested. “Why, there's lots of work to be done yet. Just look at the lettuce. It needs cultivation badly. And the—those other things over there are simply choked with weeds! You haven't the heart to leave them like that!”
“I shall have to, I fear. It must be nearly eleven, isn't it?”
I lied a half-hour, but accomplished nothing. She disappeared into the house. The garden seemed strangely dull and uninteresting. I felt sorry for the poor, neglected little lettuces and peas and other things whose names I didn't know. The sunlight, which had been radiantly bright, paled perceptibly, and the little easterly breeze suddenly grew chill and unsympathetic. I, too, went indoors, to sit at the window of my room, which overlooked the next-door garden, and consume much tobacco and watch the gate between the lilacs. After a long time she passed through and went from sight up the quiet street. With a sigh I pulled a half-written sheet from the typewriter, introduced a clean one, and wrote myself a glowing letter of recommendation.
That evening I went back to the seed catalogue and got as far as chervil. Chervil was like broccoli—and, later, sea-kale—in as much as my authority was strangely silent as to all except the price. But I got on excellently with cabbage, cauliflower, and carrots.
That night I awoke to hear the rain pattering softly on the tin roof outside my south window. It was a pleasant sound, for it reminded me of the dear little lettuces and beets, which, I reflected sleepily, must be enjoying the shower, and the dear little lettuces and beets reminded me of my charming neighbor. And, thinking of her, I went to sleep again, and dreamed.
III
“The reference is most enthusiastic,” said she.
“But quite deserved,” I assured her.
“The only objection seems to be that it fails to indicate what the—the occupation was in which you were—let me see—'intelligent, industrious, and trustworthy.'”
“Oh, does it?” I leaned across the pickets to cast my eyes over the document she held. “Um, so it does. I—I must have forgotten that.”
“You must have,” she agreed gravely.
“But what does it matter? I have acknowledged my ignorance of gardening and of vegetables—that is, beyond chervil. I make no false pretenses, you see. But as the letter emphasizes the fact that I am apt and quick to learn, besides being sober and respectful and—and the other things you just read, it seems to me that you can't do better than to take me on trial.”
“If you had only showed me this yesterday!” she sighed.
“Why yesterday? Yesterday wasn't half the day to-day is.”
“But yesterday the position was still open. To-day——”
“You don't mean that you have hired some one?” I asked, dismayed.
She nodded. “And he hasn't any references at all!”
I observed her gloomily. “You'll be sorry,” I said finally. “He will probably be addicted to the use of liquor and go to sleep on the leeks and the—the cardoons. And he will probably pull up the beets in mistake for weeds. It is tempting Providence to employ any one without references.”
“I don't think he drinks,” she said doubtfully. “You see, he is only fourteen.”
“Then he will be much too frail for the work. I don't approve of child-labor.” After a moment of reflection I cheered up. “Anyway,” I said, “he won't last.”
“You're not very encouraging,” she charged. “And I had such hard work getting him, too.”
“When does he come?”
“He promised to be here this morning,” she faltered.
“There it is, you see!” I said triumphantly. “He is not to be depended on. I marvel at your trusting the precious lives of the poor little lettuces and beetses to one who——”
“Oh, there he is now!” she exclaimed. “Here I am, Arthur!”
“Arthur!” I muttered disagreeably. “I ask you if that is a proper name for a gardener. And—and what is the matter with his face?”
“Freckles,” she whispered hurriedly. “Not so loud or he will hear you! I must set him to work. Good—good morning.”
“It isn't a good morning,” I protested moodily. “It's a miserable morning. I shall stay here and watch him fall asleep in the onions. Besides, I don't believe he's fourteen. He doesn't look a day over twelve. He's a mere infant. I'd be ashamed to ask him to work out there in the hot sun. His death will be at your door and——”
But she only nodded brightly and hurried toward Arthur.
“You—you're coming back?” I asked anxiously. She paused and shook her head.
“No, I shall be very busy this morning. There's so much to be done!”
“But my examination!” I protested. “Cabbage! Cauliflower! Carrot! Corn Salad! Chicory!”
She only laughed.
For some time I leaned over the fence and watched them gloomily. Arthur displayed a knack with the hoe that no one would have suspected him of. I determined to purchase a hoe and practise with it in the seclusion of my room. Neither of them took any notice of me and after a while I left them haughtily. Departing, I discovered with satisfaction that several more rhubarb pies and much sauce had been nipped in the bud.
I did quite a deal of work that morning, hoping that the clatter of my typewriter would annoy them. It didn't seem to. Together they finished with the peas and hand-weeded the beets and something else which, by referring to my catalogue—it was entertainingly illustrated—I concluded to be carrots. After that Arthur proceeded alone, and the steady chop-chop of his hoe kept time to the vicious click of my machine.
The next morning when I took up my position among the rhubarb-tips I found Arthur alone in the garden. He was planting some small, spindly, discouraged-looking things which he had kidnapped from a box with a trowel. I watched him in silence for a while and then asked what he was doing. He said he was transplanting tomatoes. It was just like him to call them something I hadn't got to! I viewed him sarcastically, just to let him know that he wasn't fooling me a bit, and made a mental note to study up on tomatoes at once, no matter if they were out of turn.
Arthur was not a conversationalist and my suggestive remarks anent the weather and the appearance of the beans—I was sure about the beans—elicited only grins or muttered words. I was very glad when the Gardener-in-Chief emerged from the white door in the house. It seemed to me that she remained an unnecessarily long time with Arthur. I think she tried to make me believe she didn't see me, but I was not deceived. When she did finally come across the strawberry bed and say “Good morning,” I felt wounded and let her know it.
“Good morning,” I replied stiffly. “'German, Welschkorn; Spanish, Maize. Culture: Select a warm soil if possible, especially for the earlier varieties, which should not be planted before the tenth of May. Successive plantings should be made every fortnight until July. Plant in——'”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked.
“Corn. If you want to hear me on celery first, all right. For that matter,” I added plaintively, “we've skipped cabbage and cauliflower and cardoon and——”
“What's cardoon?” she asked.
“Search me. It's in the catalogue, though. You blanch it by tying the leaves together and then you cook the midribs, whatever those are, just like asparagus.”
“It seems to me, Mister——”
“Hodge. Bill Hodge, ma'am, at your service.”
“—that you are far more interested in the cooking of vegetables than the growing of them,” she said with a laugh.
I refused to be placated. “Are those tomatoes he's planting?” I asked. She nodded. “He said they were, but he looks untruthful. You'd better be quite certain. I wouldn't trust him not to substitute thistles or—or dandelions.”
“Don't you love dandelions?” she exclaimed.
“I haven't got to them yet,” I replied cautiously. “I'm only as far as cucumber.”
“You're dreadfully silly,” she said. “I wish—I wish you'd tell me something.”
“I will if it's not beyond page 19.”
“It hasn't anything to do with vegetables. What are you doing here?”
“Doing here? Why, helping you garden, of course!”
“I mean in Lindenville. How did you happen to come here and—and why?”
“Oh, that? Well, it was an accident. I started from New York with a friend in hi car. We were going to a place called Samoset. It's somewhere on the coast. We broke down three times. The third time was in front of the post-office here. By then my patience was exhausted. 'You may,' I told him, 'ultimately reach Samoset, but I don't think you will. Or if you do, it will be with this car on your back. I shall leave you here.' And I did.”
“How funny,” she murmured. “Had you ever been here before?”
“Never. It didn't matter. I only wanted peace and quiet and I thought I'd find them here. And I have. At least, quiet.”
“And—and what do you do up there?” She nodded toward my window.
“Write,” I said distastefully.
“Oh! Are you—an author?”
“I suppose so. At least, I write books.”
“And you are writing one now?” she demanded eagerly.
“I am trying to in the intervals of learning horticulture or agriculture or whatever it is. I don't have much time. If I were properly encouraged in my studies——”
“It must be splendid to write things! What sort of things do you do?”
“Novels,” I said dejectedly.
“I don't think I've ever read any,” she replied thoughtfully.
“They're not frowned on as they used to be.”
“I mean any of yours.”
“Oh! That doesn't surprise me. I'm constantly meeting persons who haven't. In fact I almost never meet any one who has. I sometimes wonder who buys them—and what for.”
“I shall, though.”
“Thanks. I'll send for one.”
“Oh, I didn't mean——”
“Neither do I. We'll trade: a novel for a mess of peas.”
“But the peas won't be ready for a long time. They're quite late this year.”
“They wouldn't be if they were properly looked after.”
“Then perhaps I'd better go and—look after them,” she murmured.
“If you had a good assistant——”
“With references?”
“With references, he could ripen those peas in no time. Have you noticed this picket?”
“No. What about it?”
“It's loose.”
“Oh.” She examined it interestedly. “So it is. It only needs a nail, though.”
“If it came off there'd be space for one to crawl through,” I said musingly.
“I must go and look after Arthur,” she said hurriedly.
IV
“For spring use, sow in September, and cover lightly with litter in November. One ounce will sow one hundred feet of drill. Ten to twelve pounds will sow an acre.”
“Fancy an acre of spinach,” murmured Joan.
“I'd rather fancy an acre of artichoke,” I replied.
“I believe,” she remarked a bit contemptuously, “you'd rather eat artichokes than—than——”
“Onions? I should. Even considered esthetically——”
“I didn't say onions.”
“You looked them.”
“How does one 'look onions'? No, don't try to explain, please. It's much too warm. And if we're going to pick the peas——”
“We are—presently. Let us rest first. My examination in Rhubarb, Salsify, and Spinach has quite exhausted me.”
Joan sniffed. “You've been very slow with your lessons of late. Here it is the middle of June and you're not through yet.”
“But what I have learned I've learned thoroughly. It is all here.” I tapped my forehead. “Artichokes, Asparagus, Cucumber—er—Leek——”
“Especially artichoke! And even yet you can't tell radishes from turnips.”
“I can by the taste,” I defended. “When growing, and in the immature stage, they are confusingly similar in appearance and almost any one might mistake one for t'other. You must acknowledge, however, that it took me scarcely a minute yesterday to say which were eggplants and which were cabbages!”
We were sitting under the apple-tree. There was only one apple-tree. The others were pear and peach. They are quite different. An empty basket reposed between us, and at a little distance Arthur Junior swayed lazily in the warm breeze. I had named him Arthur Junior because he looked very much like the original Arthur. We had had a great deal of fun making Arthur Junior. Joan's father's wardrobe had supplied everything but the stuffing and the brilliant scarlet four-in-hand tie. The tie was a happy thought of mine, and I have always maintained that the fact that Joan's young corn was unmolested by crow's was entirely due to the tie. No crow with an ounce of caution would have approached within fifty yards of that tie.
The original Arthur was not with us this morning. He came now only in the late afternoon, for his almost uncanny ability with a hoe had long since discouraged the weeds.
“I finished your book,” said Joan presently. “And I——”
“I know; you liked it immensely. Thank you.”
“But I didn't,” said Joan calmly. “I thought it rather disagreeable and—and unnecessary.”
“Bless you!”
“I don't see why you need to—to write such horrid, pessimistic things. You're not that way yourself.”
“You can't tell. Who knows whether the real me is the frivolous, light-hearted person the world sees or the dejected, blighted soul reflected in my novels? Perhaps I am a dual personality. That would be rather interesting, wouldn't it?”
“Don't be absurd. Is the story you are writing now like the other?”
“Much more so,” I replied. “It is one long streak of blue-black gloom from first chapter to last. It is a strange fact that the happier I feel the more hopelessly I can write.”
“Is it nearly done?”
“Far from it. I've had to rewrite several chapters of late. I found that my heroine was becoming quite bright and contented. That's the worst of heroines. You have to watch them all the time. You simply can't trust them. Now a hero you can depend on to go right through the story as you start him.”
“But didn't you say that you had promised to have it done by the first of July?”
“Oh, yes, but publishers never expect authors to keep promises. I fancy they'd resent it horribly if I delivered the manuscript to them by the first. At least it would quite destroy their confidence in me.”
“Then you are going to stay here into the summer?” asked Joan uninterestedly.
“Perhaps through it. Perhaps forever. I dislike moving about.”
“I've noticed that,” she murmured. I glanced at her sharply. She was seemingly absorbed in Arthur Junior.
“Besides,” I added, “there's your garden. Heaven knows what would happen to it if I deserted you in the middle of the season. Without my advice and assistance——”
“Papa,” said Joan, “asked me the other day where I had met you.”
“And you told him?”
“I said you had called. I suppose he thought some one had introduced you. I dare say he would be terribly alarmed if he knew that—that——”
“I had introduced myself?”
“—that you never had been. Why did you do that? You didn't have to. Mrs. Saunders would have introduced us if you'd asked her.”
“I acted on impulse, Joan. You may not have observed it, perhaps, but I am frightfully impulsive. Besides, my way was much more romantic; and there is so little romance in life that we should take all we can find. Of course, if you insist on an introduction in proper style, it isn't too late even now. Mrs. Saunders is washing blankets or something over there, and I need only call to her. Or, for that matter, there's Arthur.”
“It's too late now,” said Joan. “There's only one thing to be done.”
“And that?” I asked anxiously.
“Pick peas,” said Joan.
V
“Ten pounds will sow an acre in drills and three pounds will sow an acre broadcast,” I ended. “There! That's the last! Unless,” I added, “you think I ought to go into Sweet, Pot, and Medicinal Herbs, or Farm and Field Grasses?”
“Those would be advanced courses, wouldn't they?” asked Joan doubtfully. “No, I don't think you need to learn any more. Stop at Turnip.”
I sighed relievedly. The weather was warm, even for early July, and the prospect of further study was not appealing. It was afternoon, golden, languorous. From the direction of the garden, around the corner of the little white house, came the tick-tick-tick of Arthur's busy hoe. Through the broad leaves of the—the Aristolochia sipho the sunlight stole in dazzling rays. The village street was quiet and deserted. The house was also quiet, but not deserted. Somewhere in its cool, dim depths Nancy, she of the steel-rimmed spectacles, was lurking. From far away came the faint screech of a locomotive. It reminded me disagreeably of something.
“In a way,” I said presently, “I feel that you have kept me here under false pretenses, Joan.” She looked a question. “You didn't tell me,” I went on, “that you'd be going off the middle of this month.”
“I don't think you asked me, sir.”
“Possibly not. It necessitates a violent upheaval, however, in my placid existence. I—I have always hated to break camp.”
“Need my departure alter your plans?” asked Joan.
“It must,” I replied emphatically. “I couldn't bear to stay here and meet daily the accusing looks of the corn and onions. How you have the heart to leave them I don't see. If you are, in a measure, betraying my trust, Joan, imagine what the vegetables must think of your defection! You are morally responsible for their welfare. You can't deny it. You are——”
“Arthur—” she began.
“Even Arthur,” I interrupted sternly, “can't take your place with them. At the best Arthur is only a foster-parent. Who, I ask you, is to eat that early corn?”
“You, if you stay.”
“I shall not stay.”
“Then Mrs. Saunders and Arthur and the Williamses.”
“Good Lord! To think that I have slaved and toiled over that corn to tickle the palate of Arthur!”
“And, anyhow,” said Joan, “the corn won't be really fit to eat before the first of August, and we'll be back soon after that.”
“Much may happen to your garden in three weeks,” I said gloomily. “The onions may have rust, and one of those awful fungus diseases will probably attack the tomatoes. And I'm almost certain I saw a cutworm looking covetously at the cucumbers this morning. Of course I know what you thought. You thought I would stay on here and pluck the pretty little Nile-green cabbage-worms from their leafy, dew-spangled nooks each morning while you were away.”
“I thought nothing of the sort,” replied Joan calmly.
“And chase cucumber beetles out of the blossoms and scrunch them to death. I refuse to do it. When I contemplate the innocent lives I have destroyed this summer, my soul is filled with loathing.”
“Have you finished your book yet?” asked Joan unfeelingly.
“I have not. It may never be finished. I told you that I had to be perfectly happy in order to write my novels. I am not perfectly happy. Your treachery has made me most miserable.”
“I'm very sorry,” said Joan brightly, “Are you really going away?”
“I am. Which means that I must pack a steamer trunk and a bag. And that means that I shall arrive at—at my destination minus 'most everything I possess. I never pack up and move without leaving half my things behind. With me moving is a most costly proceeding. Besides, I'm not at all sure I shall approve of this place.”
“What place?” asked Joan.
“Well, whatever it is. You haven't told me yet. I hope, though, it is not fashionable.”
“Do you mean where papa and I are going?” asked Joan in some surprise.
“Naturally.”
“Oh!” Joan looked blank. “But—but—you mustn't! I mean—papa——”
“I don't see that papa need bother his dear old head about it,” I answered.
“But—I don't think you ought to,” murmured Joan. “It would look—funny, wouldn't it?”
“Then it is fashionable!”
“It isn't, really! It's just—just a queer, out-of-the-way little place called Squaw Point. You wouldn't like it, I know.”
“Possibly not, but duty is duty, Joan. And my duty is to look after you. Your treatment of the poor little vegetables shows that you are not to be trusted. You observe that I say nothing of your treatment of me, which——”
“Are you quite in earnest?” Joan turned and viewed me very gravely.
“Terribly in earnest,” I answered just as soberly.
Joan's brown eyes dropped and Joan's red lips parted. “Do you mind—very much, Joan?” I asked softly.
“If you go—to Squaw Point?” she asked tremulously.
“If I love you, Joan?”
She didn't answer at once. A black velvet bee buzzed indignantly through the vine, took in the situation, and trailed apologetically off again. Finally:
“Do you?” asked Joan doubtfully.
“Very, very much,” I said.
“More than—artichokes?”
“More than everything from artichokes to herbs! More than——”
“Sure?” asked Joan, blushing and smiling.
“Oh, so very sure, Joan!” I whispered. A chair was pushed back. A board squeaked. “Very, very certain, Joan!”
“Mrs. Saunders—” murmured Joan.
“Let her!” I said superbly.
And just a moment afterward, when the sun was an hour lower, “Joan,” I asked, “when did you begin to—to care, dear?”
Joan looked thoughtful and creased her forehead prettily. “I think,” she said finally, “it was about the time we picked the first lettuce.”
“Really? It began with me long before that! Why. I was lost the very first day I walked on the rhubarb!”
“I think,” said Joan presently, “it would be nice to go and tell them about—us.”
“Them?”
“The corn and the cucumbers and—and everything, I mean.”
“And Arthur?”
“And Arthur,” she agreed with a little laugh.
“Do you know,” I said as we went toward the garden hand in hand, “I fancy they've known it quite a while?”
Joan smiled secretively at Arthur; or perhaps at Arthur Junior; it was difficult to tell them apart at a little distance.
“I am quite sure they have,” she answered softly, “because—because I told them!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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