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Updated: June 10, 2025
It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. "I did it," said Mary. "Why, I thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed. "I don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. So I made a place for them. I don't even know what they are."
However, I wish Mr. Malcomson, that you, who do undherstand gardenin', would thry this fellow, because I want to know whether he's an imposthor or not." "Weel," replied Malcomson, "I dinna care if I do. We'll soon find that out. Come wi' me and Maisther Lanigan here, and we'll see what you ken about the sceentific profession."
So we jist keep tellin' him we've been gardenin' an' he never suspects, an' he can't see us from where he's ploughin'!" "An' we'll be finished in another day if he doesn't find out!" cried Auntie Flora exultingly.
"Oh, I'm that glad you've come," cried Janet, shaking her fifteen-year-old ringlets from her big hat, "you've given us an excuse for a rest. We were jist doin' a bit of gardenin'. Weren't we, Flora?" she asked.
Auntie Flora's eyes twinkled, "Oh, yes, yes, jist gardenin'!" she declared, and the three Aunties burst out laughing, and Auntie Janet spread out her earth soiled hands with a comical gesture. "We've been diggin' the potaties!" she whispered, her eyes dancing. "But if Gavie caught us at it, we'd catch it!
In the fust place, I ain't got no talent at gardenin'. The on'y time I tried it was w'en I planted a toolip in a flower-pot, an' w'en I dug it up to see 'ow it was a-gittin on a cove told me I'd planted it upside down.
"I told you to ask that one," replied the Moor sharply. "Can you do gardenin', you feller?" asked Peter. "Oui, oui un peu," replied the youth, who happened to be French, but understood English. "None ob your wee-wees an' poo-poos to me. Can't you speak English?" "Oui, yes, I gardin ver' leetle." "Jus' so. Das de man for us, massa, if you won't hab de oder. I likes de look ob 'im.
'So it was My hair was a bit turned, an' nowadays there's no chance for old men. Ask any one you like. Why, there's Sam Lang couldn't even get a job at gardenin' 'cause his hair was a bit turned. It was him as told me what to do. "Dye your hair, Jack," he says; "it's what I've had to myself," he says. "They won't have old men nowadays, at no price."
Say, if she'd come poutin' around, or said right out that she didn't see why I couldn't make myself useful now and then, I'd have announced flat that gardenin' was way out of my line. But when she snickers well, you know how it is. "Yessum! Me," says I. "It ain't any art, is it, just stirrin' up the ground with a spade? And how do you know, Vee, but what I'm the grandest little digger ever was?
"Jest got in a line of gardenin' tools, Bogle." "Town's goin' to be het up for certain," said Mr. Bogle, waggling his ancient head. "Calc'late to have all the tools I need." "Who's figgerin' on runnin' for legislature, Marvin?" "Guess Will Pratt's puttin' up Pazzy Cox ag'in." Pratt was postmaster and local party leader. "Anybody calc'latin' to run ag'in' him, Marvin? Any opposition appearin'?"
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