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Updated: June 27, 2025
It was the right thing to do." "How did you know about it, anyway? Weren't you taking flowers there yourself?" "No, ma'am." "What were you doing?" "I know; I saw him digging there one day." "O, keep still, Dorothy," Roger remonstrated. "You might as well tell us about it." "It isn't anything. I did look in one day to ask if they'd like some sweetpeas, but I found the Ethels were ahead of me.
One of those crisp, erect, golden-white, fresh, fragrant sweetpeas. I think it is the slenderest, sweetest, neatest, trimmest flower in the world, so delicately set on its stem, and yet so straight, so independent." "T. A., you say such dear things to me!" No; they had not been breakfasting together for years.
Nasturtium, bare and green of skin, showed open mouths of ruddy gold; scarlet runners, tough as whipcord, kindled here and there a fire of gleaming sparks; convolvuli opened their heart-shaped leaves, and with thousands of little bells rang a silent peal of exquisite colours; sweetpeas, like swarms of settling butterflies, folded tawny or rosy wings, ready to be borne yet farther away by the first breeze.
The bitterness of the Anemones, the sentimentality of the Violets, the schoolgirlishness of the Snowdrops, the domesticity of the Sweetpeas all this tickles the palate of the adult, but does not belong to the place of the normal child.
"I've had more than enough," groaned Ethel Brown. "One summer I stayed a fortnight with Grandmother Emerson and I picked the sweetpeas for her every morning. She was very particular about having them picked because they blossom better if they're picked down every day." "It must have taken you an awfully long time; she always has rows and rows of them," said Helen.
"The moon is up, the moon is up! The larks begin to fly, And, like a drowsy buttercup, Dark Phoebus skims the sky, The elephant with cheerful voice, Sings blithely on the spray; The bats and beetles all rejoice, Then let me, too, be gay." Roger's interest in gardening had extended far beyond fertilizers and sweetpeas.
She knew quite well why he had come, and though she also knew that he would fail, she loved him too much to snub him or to stare in virtuous indignation. "Why have you come?" she asked gravely, "and why have you brought me so many flowers?" "My garden is full of them," he answered. "Sweetpeas need picking down. And, generally speaking, flowers are plentiful in July."
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