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I want you to write to John write straight to him, don't put it in your letter to Father and tell him that you have given us leave to have some of the seedlings out of the frames, and that he's to dig us up a good big clump of daffodils out of the shrubbery and we'll divide them fairly, for Harry is the Honestest Root-gatherer that ever came over to us.
Harry got a lot of things for our Paradise in this way; indeed, he would not have got much otherwise, except wild flowers; and, as he said, "How can I be your Honest Root-gatherer if I mayn't gather anything up by the roots?" I can't help laughing sometimes to think of the morning when he left off being our Honest Root-gatherer. He did look so funny, and so like Chris.
It was no use our looking out flowers, except common ones, such as Harry would be allowed to get bits of out of the big garden to plant in our little gardens, when he became our Honest Root-gatherer. I looked at the Cowslips again. I am very fond of them, and so, they say, are nightingales; which is, perhaps, why that nightingale we know lives in Mary's Meadow, for it is full of cowslips.
"That was a much nicer name than John Parkinson," said Harry. "And he was the honestest Root-gatherer that ever brought foreign flowers into the Earthly Paradise." "Then I love him!" said Harry. One sometimes thinks it is very easy to be good, and then there comes something which makes it very hard. I liked being a Little Mother to the others, and almost enjoyed giving way to them.
And if there had been a clean place left in any part of his clothes well away from the ground, that spot must have been soiled by a huge and very dirty sack, under the weight of which his poor little shoulders were bent nearly to his knees. "What are you doing, Honest Root-gatherer?" I asked; "are you turning yourself into a hump-backed dwarf?"
Harry is Honest Root-gatherer, and he is Francis le Vean. If I'd not been away I should have had two names." "You can easily have two names," said I. "We'll call the Dwarf Thomas Brown." Chris shook his big head. "No, no. That wasn't his name; I know it wasn't. It's only stuff. I want another name out of the old book." I dared not tell him that the Dwarf was not in the old book.
"I'm not honest, and I'm not a Root-gatherer just now," said Harry, when he had got breath after setting down his load. He spoke shyly and a little surlily, like Chris when he is in mischief. "Harry, what's that?" "It's a sack I borrowed from Michael. It won't hurt it, it's had mangel-wurzels in already." "What have you got in it now? It looks dreadfully heavy."
"The Long Walk's the place to steal from if I wasn't an honest Root-gatherer," said Harry. John had lovely poppies there that summer.
When I said, "Wouldn't it be a good new game to have an Earthly Paradise in our gardens, and to have a King's Apothecary and Herbarist to gather things and make medicine of them, and an Honest Root-gatherer to divide the polyanthus plants and the bulbs when we take them up, and divide them fairly, and a Weeding Woman to work and make things tidy, and a Queen in a blue dress, and Saxon for the Dwarf" the others set up such a shout of approbation that Father sent James to inquire if we imagined that he was going to allow his house to be turned into a bear-garden.
"I'll be the Honestest Root-gatherer," said Harry. "I'll take up Dandelion roots to the very bottom, and sell them to the King's Apothecary to make Dandelion tea of." "That's a good idea of yours, Harry," said Arthur. "I shall be John Parkinson " "My name is Francis le Vean," said Harry. "King's Apothecary and Herbarist," continued Arthur, disdaining the interruption.
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