“JOHN,” said little Amy, “did you ever send a valentine to anybody?”
John, the gardener, looked rather sheepish, and dug his spade into the
geranium bed. “Well, miss,” he said, “I _have_ done such things when I
were a lad. Most lads do, I suppose, miss.”
Oh, that sly old John! He knew perfectly well that he had a valentine
in his pocket at that moment, a great crimson heart, in a lace-trimmed
envelope, directed to Susan, the pretty housemaid. But there was no
need of saying anything about that to little miss, he thought.
“If you were not so _very_ old, John,” continued Amy, looking seriously
at him, “I should ask you to send me one, because my Papa is away, and
I have no brothers, and I don’t know any lads, as you call them. But I
suppose you are altogether _too_ old, aren’t you, John?”
John straightened his broad shoulders and looked down rather comically
at the tiny mite at his feet. “Why, Miss Amy,” he said, “whatever does
make you think I be so _very_ old? Your Papa is a good bit older than I
be, miss.”
“My Papa!” cried Amy, opening her eyes very wide. “Why, John! you told
me yourself that you were a hundred years old. And I _know_ my Papa
isn’t _nearly_ so old as that!”
The gardener laughed. “More shame to me, miss,” he said, “for telling
you what wasn’t true. Sure it’s only in fun I was, Miss Amy, dear,
for I’m not forty years old yet, let alone a hundred. But I hear Mary
calling you to your dinner; so run up to the house now, missy, and
don’t think too much of what old John says to you.”
Away ran little Amy, and John, left alone with his geraniums, indulged
in a quiet but hearty laugh.
“To think of that!” he said to himself. “A hundred years old! Sure I
must take care what I say to that young one. But the pretty lass shall
have her valentine, that she shall, and as pretty a one as I can make!”
and John dug his spade into the ground with right good-will.
(It occurs to me that you children who live in the North may say
here, “What was he doing to the geranium-bed in February?” but when I
tell you that little Amy lives in Virginia, you will not think it so
strange.)
Saint Valentine’s Day was bright and sunny, and Amy was up early,
flying about the house like a bird, and running every five minutes to
the front door “’Cause there _might_ be a valentine, Mamma!”
Presently she spied the postman coming up the gravel walk, and out she
danced to meet him. Oh! such a pile of letters as he took out of his
leather bag.
“Miss Amy Russell?” said the postman.
“Oh!” cried Amy, “she’s me! I mean me’s her! I mean—oh! oh! one, two,
three, four, five! Oh, thank you, Mr. Postman! You’re the best postman
in the whole world!” And in she danced again, to show her treasures to
Mamma. Gold lace, silver arrows, flaming hearts! oh, how beautiful they
were! But suddenly—ting! tingle! _ding!_ a tremendous peal at the front
door-bell.
Down went the valentines in Mamma’s lap, and off flew the excited child
again. But this time, when she opened the door, no sound escaped her
lips. Her feelings were too deep for utterance.
There on the doorstep lay a valentine, but _such_ a valentine! A large
flat basket entirely filled with white carnations, with a border
of scarlet geraniums, and in the middle a huge heart of deep red
carnations, with the words “My Valentine” written under it in violets.
Amy sat down on the doorstep, with clasped hands and wide-open eyes
and mouth. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, uttering little
inarticulate shrieks of delight.
And John the gardener, peeping round the corner of the house, chuckled
silently, and squeezed the hand of Susan, the pretty housemaid, who
happened, curiously enough, to be standing very near him.
“Humph!” said John the gardener, “I haven’t forgotten how to make
valentines, if I _be_ a hundred years old!”