The sun shone. The polished green blades of the grass glittered. The
gravel walk and the nasturtium bed together made a broad orange blaze.
Specks like glass sparkled in the hot grey earth. On the grey flagstone
the red poppy you picked yesterday was a black thread, a purple stain.
She was happy sitting on the grass, drawing the fine, sharp blades
between her fingers, sniffing the smell of the mignonette that tingled
like sweet pepper, opening and shutting the yellow mouths of the
snap-dragon.
The garden flowers stood still, straight up in the grey earth. They
were as tall as you were. You could look at them a long time without
being tired.
The garden flowers were not like the animals. The cat Sarah bumped her
sleek head under your chin; you could feel her purr throbbing under her
ribs and crackling in her throat. The white rabbit pushed out his nose
to you and drew it in again, quivering, and breathed his sweet breath
into your mouth.
The garden flowers wouldn't let you love them. They stood still in
their beauty, quiet, arrogant, reproachful. They put you in the wrong.
When you stroked them they shook and swayed from you; when you held
them tight their heads dropped, their backs broke, they shrivelled up
in your hands. All the flowers in the garden were Mamma's; they were
sacred and holy.
You loved best the flowers that you stooped down to look at and the
flowers that were not Mamma's: the small crumpled poppy by the edge of
the field, and the ears of the wild rye that ran up your sleeve and
tickled you, and the speedwell, striped like the blue eyes of Meta, the
wax doll.
When you smelt mignonette you thought of Mamma.
It was her birthday. Mark had given her a little sumach tree in a red
pot. They took it out of the pot and dug a hole by the front door steps
outside the pantry window and planted it there.
Papa came out on to the steps and watched them.
"I suppose," he said, "you think it'll _grow_?"
Mamma never turned to look at him. She smiled because it was her
birthday. She said, "Of course it'll grow."
She spread out its roots and pressed it down and padded up the earth
about it with her hands. It held out its tiny branches, stiffly, like a
toy tree, standing no higher than the mignonette. Papa looked at Mamma
and Mark, busy and happy with their heads together, taking no notice of
him. He laughed out of his big beard and went back into the house
suddenly and slammed the door. You knew that he disliked the sumach
tree and that he was angry with Mark for giving it to Mamma.
When you smelt mignonette you thought of Mamma and Mark and the sumach
tree, and Papa standing on the steps, and the queer laugh that came out
of his beard.
When it rained you were naughty and unhappy because you couldn't go out
of doors. Then Mamma stood at the window and looked into the front
garden. She smiled at the rain. She said, "It will be good for my
sumach tree."
Every day you went out on to the steps to see if the sumach tree had
grown.