MAY’S GARDEN.
The chicks throve. Day by day their legs grew strong, their yellow
bodies round and full, and their calls for food more clamorous. As the
snow melted, and the sun made warm spots on the earth, they began to
run from the cottage-door, and poke and scratch about with their bills.
But they always came back to the basket to sleep; and Thekla prepared
their food, and watched over them as well as any old hen could have
done.
[Illustration: “Round his head she put a wreath of long sprays. It was
great fun.”]
She found time for this in the midst of other work. There was much
to do, after a whole month’s neglect: the house needed cleaning and
setting to rights, and the yarn for the new suit must be finished at
once. The busy wheel hummed and whirred more noisily than ever, in the
afternoons, now growing long and bright; and Max, his cold quite cured,
sat by, with his carving-tools, as busy as she. Altogether, the time
flew rapidly; and the cheerfulness left by April’s visit still lay upon
the cottage when the evening came for May to appear.
There was no languor or dulness this time. The hearth was cleanly
swept, and the door left ajar that the guest might see the light as
she walked through the Forest. But so quiet was her coming, that her
hand was on the latch before they knew it, and both of them jumped
at the sound of her knock. As she came in, they saw that a lamb was
trotting beside her, held by a band of young spring grasses, curiously
woven together.
“This is my present,” she said.
Judge if the children danced for joy. A lamb! a real lamb! all for
their own! Never was any thing like it. They patted the pretty
creature, and lavished caresses upon him, till finally the chicks woke
up at the stir, peeped, called, and at last flew out of their baskets
to see what was going on; and one of them fluttered up on to the lamb’s
back, where he sat like a yellow buttercup on a bank of snow. May gazed
upon the scene with a calm smile.
“Now,” she said at last, “if you’re quite done, I’ll venture to remind
you that my time’s important. Business first, and pleasure after.
Suppose you put off kissing that creature again until I am gone.”
Thus admonished, the children reluctantly left the lamb, tied by his
grassy chain to the dresser, and came back to the fire. So far they had
been almost too busy to look at May; but now they did. At first Thekla
thought her the sweetest thing she had ever seen. Her hair curled like
the tendrils of a wild grape; no shell was ever lined with lovelier
pink than the bloom of her cheek. But, as she gazed, Thekla became
aware of an expression which contradicted the tender lines of the
face,--a certain teasing look, a frostiness about the blue eyes, which
baffled and surprised her. The same quality appeared in her words, and
even in the soft voice which uttered them. Fair and winsome as she
was, Thekla did not venture close, as she had done to April, but clung
tightly to Max’s hand while she listened.
“I reminded you,” proceeded May, “because I have really too much to
do to allow of my wasting time. Very few Months have the work put
upon them that I have. June pretends to be busy; but, after all, most
of it is finishing off what I began. And as for April, she is a sad,
idle girl, and does almost nothing. Why, I came upon her just now,”
said May, in an aggrieved voice; “and there she was having a game of
play with that good-for-nothing Jack Frost, tickling him with her warm
fingers and screaming with laughter; and of course I shall be expected
to make up for all she leaves incomplete. There’s the great wash of
the year, for instance. It fairly belongs to her; but she never _will_
do it. And I’ve all the plants to wake too, which is a hard job, for
they are the sleepiest little things imaginable; and the gardens to
tidy, and all. So you won’t wonder that I can’t spare many minutes for
telling stories.
“Did you ever have a garden?” she went on.
“Oh, yes!” replied Thekla. “Max makes me one every summer.”
“It’s very pleasant,” said May; “but when your flower-beds are as
big as all outdoors, as mine are, there’s a great deal of care and
responsibility in them, I assure you. I like it, however. I enjoy
sowing millions of seeds, and setting little roots to straggle, and
pruning and clipping. Every flower that ever grew is in my list, and
I manage to see it in bloom somewhere or other. If I were subject to
rose-cold, I should go crazy; for smelling is my delight. Ah! you
should see my rose-beds in Damascus. But the nicest garden I ever made
was a very tiny one which was planted to please some little children.
Shall I tell you about it?”
“Oh, yes, do!” cried Max.
“It was in a cold country, a long way from here, which I never visit
till pretty late in the season. You have to cross the sea to get to it.
Once only red people lived there. They dwelt in wigwams, and didn’t
care much for me, except that I melted the snow which kept them from
their hunting-grounds. But one year, on arriving I found something new.
A ship lay on the shore, and people with white faces were pitching
tents and building huts as if they meant to stay. Among them were some
children.
“Of these, two particularly took my fancy, two little sisters, fair as
lilies. One was almost a baby. When they sat at the door of the tent,
I used to steal up unseen, and pat their cheeks with my hand. They did
not know it was I; but they liked it.
“The men were busy in cutting trees for the houses. The women had to
cook and wash and sew. There was hard work in plenty for all. No one
had time to amuse the little ones, and the idea occurred to me of
making them a garden.”
“That was good of you,” said Thekla, her heart warming to this Month
who was so kind to little children.
“Ah!” replied May, coldly, “you think so?” Thekla felt snubbed, and she
said no more.
“The place I chose,” said May, resuming her story, “was a good way
off in the woods, a hidden nook, just such as I love. The trees stood
thickly about it, but they opened and left a spot where the sunshine
could come in and warm the earth. There for many days I worked with
busy fingers, clearing away dead leaves and roots, and covering the
ground with a moss carpet thick and soft, into which tiny coral points
were stuck to please baby eyes. In the very middle I set a snow-white
mushroom, glistening and white as an ivory umbrella; and all about it I
planted and wreathed the sweetest flower I know,--a flower whose cups
are as pink as a rose, and hold a fragrance so rare, that if a perfumer
could collect it in his bottles it would be worth its weight in gold.
When all was done, it was the daintiest little garden ever seen; and
now it only remained to entice the babies thither to enjoy it.
“This was easy. I selected a warm day, that they might not catch cold;
and, as they sat at the door of the tent, I crept up and sat beside
them. They did not see me, but I whispered in their ears,--a low,
coaxing whisper which I only use for babies.
“‘In the woods,’ I said, ‘the pretty, pretty woods, are such beautiful
things! Red flowers and blue flowers, for you to play with; and
squirrels with frisky tails, and birds which sing all the time. Oh,
such fun as it is!’
“The baby laughed out, and showed her teeth white as milk; but it was
only at the song in my voice, the words she did not understand. The
elder one listened; and, as I went on, her small feet began to twitch
and dance, as if they could no longer keep still.
“‘Come, Sissy,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and take a walk over yonder where
it is so green. Sister’ll find you some flowers to play with.’
“Baby was all ready for that, or any thing else. To her, ‘Sister’ was
quite a grown-up person, because she could talk plain, and wore a funny
little russet petticoat like their mother’s. So side by side the little
lambs trotted away. There was nobody on the watch to see them go, and
soon the dark wood hid them from view. I held ‘Sister’s’ other hand,
and gently guided to the right path.
“It wasn’t much of a path. There were tangled mosses and rough boughs
to catch the little feet; but I held fast, and did not let them trip.
And by and by, when we came to a smoother place, I took from my bosom
a butterfly I had brought on purpose, and set it flying before their
eyes. There was no danger of tears or fright after that.
“Such a jolly race as then began! I had ordered the butterfly to fly
slowly, so the clutching fingers seemed always just about to grasp it.
Such funny, tripping steps, such peals of glee! Never was a merrier
hunt! The hunt led them a long way. Once Baby’s fingers almost closed
on the painted wings, but still the butterfly flew before, and still
the children ran behind; when all at once a third baby appeared, to
share the chase--another child, a tiny Indian boy. No dress hid his
small, dark limbs. A little bow was in his hand, a quiver on his back;
and as he jumped from behind a bush, and joined in the frolic, it was
like a brown twig flying after two snow-white blossoms blown from the
tree.
“The little ones were not frightened. They took kindly to a new
playmate, whatever his color might be. ‘Sister’ made friends at once,
while Baby stared at him with her big blue eyes. On they trotted
together; and by and by the nimble boy made a clutch which secured the
butterfly, and the brown head and the fair ones met together over the
prize.
“‘Pitty! pitty!’ cried Baby, and she patted the little Indian with her
soft hand. Then the same soft fingers made a grab at the purple wings.
Ah me! one of them came off in her grasp. My poor butterfly! The first
of the season!
“The children were sorry. Children are always sorry,” said May, tartly,
“after the mischief is done; but I don’t see that it makes them any
more careful next time. In two minutes the dead insect was forgotten by
everybody but me. I picked him up, you may be sure; and that evening
made him a little grave under a partridge-berry vine.
“It was droll to hear the three babies talk together. They had no words
in common; but they had fingers to point with, comical little heads
to nod and wag, and eyes to explain the meaning of each gesture. So
they got on wonderfully. The brown baby’s name was Al-a-gon-qua, but
‘Sister’ called him Ally.
“‘My name Ruth,’ she said, ‘her name Baby,’ speaking very loud to make
it easier to understand.
“Ally tried to say it, but couldn’t get nearer than ‘Tute.’ This was
stupid; but he was a clever baby, for all that. He could take straight
aim with his bow, and bring down a robin or a quail ten yards off. He
knew how to find the water-springs. He could climb a tree, and swim
like a jolly little polliwog. Fearless as a squirrel, he sprang about
the trackless wilderness without pathway or guide, and needed neither,
and knew no fear.
“All the time they talked, the little ones were getting deeper and
deeper into the wood. They did not know where they were going; but I
knew, and guided every step.
“And now they reached the garden. The sun lay warm and bright on the
moss; and, at sight of the fairy cups of pink and snow and of the ivory
mushroom, they laughed for joy.
“‘Pitty! pitty!’ cried Baby again, using her sole little word; and,
with one consent, all three sat down together in the midst of the
flowers. How I did enjoy it! The long, cold voyage at sea, the bleak
spring, the crowded home in the tents where all were too busy to notice
them, were forgotten as they sat there in my garden; and they buzzed
like bees in the sunshine. It was the sweetest sight to see!
“Such games as they played! Baby pulled flowers till her lap was full.
She tossed them about. She put heaps of them on her head, and screamed
with laughter as they rained down into her eyes. Ruth meantime was
turning the little Indian into a big nosegay. She stuck leaves all
over him. His quiver she filled with blossoms. Round his head she put
a wreath of long sprays. It was great fun. Luckily, the small russet
petticoat had a pocket, and in it was a big ship’s-biscuit; so, when
dinner-time came, they ate that, and were not hungry. As long as the
sun shone, the play lasted; and he stayed late that night, as if to
enjoy the pretty show as long as possible. But at last the long shadows
had begun to creep over the place, and I to feel embarrassed as to how
to get my babies home again, when the bark of a dog was heard close at
hand. Then I was easy; for I knew somebody was coming to find them.
“Sure enough, before the dusk had crept over the happy group in
the sun, they came,--two men with anxious faces, and guns on their
shoulders, and a pale, frightened woman. That was the Mother. They
could hardly believe what they saw. Bears and savages had been in their
thoughts all the way. Never once had they dreamed that the little ones
were playing in _my_ garden.
“How the woman ran when she saw the children! How she caught up and
kissed Baby, and hugged little Ruth in her arms! ‘O children!’ she
cried, as soon as she could speak, ‘how came you here? How could you
frighten us so?’
“Ruth looked puzzled. ‘I guess it was the butterfly,’ she said: ‘it
came along, and showed us the way.’
“‘Who is this?’ asked one of the men.
“‘That’s Ally,’ explained Ruth.
“‘Poor boy!’ said the Mother. ‘I thought even the savages were too
tender of their babes to let them thus alone in the forest. We will
take him home with us, husband, and cherish him. Perchance his friends
may seek him out.’
“But to all their words and kind looks the little Indian was deaf.
When they pointed to the setting sun in token that night was near, he
pointed to the east as if to say that the same sun would rise again
before long. They tried to entice him with caresses; but he shook
himself free, and, signing to some distant part of the wood where his
home lay, he emptied the flowers from his quiver, threw back his black
hair with a toss, and with a few active bounds disappeared from their
sight. Ruth cried after him, ‘Ally! Ally!’ but it was all in vain. He
was gone; and he never came back.”
“And what became of Ruth and Baby?” asked Thekla.
“Oh! they went home with their Father and Mother; and good care was
taken that they should not stray again. I used to visit them sometimes,
and play with their hair and soft cheeks; and I taught them to call
the pink blossoms by my name. ‘May-flowers’ they are termed to this
day; and they are such favorites, that I plant immense beds of them in
that country every spring, and then people grumble that there are not
enough.”
“And is that all about the little girls?” persisted Thekla.
“Dear me!” said May, “you are hard to satisfy. No: of course it’s not
all. Baby grew up. Some one said she married the Governor. Only think,
Baby marry a Governor! As for little Ruth, she didn’t grow up: she went
to Heaven instead; and so stayed a child for ever. Nobody knows now
where her grave is, excepting me; and every year I plant May-blossoms
upon it.”
May’s voice was a little sad, and her eyes looked sweet and tender.
“How about Algonqua?” inquired Max, who was rather ashamed of feeling
affected.
“He became a great chief,” said May, “and lived to be a hundred. I
heard that he was buried in a mound out West, over the top of which a
railroad now runs. But about that I am not sure: my business is not
with the dead, but the living.”
And saying this, she rose briskly up. “I meant to have done in just
half an hour,” she remarked, “and it is nearly an hour and a quarter.
I’ll take those moments at once, if you please.”
Her manner was so sharp and decided that they did not dare urge her to
stay. Max brought the can, and Thekla lighted her to the door. When she
had departed with a curt “good-by,” they felt perplexed and puzzled.
“She’s very pretty,” said they, “but somehow not at all what we
expected.”
[Illustration: “This is my present,” she said.]