Especially at such a time. All upset, you know, and worried. Oh,
yes. You got to; you got to make allowances for 'em."
Day by day the air grows balmier and softer on the cheek. Out in
the garden, ranks of yellow-green pikes stand stiffly at "Present.
Hump!" and rosettes of the same color crumple through the warm soil,
unconsciously preparing for a soul tragedy. For an evening will
come when a covered dish will be upon the supper-table, and when
the cover is taken off, a subtle fragrance will betray, if the sense
of sight do not, that the chopped-up lettuces and onions are in a
marsh of cider vinegar, demanding to be eaten. And your big sister
will squall out in comic distress: "Oh, ma! You are too mean for
anything! Why did you have 'em tonight? I told you Mr. Dellabaugh
was going to call, and you know how I love spring onions! Well, I
don't care. I'm just going to, anyhow."
Things come with such a rush now, it is hard to tell what happens
in its proper order. The apple-trees blossom out like pop-corn
over the hot coals. The Japan quince repeats its farfamed imitation
of the Burning Bush of Moses; the flowering currants are strung with
knobs of vivid yellow fringe; the dead grass from the front yard,
the sticks and stalks and old tomato vines, the bits of rag and the
old bones that Guess has gnawed upon are burning in the alley, and
the tormented smoke is darting this way and that, trying to get out
from under the wind that seeks to flatten it to the ground.
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