II

April 12.

He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morning
applied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work. Surely this must
be late enough, even in this "suburb of the North Pole," as Vincent
called Vermont. Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping her
rapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, if
he was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for the
sweet peas. It wouldn't do any harm to plant them now, though it might
not do any good either; and he mustn't be surprised to find occasional
chunks of earth still frozen. She would be over in a little while to
show him about it. Let him get his pick-mattock, spade, and rake ready,
up by the corner of his stone wall.

* * * * *

He was waiting there, ten minutes later, the new implements (bought at
Mrs. Crittenden's direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall.
The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earth
alive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held it
like stone when he had first trod his garden. He leaned against the
stone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, and
looked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones. There
it lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stems
of last year's weeds, and unsightly with half-rotten lumps of manure.
And that would feed and nourish . . .