creeper; for not until then could Fleda persuade herself to leave it. She
came back and worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it
could hold of her brilliant trophies.

"Now what good'll that do you?" inquired Mr. Ringgan good-humouredly, as
he lent Fleda what help he could to her seat.

"Why grandpa, I want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar at home--it
will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful. Isn't that handsome?--only
it was a pity to break it."

"Why yes, it's handsome enough," said Mr. Ringgan, "but you've got
something just by the front door there at home that would do just as
well--what do you call it?--that naming thing there?"

"What, my burning bush? O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for any thing in
the world! It's the only pretty thing about the house; and besides," said
Fleda, looking up with a softened mien, "you said that it was planted by
my mother. O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for any thing."

Mr. Ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "Well, dear!" said he, "it shall grow
till it's as big as the house, if it will."

"It won't do that," said Fleda. "But I am very glad I have got this
bittersweet--this is just what I wanted. Now if I can only find
some holly--"

"We'll come across some, I guess, by and by," said Mr. Ringgan; and Fleda
settled herself again to enjoy the trees, the fields, the roads, and all
the small handiwork of nature, for which her eyes had a curious