Patchwork | Page 8

green yard where tall spruce trees, overrun with trumpet vines and
woodbine, shaded long beds of flowers that love semi-shady places.
The rear of the house overlooked an old-fashioned garden enclosed
with a white-washed picket fence. Always were there flowers at
Granny's house. In the cold days of winter blooming masses of
geraniums, primroses and gloxinias crowded against the little square
panes of the windows and looked defiantly out at the snow; while all
the old favorites grew in the garden, from the first March snowdrop to
the late November chrysanthemum. In June, therefore, the garden was a
"Lovesome spot" indeed.
"It vonders me now if Granny's home," thought Phoebe as she opened
the wooden gate and entered the yard.
"Here I am," called Granny. "Back in the garden. I-to-goodness,
Phoebe, did you come once! I just said yesterday to Aaron that I didn't
see none of you folks for long, and here you come! You haven't seen
the flowers for a while."
"Oh!" Phoebe breathed an ecstatic little word of delight. "Oh, your
garden is just vonderful pretty!"
"Ain't," agreed Granny. "Aaron and me's been working pretty hard in it

these weeks. There he is, out in the potato patch; see him?"
Phoebe stood on tiptoe and looked where Granny's finger pointed to the
extreme end of the long vegetable garden, where the white head of Old
Aaron was bending over his hoeing.
"He's hoeing the potatoes," Granny explained. "He don't see you. But
he'll soon be done and come in."
"What were you doin'?" asked the child.
"Weeding the flag."
"Weedin' the flag--what do you mean?" Phoebe's eyes lighted with
eagerness. "I guess you mean mendin' the flag, Granny." She looked
toward the porch as if in search of Old Glory.
"I said weeding the flag," the woman insisted. "It's an idea of Aaron's
and I guess I'll tell you about it, seeing your eyes are open so wide. See
the poppies, that long stretch of them in the middle of the garden?"
"Um-uh," nodded Phoebe.
"Well, that patch at the back is all red poppies, the buds just coming on
them nice and big. Then right in front of them is another patch of white
poppies; the buds are thick on them, too. And right in front of
them--you see what's there!"
"Larkspur, blue larkspur!" cried Phoebe. "Oh, I see--it's red, white and
blue! You'll have it all summer in your garden!"
"Yes. When it blooms it'll be a grand sight. I said to Aaron that we'll
have all the children of Greenwald in looking at his flag and he said he
hopes so, for they couldn't look at anything better than the colors of Old
Glory. Aaron's crazy about the flag."
"'Cause he fought for it, mebbe."
"Yes, I guess. His father died for it at Gettysburg, the same place where

Aaron lost his leg. . . . The only thing is, the larkspur's getting ahead of
the poppies--seems like the larkspur couldn't wait"--her voice
continued low--"I always love to see the larkspur come."
"I too," said the child. "I like to pull out the little slippers from the
middle of the flowers and fit 'em into each other and make circles with
'em. I made a lot last summer and pressed 'em in a book, but Aunt
Maria made me stop."
"That's just what Nason used to do. I have some pressed in the big
Bible yet that he made when he was a little boy." She spoke
half-absently, as though momentarily forgetful of the child's presence.
"Who's Nason?" asked Phoebe.
Granny started. "I-to-goodness, Phoebe, I forgot! You don't know him,
never heard of him, I guess. He's our boy. We had a little girl, too, but
she died."
"Did the boy die too, Granny?"
"No, ach no! You wouldn't understand. He's living in the city. He
writes to me often but he don't come home. He and his pop fell out
about the flag once when Nason was young and foolish and they're both
too stubborn to forget it."
"But he'll come back some day and live with you, of course, won't he?"
Phoebe comforted her.
"Yes--some day they'll see things different. But now don't you bother
that head of yourn with such things. You forget all about Nason. Come
now, sit on the bench a little under the arbor."
"Just a little. I must go to the store yet."
"You have lots to do."
"Yes. And I almost forgot what I come for. Aunt Maria wants you
should come out to our place to-morrow early and help with the

strawberries if you can."
"I'll come. I like to come to your place. Your Aunt Maria is so straight
out, nothing false about her. I like her. But now I bet you're thinking of
how many berries