Patchwork | Page 8

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 you can eat," she added as she noted the child's abstracted look.
"No--I was thinkin'--I was just thinkin' what a funny name Nason is, like you tried to say Nathan and got your tongue twisted."
"It's a real name, but you must forget all about it."
"If I can. Sometimes Aunt Maria tells me to forget things, like wantin' curls and fancy things and pretty dresses but I don't see how I can forget when I remember, do you?"
"It's hard," Granny said, a deeper meaning in her words than the child could comprehend. "It's the hardest thing in the world to forget what you want to forget. But here comes Aaron----"
"Well, well, if here ain't Phoebe Metz with her eyes shining and a pink rose pinned to her waist and matching the roses in her cheeks!" the old soldier said as he joined the two under the arbor. "Whew! Mebbe it ain't hot hoeing potatoes!"
"You're all heated up, Aaron," said Granny. His fifteen years seniority warranted a solicitous watchfulness over him,