The Garden of the Plynck

Garden of the Plynck, by Karle
Wilson Baker

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Title: The Garden of the Plynck
Author: Karle Wilson Baker
Illustrator: Florence Minard
Release Date: September 23, 2005 [EBook #16731]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
GARDEN OF THE PLYNCK ***

Produced by William F. Seabrook

The Garden of the Plynck
by

Karle Wilson Baker

Contents
Chapter I.
The Dimplesmithy
Chapter II.
Avrillia
Chapter III.
Relations
Chapter IV.
The Invaders
Chapter V.
Crumbs and Waffles
Chapter VI.
The Little Lost Laugh
Chapter VII.
Accepting an Invitation
Chapter VIII.
The Vale of Tears

Chapter IX.
Cheers and Butter
Chapter X.
Sara's Day
Chapter I
The Dimplesmithy
Grown people have such an exasperating way of saying, "Now, when I
was a little girl--"
Then, just as you prick up the little white ears of your mind for a story,
they finish, loftily, "I did--or didn't do--so-and-so."
It is certainly an underhand way of suggesting that you stop doing
something pleasant, or begin doing something unpleasant; and you
would not have thought that Sara's dear mother would have had so
unworthy a habit. But a stern regard for the truth compels me to admit
that she had.
You see, Sara's dear mother was, indeed, most dear; but very
self-willed and contrary. Her great fault was that she was always busy
at something. She would darn, and she would write, and she would read
dark-colored books without pictures. When Sara compared her with
other mothers of her acquaintance, or when this very contrary
own-mother went away for a day, she seemed indeed to Sara quite
desperately perfect. But on ordinary days Sara was darkly aware, in the
clearest part of her mind--the upper right-hand corner near the
window--that her mother, with all her charm, really did need to be
remoulded nearer to her heart's desire.
She was especially clear about this on the frequent occasions when she
would come into the room where her mother was sitting, and plump
down upon a chair with a heart-rending sigh, and say, "I wish I had

somebody to play with!"
For then her dear but most contrary mother would glance up from her
book or her darning and remark, with a calm smile,
"When I was a little girl--"
"Ah!"
"I used to go inside my head and play."
And Sara would answer with a poor, vindictive satisfaction, "There's
nothing in my head to play with!"
And her kind-hearted mother would snip off her thread and say gently,
in a tone of polite regret, "Poor little girl!"
Then Sara would gnash the little milk-teeth of her mind and have awful
thoughts. The worst she ever had came one day when Mother, who had
already filled about fourteen pages of paper with nothing in the world
but words, acted that way again. And just as she said, "Poor little girl!"
Sara thought, "I'd like to take that sharp green pencil and stick it into
Mother's forehead, and watch a story run out of her head through the
hole!"
But that was such an awful thought that she sent it scurrying away, as
fast as she could. Just the same, she said to herself, if Mother ever acted
that way again--
And, after all, Mother did. And that was the fatal time--the
four-thousand-and-fourth. For, after Mother had suggested it four
thousand and four times, it suddenly occurred to Sara that she might try
it.
So she shut the doors and went in.
Yes, I said shut the doors and went in; for that is what you do when you
go into your head. The doors were of ivory, draped with tinted damask
curtains which were trimmed with black silk fringe. The curtains fell

noiselessly behind Sara as she entered.
And there in the Gugollaph-tree by the pool sat the Plynck, gazing
happily at her Echo in the water.
She was larger than most Plyncks; about the size of a small peacock. Of
course you would know without being told that her plumage was of a
delicate rose color, except for the lyre-shaped tuft on the top of her
head, which was of the exact color and texture of Bavarian cream. Her
beak and feet were golden, and her eyes were golden, too, and very
bright and wild. The wildness and brightness of her eyes would have
been rather frightening, if her voice, when she spoke, had not been so
soft and sweet.
"I think a little girl has