" Or, "Lawsy me, Miss Jinny, dat boy
o' yo's is jes' natchelly bustin' outer da clo'es wid growin', ain't
he? He jes' de spit o' he pa, bless 'im!"
Which untoward confidence didn't seem to surprise our visitors. They
had Mary Magdalens of their own.
A few days later Doctor Geddes sent us Schmetz, the gardener, a
gnarled little man with a peppery temper, a torrential flow of
Alsatian French, and a tireless energy. I don't know why nor how
Schmetz had come to Hyndsville, except that somehow he had acquired
a small farm near by and couldn't get away from it. He explained to
us, gently but firmly, that if we wouldn't meddle after the manner
of women, but would leave his job in his own hands, it would be
better for us, and for the garden. We meekly acquiescing, he called
in helpers and with a wave of his hand set hoe and ax and spade to
work.
The weather had changed into days of deep blue skies, splendid days
full of the warmth of potential power; and nights filled with
fragrance, nights of fierce beauty, and the glamour of golden moons,
and the thrilling melody of that feathered Israfel, the
mocking-bird. Through our open windows immense moths, spirits of the
summer nights, drifted in on enameled and jeweled wings and circled
in a fire-worshiping dance around our light.
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