"Almost seems as if they were yooman," he said, as we stood and listened to the rooks.
"Oh, are you there, James? It's a beautiful day. Who said that first? I believe you did."
"Them there rooks always make a place seem so home-like. Rooks and crocuses I say; and you don't want anything more."
"Yes; well, if the rooks want to build in the raspberry canes this year, let them, James. Don't be inhospitable."
"Course, some do like to see primroses, I don't say. But——"
"Primroses—I knew there was something. Where are they?"
"It's too early for them," said James hastily. "You won't get primroses now before April."
"Don't say 'now,' as if it were my fault. Why didn't you plant them earlier? I don't believe you know any of the tricks of your profession, James. You never seem to graft anything or prune anything, and I'm sure you don't know how to cut a slip. James, why don't you prune more? Prune now—I should like to watch you. Where's your pruning-hook? You can't possibly do it with a rake."
James spends most of his day with a rake—sometimes leaning on it, sometimes working with it. The beds are always beautifully kept. Only the most hardy annual would dare to poke his head up and spoil the smooth appearance of the soil. For those who like circles and rectangles of unrelieved brown, James is undoubtedly the man.
As I stood in the sun I had a brilliant idea.