“But we have no seeds. And, besides, winter is coming; flowers die in the winter.”
“True,” said Rosebud; “we will wait till spring. The rich man, who lives behind the hill yonder, has a fine garden. I have looked through at the beds of flowers, often; and I shall beg seeds from the gardener.”
“But the dog!” cried Myrtle. “His great, black, barking dog! he might tear you in pieces!”
“But I shall pat his head,” said Rosebud; “and I shall say, ‘Good doggie!’ It is not wise to be always afraid.”
Winter was now approaching. Storms were frequent, cold winds blew, the sea became rough, and the high waves came roaring, tumbling, foaming to the shore. Snow fell, fishing-boats were hauled up out of reach of the tide, and soon the beach was covered with cakes of ice. The children were often compelled to remain for days and weeks inside the hut.
For employment, Rosebud began to make various things of the shells collected in summer. The sick girl had taught her. Beautiful shells they were; pink, yellow, purple, and white, and very pretty boxes, baskets, vases they made. Even Bess and Judy begged to learn, and Myrtle helped too.
“And now we have something to bestow!” cried Rosebud, one day. “This, now, shall be for the little lame child. She will look up so pleasantly, with her soft brown eyes! And the pale woman in black, who is weeping always, she shall have this small, pure white basket. Perhaps she may smile for once.”
“No!” cried the old woman, looking up from the ashes,—“no, I say! They shall be sold,—sold in the town! Can you tell me where your bread is to come from?”
So all the pretty things were taken to the town and sold. And the old woman, finding they brought money, compelled them to work every stormy day until the shells were gone. But whenever it was possible to leave the house they were made to pick up drift-wood as usual. Bitter cold work it was, creeping among the ice-cakes and over the slippery rocks!