'And have you got a garden?' asked Roland eagerly. 'Olive and me love flowers, but England doesn't seem to have any out of doors.'
'Come and see my garden,' said the old man proudly; 'it's the joy of my life, next to them there "ugly pots"!'
He led the way to the back of the house, where was a good-sized cottage garden; but the children's faces fell considerably when they saw the barren desolation, for Bob had no evergreen shrubs, and only some rows of cabbages and broccoli showed signs of life.
'It's all brown earth and dead things—no flowers at all!' they exclaimed.
'But this is the wrong time o' year,' Bob said apologetically; 'there be heaps o' beautiful stuff all under the earth, awaitin' to come up in their time.'
'But why don't you make them come up now? What's the good of a garden without flowers? In India we have lovely flowers.'
'Winter is a-comin' on, my dears; you won't see my pretty flowers just yet. They're fast asleep bidin' their time; no frost or cold can touch 'em—bidin' their time!'
Bob's face looked wistful as he gazed at his empty flower beds.
'What's winter?' asked Olive curiously.
'Bless the little dear, has she never known a winter? 'Tis the dreary dark time of waitin', the sunless, joyless bit o' all the year, when the singin' birds fly away, the butterflies and flowers die, and the very trees sigh and moan in their bareness and decay. 'Tis an empty bit o' life, when all that makes life sweet falls to pieces and fades away.'