Some one was at my study door. More than one, for I heard low talking. Then the door softly opened, and four bebundled boys stood before me—with an axe, a long-handled shovel, a covered basket, and a very big secret, which stuck out all over their faces.
They were not big boys outside. But they were almost bursting inside with their big secret. They were big with boots and coats and caps and mittens; and they looked almost like monsters in my study door with their axe and shovel and big basket.
“Come on, father,” they whispered (as if She hadn’t heard them tramping through the hall and upstairs with their kit!), “come on! It’s mother’s birthday to-morrow, and we’re going after the flowers.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Are you going to chop the flowers down with an axe, and dig them up with a shovel?” And I tried to think what a chopped-down and dug-up birthday bouquet would look like. But it was too much for me.
“You are going to give her a nice bunch of frost flowers,” I said, feeling about in my puzzled mind for just what was afoot. “If you are going to give her frost flowers, you had better get the ice-saw, too, for we shall need a big block of ice to stick their stems in.”
Not a word of comment! No sign on the four faces that they had even heard my gentle banter. They knew what they were going to do; and all they wanted of me was to come along.
“Hurry up,” they answered, dropping my hip-boots on the floor. “Here are your scuffs.”
I hurried up! Scuffs and boots and cap and reefer on in a jiffy, and the five of us were soon in single file upon the meadow, the dry snow squealing under our feet, while the little imp-winds, capering fitfully about us, blew the snowdust into our faces, or catching up the thin drifts, sent them whirling and waltzing, like ghostly dancers, over the meadow’s level glittering floor.
I was beginning to warm up a little; but I was still guessing about the flowers, and not yet in the spirit of the game.
We were having a hard winter, and the novelty of zero weather was beginning to wear off—at least to me. The fact was I had intended to get the birthday flowers down at the greenhouse in the village. January is an awkward time to have a birthday, anyhow. June is a much more reasonable month for birthdays, if you gather wild flowers for the celebration. The fields are full of flowers in June! But here in January you must go with an axe and a shovel, mittens, rubber-boots, and reefers! And I confess I couldn’t make head or tail of this festive trip.