Only—you must mulch them.
Mulch! That struck me as a pleasant word. It had a nice squshy sound about it. I thought it would be so nice, on hot evenings, to go around mulching and mulching.
I went to the dictionary to look it up and find out what it meant, but just at that minute General Bumpus came into my office. He was interested to see Mrs. Creasus's book lying open on my desk—he is president of the library board, and he is another gardening enthusiast.
"Going to have some sweet-peas?" he asked, observing the picture.
"Yes," I replied, "I thought I would."
"Well," he said, "that's all right. Only you must mulch them good and plenty."
"Is that necessary?" I inquired, looking him straight in the eye.
"Oh, yes—absolutely."
Before we could say anything more about it, someone came in to tell the general that Mrs. Bumpus said the horses were uneasy, and that she wished he would come out. He went away, and then Miss Davis came to get me—there was a man in the reading-room, who wanted me to give him permission to break some rule or other. So I forgot all about the sweet-peas until I was on my way home. Then I stepped in at the seed shop to get the peas.
Philip Morris was there, buying a lawn-mower. He had paid for it, and was starting toward the door, when he saw me.