"Jane, do you mean to say that you do not know how to mulch?"
"Of course I don't. How do you do it?"
I felt in my pocket.
"Can't you roll me a cigarette? There's some paper and tobacco in the house—on my desk."
Jane went dutifully away, and when she returned, I lighted the cigarette.
"There," I said, "they're all mulched—I did it with this hoe."
"Is that what it means?"
All this happened in April, and now it is August, and the sweet-peas still maintain a somewhat sullen appearance. I wonder if Miss Abernathy was right, after all. Perhaps I did wrong to mulch them,—at least, so savagely.