“Too much wind for frost,” says he.
“Sure? I’d hate to lose my nasturtiums quite so early.”
“You won’t lose ’em. Look at the thermometer if you don’t believe me. If it’s above forty you’re safe.”
I look, and try to feel reassured. But I am not quite easy in my mind until next morning when, running out before breakfast, I make the rounds and find everything untouched.
But a few days later the alarm comes again. There is no wind this time, and, what is worse, an ominous silence falls at dusk over the orchard and meadow. “Why is everything so still?” I ask myself. “Oh, of course—the katydids aren’t talking—and the crickets, and all the other whirr-y things. Ah! That means business! My poor garden!”
“Jonathan!” I call, as I feel rather than see his shape whirling noiselessly in at the big gate after his ride up from the station. “Help me cover my nasturtiums. There’ll be frost to-night.”
“Maybe,” says Jonathan’s voice.
“Not maybe at all—surely. Listen to the katydids!”
“You mean, listen to the absence of katydids.”
“Very well. The point is, I want newspapers.”