"I like pansies. I don't know about the nationalities," said Jonathan. "Of course, if you want to bother with them, go ahead." He picked up his paper.
"Oh, it won't be any bother. They take care of themselves. Please, your pencil— I'm going to mark the colors I want."
We went up soon after to look at the farm. We found it very much as we had left it, except that there hung about it that indescribable something we call spring. We tramped about on the spongy ground, and sniffed the sweet air, and looked at the apple buds, and kicked up the soft, matted maple leaves to see the grass starting underneath.
"Oh, Jonathan! Our bulbs!" I exclaimed. We hurried over to them and lifted up the thick blanket of leaves and hay we had left over them. "Look! A crocus!" I said.
"And here's a snowdrop! Let's take off these leaves and give them a chance."
"Dear me!" I sighed; "isn't it wonderful? To think those hard little bullets we put in last fall should do all this! And here's the phlox just starting—look—"
"Oh, you can't kill phlox," said Jonathan imperturbably.
"All the better. I hate not giving people credit for things just because they come natural."
"That is a curious sentence," said Jonathan.
"Never mind. You know what I mean. You've understood a great many more curious ones than that. Listen, Jonathan. Why couldn't I put in my seeds now? I brought them along."