“Have need to be. Just once a year the springtime comes, Widow, and it behoves folk to be pranksome then.”
“Well, now, listen to me, for I said you were sound of temper, and I’m in one of my angry fits just now.”
David looked at her plump, wholesome cheeks, and laughed. “Ye carry it well, I must say, Widow.”
“Ay, women—’specially lone widows—were born just to try and hold up their heads and pretend, like, naught matters anyway. What I want ye to look at, David—the moon, young as she is, is better than a candle to see by—what I want ye to look at is my bit of a garden here. ’Tis no way big, David, and a plumpish cow could lie along it, and ye’d never know there was a garden there; but ’tis all I’ve got, and it rears a good few blooms from March time on to winter.”
“Bonniest slip o’ garden in all Garth. Well, then, Widow?”
“’Tisn’t well at all. Stoop down, David, and see where the auriculas were when I slipped, yesternight, to bed. See where the tulips were, and where the daffy-down-dillies were blowing all their trumpets.”
“Ay, they’re gone, for sure,” said David, with real concern.
“Gone? Should think they were. I came out this morning—feeling as cheerful as a lone widow ever does—and thought to water my bit of a garden. Found every single bloom picked off, David, and laid along the ground.”
“Now, then, I’m sorry! Pride ourselves, we in Garth, that our gardens neighbour the road, and yet no hand comes picking flowers by stealth.”
“’Twasn’t a hand. ’Twas greedy bird-beaks, David. Ye’re friends with John Hirst, up yonder at Good Intent? Well, ye can tell him from Widow Lister that ’tis time he penned his turkeys up.”