“Maida!” Rosie said, “you speak of a flower garden and a vegetable garden but I don’t remember that you showed them to us last night.”
“No, I didn’t,” Maida explained. “We were all getting so tired. But I’ll show them to you now. Come!”
She led the way through the living room; through the dining room to the back door of the house. Then she turned north. “This room is the laundry,” she said. “And here,” pointing to an enclosure, set off by a high vine-grown lattice, “is the drying yard.” They were now walking on a path which ran between the house and a file of cypresses, standing trim and tall and so close that they made a hedge. Maida led the way to the corner where there was an opening. There a great rectangle surrounded by cypresses was a garden—all roses. The bushes were already in rich bloom, great creamy white ones and great pinky white ones. Others were deep pink, golden yellow, a rich dark crimson.
“This is the rose garden,” Maida explained. “Beyond,” she led the way into still another cypress-guarded square, “is the old-fashioned garden. There are nasturtiums here and phlox and pansies and peonies and lots of other things I can’t remember, and in the fall there’ll be dahlias and asters.”
Rosie shook herself with joy. “I shall love working in this garden,” she declared. “This afternoon let’s fill all the vases in the house with roses.”
“All right,” Maida agreed absently. “Now I’m going to show you the vegetable garden.”
“I know where that is,” Arthur boasted. “I got up early and explored.”
Maida led the way past the croquet ground, past the tennis court to another cypress-bordered square. Here, in parallel lines, were rows of green sprouts. The earth must have been turned over in the spring, indeed it might have been turned over in the previous fall, rich loam and cultivator added. It looked like freshly-grated chocolate.
“Gracious, I think I could make fudge of that earth,” Rosie exclaimed.