“It’s to be a representation, as far as we can, of that blooming democracy, Una’s flower clock.” The blue eyes winked—but there was dew on the lashes. “And it’s all because—because, she has heard, her father, others, talk, of the hard time the mountain farmers, have, clearing land. And she wants to remind them that where rocks ‘grow’—and back-aches—flowers grow, too,” quiveringly; “find the beauty around them, for them—perhaps, in future, they’ll see some of it, when the day begins, the hard day.” Pem brushed her hand across her eyes now.
“Pretty idea—if any of it sticks,” muttered the boy.
“And Una has coaxed out of the Guardian almost all the money that was left for her, for her own entertainment, to spend it upon ice cream, oh! and all sorts of ‘eats’ for them—their wives and little children—who have so little in their lives—that’s—lovely.”
“Well! with ice cream for a fertilizer—” began young Treff.
“Come! You’d better not sneer. You’re to be scene shifter—general electrician, properties’ man—”
“Merciful hop-toads! what else?”
“Anything you like—‘Hop’,” laughed the girl.
“Well! there’s one comfort, I shan’t be the only ‘hop-toad’, not if that old farmer comes who chased you up a ladder—and then let you fall from a hayloft on to a horse’s back.”
“And who came within a cow’s thumb of shooting us, because his wife gave his slippers away to.... Oh! cock-a-luraloo!” The girl jumped up. “There’s supper! And I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” acknowledged Treff. “It’s low tide in me, I confess.”