“Yes, I know,” Polly replied, happily. “I planted those bulbs there last fall. That turn of the path seemed sort of bare all through the summer, so I remembered it, and when fall came, I tucked some bulbs in there. I’ve always planted things where I’ve wanted to out here. At first Uncle Peter—that’s our gardener—didn’t like it, but as soon as he saw the effect, he said that I ‘suttinly had good intentions.’ I like to take a lot of seed in my sweater pockets in the early spring, and wherever I find a good place, just plant some. It’s so interesting and surprising, too, because I never know exactly what it is I’ve planted till they start to come up.”
“It must be fun to watch for the surprises.”
“Oh, indeed it is. Why, once,” Polly’s eyes were brimful of mischief at the sudden memory, “once I put a bulb down in that corner by the hedge, and watched the next spring to see what it would be. It came up all right, with green spikes, but it never bloomed at all. And it grew and grew so tall. I called it the Mystery Lily. At last, one day last fall, it did bloom. Right at the very top of the single stalk was a cluster of queer, starry flowers, all bunched together. Uncle Peter didn’t know what it was, and grandfather came out to take a look at it, and what do you suppose it was, Miss Murray? Just a plain, every-day onion gone to seed.”
“Polly, Polly,” exclaimed Jean, shaking her head, “I shall always think of you after this, like Millet’s Sower, with a peck of mixed seed, going around planting seed as the wind does.”
Someway, she began to feel happier and more relaxed than she had since her coming to Queen’s Ferry. The long winter’s work at the Hall had been very confining, and she was not used to that. Out here, in Polly’s garden, all her nature-loving self responded to the growing things about her, and most of all, to the growing girl, whose soul and personality were unfolding, too, in her springtime of youth, with all the unknown possibilities and promises of her random seed.
“I would love to see you out on the range, Polly,” she continued. “They say, you know, that Johnny Appleseed went through the wilderness planting apple trees back in colonial times, and in California to-day, up at ‘The Heights’ above San Francisco, the dear old poet of the Sierras plants roses through the cañons.”
“Does he?” Polly thought for a minute. “I think that is splendid. I shall tell Ruth about it. You know how old-fashioned and motherly she is, Miss Murray. Sometimes, I almost think she is my dearest friend, although I like the other girls, too. Ruth says that my way of planting is an allegory. She says we all of us sow kind deeds and happy thoughts broadcast, and trust to the winds that blow, and the rains that fall, and the sun that is sure to shine sometime, to make them take roots and grow, even in strange hearts. Let’s sit on this stone seat, and talk about the ranch. I wish that our outing club had a chance to go to some place like that.”
“Why not make the chance?” Jean reached out her hand to the bush of flowering quince beside the seat. The branches were heavy with the rich, red blossoms. “I used to talk about waiting for chances, too, long ago, until mother taught me to make my own chances. You see, Polly, it is different with us at the ranch. Nearly all of you girls at Calvert do not have to fret or care about the future. You have beautiful old homes like this—”
“Not Ruth, Miss Murray,” interrupted Polly, soberly. “Her father’s dead, and she is studying, to support her invalid mother—didn’t you know that? I think she’s so strong and brave. She says she loves to even think that she is able to. And beautiful homes, even like Glenwood, can’t make up to a girl for mothers and fathers. I haven’t any, myself, you know.”
The two looked at each other with new-born understanding, and Jean’s strong, freckled hand was laid over Polly’s, as it rested on the bench beside her.