Some blankets to send to the poor. My list of flower seeds. And then Bess and I were to go sledging in the lanes.
To English people sledging never seems a quite real amusement, and always to belong a little to the region of a fairy-story.
Punctual to the moment, Burbidge appeared with long sheets of foolscap, and we made out the list of seeds.
“Burbidge,” I said grandly, as he handed to me the sheets of paper, “I leave the vegetables to you, save just my foreign pets.”
Burbidge bowed graciously and we were about to begin, when he could not resist his usual speech about disliking foreign men, foreign flowers, and foreign seeds.
“Yes,” I rejoined slyly; “but you must remember how many people liked the Mont D’Or beans and praised your Berlin lettuces.”
“Well, so long as you and the squire were pleased, I know my duty,” replied Burbidge, mollified.
“Which is?” I could not refrain from asking, for the old man has always his old-fashioned formula at the tip of his tongue.
“Which is,” repeated old Burbidge, rehearsing his old-fashioned catechism solemnly, “watering in droughts, weeding all weathers, and keeping a garden throughout peart and bobbish as if it war the Lord’s parlour.”
“It is a very good duty,” I said.