"She had two lovers," continued Rose, dreamily, talking half to herself. "One was Sir Scraggo de Cedar, a tall knight in rusty armor, who stood very near her, and loved her to distraction. But she cared nothing for him, and had given her heart to the South Wind,—the most fickle and tormenting lover you can imagine. Sometimes he was perfectly charming, and wooed her in the most enchanting manner, murmuring soft things in her ear, and kissing and caressing her, till I almost fell in love with him myself. Then he would leave her alone,—oh! for days and days,—till she drooped, poor thing! and was perfectly miserable. And then perhaps he would come again in a fury, and shake and beat her in the most frightful manner, tearing her hair out, and sometimes flinging her right into the arms of poor Sir Scraggo, who quivered with emotion, but never took advantage of the situation. I used to be very sorry for Sir Scraggo."
"What a shame!" cried Hildegarde, warmly. "Couldn't you make her care for the poor dear?"
"Oh, no!" said Rose. "She was very self-willed, that gentle Eglantine, in spite of her soft, pretty ways. There was no moving her. She turned her back as nearly as she could on Sir Scraggo, and bent farther and farther toward the south, stretching her arms out as if imploring her heartless lover to stay with her. I fastened her back to the wall once with strips of list, for she was spoiling her figure by stooping so much; but she looked so utterly miserable that I took them off again. Dear Eglantine! I wonder if she misses me."
"I think she was rather a minx, do you know?" said Hildegarde. "I prefer Sir Scraggo myself."
"Well," replied Rose, "one respected Sir Scraggo very much indeed; but he was not beautiful, and all the De Cedars are pretty stiff and formal. Then you must remember he was older than Eglantine and I,—ever and ever so much older."
"That does make a difference," said Hildegarde. "Who were some other of your garden people, you funniest Rose?"
"There was Old Moneybags!" replied Rose. "How I did detest that old man! He was a hideous old thorny cactus, all covered with warts and knobs and sharp spines. Dear mother was very proud of him, and she was always hoping he would blossom, but he never did. He lived in the house in winter, but in spring Mother set him out in the flower-bed, just beside the double buttercup. So when the buttercup blossomed, with its lovely yellow balls, I played that Old Moneybags, who was an odious old miser, was counting his gold. Then, when the petals dropped, he piled his money in little heaps, and finally he buried it. He wasn't very interesting, Old Moneybags, but the buttercups were lovely. Then there were Larry Larkspur and Miss Poppy. I wonder—No! I don't believe you would."
"What I like about your remarks," said Hildegarde, "is that they are so clear. What do you mean by believing I wouldn't? I tell you I would!"
"Well," said Rose, laughing and blushing, "it really isn't anything; only—well, I made a little rhyme about Larry Larkspur and Miss Poppy one summer. I thought of it just now; and first I wondered if it would amuse you, and then I decided it wouldn't."
"You decided, forsooth!" cried Hildegarde. "'"Who are you?" said the caterpillar.' I will hear about Larry Larkspur, if you please, without more delay."