"I don't believe you've turned 'em all," said Calvin. "I should admire to set here a spell, if 'tis warm enough for you. I ripen better in the sun, too;" he twinkled at her. "Is it warm enough for you?" he added anxiously.
"My, yes!" said Mary Sands. "Why, 'tis like summer in this bright sun, and this cellar door is warm as a stove. Well, if you're really a mind to help, Mr. Parks,—I'm sure you're more than kind."
There was plenty of room on the cellar door for them and the tomatoes. Calvin curled up his long legs under him, and gave his attention for several minutes to the Crimson Cushions and Ponderosas, turning them with careful nicety.
"Pretty, ain't they?" he said; "some of 'em, that is."
"Real pretty!" said Mary Sands. "I do enjoy them, Mr. Parks; 'tis a kind of play with me, tending my tomaytoes. I expect I'm foolish about growin' things."
"I expect if there was more had your kind of foolishness," replied Calvin, "the world would be a better place than it is."
"See this one!" Mary went on; "for all the world like a red satin pincushion my grandmother used to have in her basket. 'Tis well named, the Crimson Cushion is."
"Look at this feller," said Calvin, "all green and yeller, and squinnied up like his co't was too tight for him. It looks like the boys; honest now, don't it, Miss Hands?"
Mary tinkled a reproachful laugh.
"Now Mr. Parks, I wonder at you. Poor Cousins!"