The beech tree, I think, is the most kindly disposed of all the brethren to us dwellers of the garden. A lime nods to the apple tree, which is exactly in its line of vision, but the beech leans and leans over the fence, craning its neck, holding out long, beautiful branches, which so soon will be decorated with a delicate lace-work of the most exquisitely tender of all the spring greens. The beech is a long time in unfolding her treasures—the sycamore and chestnut can give her many days; but when she does consent to open out her leaves, what a wealth of beauty!
On this morning I thought I could almost see them uncurling in the sunshine, hear them laughing at their old friend the lime. I could have dallied with them, anxious to hear what they had to say, what sort of a winter had been theirs, but Dimbie and breakfast must be waiting for me.
I sped into the house, just in time to see Dimbie removing the dish cover. I paused in the doorway to witness his smile of pleasure at finding an omelet—a savoury parsley omelet—before him, but no smile came. In its place was a blank look of inquiry.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"What's this?" he returned.
"An omelet." I walked quickly to the table.
"Oh, is it?" he said quite politely.
We stood together and looked at the thing, was very small and thin, and hard and spotty.
"I thought it was veal stuffing." He was grave and still quite courteous.
"It looks like a bit of old blanket," I observed.