"They're in front. So are the hyacinths."
"Are you sure they're all pink?"
"It's a great piece of good fortune—Mother selected only pink bulbs and a few yellow ones to put back into the ground and gave the other colors to Grandmother."
"That helps you at the very start-off. There are two kinds of pinks that ought to be set near the front rank because they don't grow very tall—the moss pink and the old-fashioned 'grass pink.' They are charming little fellows and keep up a tremendous blossoming all summer long."
"'Grass pink,'" repeated Ethel, Brown, "isn't that the same as 'spice pink'?"
"That's what your grandmother calls it. She says she has seen people going by on the road sniff to see what that delicious fragrance was. I suppose these small ones must be the original pinks that the seedsmen have burbanked into the big double ones."
"'Burbanked'?"
"That's a new verb made out of the name of Luther Burbank, the man who has raised such marvelous flowers in California and has turned the cactus into a food for cattle instead of a prickly nuisance."
"I've heard of him," said Margaret. "'Burbanked' means 'changed into something superior,' I suppose."
"Something like that. Did you tell me you had a peony?"