We would scarcely suspect them of having any relation to Jack, yet they are his berries. But what has become of Jack?
In the autumn the rose leaves fall off, and there is left only red stems and red berries.
The morning-glory vine wilts and turns black at the first frost; it sinks to the ground and we see it no more, or else its stems linger brown and hard for a time, but in the end it all disappears. What has become of it?
And the nasturtiums—what a wreck the frost makes of them! The leaves are wilted and black; the stems, too, are soft and lie flat on the ground.
Why, you say, the frost has killed them. But that does not at all tell what has become of them. Besides, the frost did not kill the snowdrops and crocuses and blood roots and spring beauties nor Jack-in-the-Pulpit nor the umbrella leaves of the mandrakes. Yet they are all gone. All we can find of Jack and the mandrakes are red berries and yellow apples. Not a sign of the snowdrops or spring beauties or crocuses is left.
If you will just step down with me under the earth a few inches I will show you something.
Make believe you are a gnome or a fairy and can see as well in the dark earth as anywhere else and come along. Now look about.
Did you ever dream of anything so cunning in all your life? Everywhere and everywhere old mother earth is packed full of little white and brown bulbs.
There they are as snug as peas in a pod, thousands of them, in every direction as far as you can see.