“Andar, Morisco!” The patient mule, who had worked while Vicente slept, trod his weary round a little faster, the clatter of his hoofs mingling with the droning creak, creak of the noria.
A brown girl passed from the outer court, where she had been taking down the washing, half hidden by the pile of linen in her arms.
“Hé, hé! Basta aqua, Vicente!” she cried, and went into the hot laundry with her linen.
“Muy bien, Rafaela.” Vicente sneezed, relighted his cigarette, with trembling hands unharnessed Morisco, and toddled off with him to the stable. In a few moments the old man came back, and pottered about the garden, making his tour of inspection. Nothing escaped his wise old eyes. He crushed a snail that was devouring a velvety pansy, nipped off an overblown peony, stripped the buds and foliage so ruthlessly from a fine red carnation that I had to ask him the reason.
“This work should have been done in September, but I was not here then. We shall have poor carnations this year.” From the look of them—they were only just coming into bloom—they would have taken a prize anywhere out of Spain.
“The carnation plant has need of cleanliness like a person. What I take off is its misery. See, these are nothing but leaves; they do no good, they only take the strength. These are children; there are too many of them! Sacrifice these three little buds, and in fourteen days this large one will make a carnation so big.” He joined his palsied hands at the finger tips to show me the size. He had thrown some of the “misery” carelessly on the ground, some he had laid carefully in a pile.
“Those I threw away are nothing but leaves and children. These others are little plants, you see the difference? I shall plant all these; not one must be lost. It is so late many will not grow, but I shall get some good ones. Very soon they will throw out roots, then I shall transplant them; next season they will bear. The carnation is only good for three years; the second season is the best. See, this is an old plant. We will help it to give its last flowers. They will be small, but of a good variety.” He stirred the earth about the roots, and mixed with it a trowelful of rich loam.
“One might almost live in a place where they grow such flowers!” J. began.
“No, one might not!” cried Patsy.
“Vicente has been a famous gardener in his day!” the waiter had said it more than once. That explains why the pear trees were so well pruned, the oranges so healthy, why the carnations of Cordova still bloom in my memory. A peacock strutted down the brick path, hopped on the wall of the noria, spread the glory of his tail, turned his proud head to show the sapphire sheen of his neck, and gave his strange cry, “mahor mahor.”