The little dead-looking roots had been planted in a sunny shrubbery border and had quickly thrust up their golden crowns, circled with the tender green collar. Have you ever noticed how a winter aconite springs from its bed? Its ways are most original. The sturdy little stem comes up like a hoop; at one end is the root, at the other the blossom, with its green collar drooped carefully over the yellow centre. Gradually it raises itself, shakes off the loosened mould—you may help it here if you like—lays back its collar and opens its golden eye.
I picked every one I could find. It seemed sinful, but occasionally pride overcomes the most modest of us.
"There," I cried, "my garden is beginning already. Just look at them! Are they not lovely?"
"What, buttercups?" asked one of the Others.
"No, oh, ignorant one! they are not buttercups. They are winter aconite; note the difference."
"Let's look!" and the brown little fist of one of the youngest of the Others was thrust forth.
"All that fuss about those! You wait a minute!"
He ran off, returning shortly with quite a big bunch of my yellow treasures in his hand.
"Where did you get them? Jim, you bad boy! you must not pick my flowers," I exclaimed.