"Not this year, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy. "Not all the watering in the world would make any flowers come before the spring, and watering too much would kill the plant altogether."
"Oh dear," repeated Hoodie, "what shall I do?"
"Won't no other flowers do?" said Lucy. "There's violets still, and lots of others in the garden that Hopkins would give you—much prettier than primroses."
"No," said Hoodie, shaking her head, "none but p'imroses would do. Birdie liked them best, I know, for when I put some once in the wires of his cage, he chirped. When will the spring come, Lucy?"
"Not for a good bit, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, "it's only July now. There's all the summer to go through, and then autumn when it begins to get cold, and then all the cold winter, before the spring comes. A good while—eight months, and there's more than four weeks in each month, you know."
"I can't help it," said Hoodie, "only p'imroses will do. Please dig some roots up, Lucy, and we'll plant them on birdie's grave. The green leaves are a little pretty, and in the spring the flowers will come. And if I'm dead before the spring," she added solemnly, "you mustn't forget to water them all the same."
"Miss Hoodie!" said Lucy, reproachfully, "you should not talk that way really. Your mamma wouldn't like it."
"Why not?" said Hoodie, "there's lots about deadening in the Bible and in the church books, so it can't be naughty. I wouldn't mind, if only I thought birdie was in heaven."
"We'd better be going on," said Lucy, rather anxious to give a turn to the conversation, "or we'll be late for Martin and Miss Maudie. I've got up two nice roots, and we may see some others that take your fancy as we go on."
They made their way slowly through the wood—Hoodie peering about here and there in search of primroses still, some two or three might, she thought, possibly have been left behind, or some buds might by mistake have bloomed later than their neighbours. For Hoodie, as you have seen, was not easily convinced of anything that she did not wish to believe.