In yellow daffodils, the sentence danced before Grampa’s eyes. “A life sentence!” panted the old soldier wildly, and without waiting for more he plunged across the garden.
“Tatters! Bill! Urtha!” shouted Grampa, his own voice hoarse with excitement. “The wizard’s coming back and we’ve got to get out of this garden or be lantern trees forever!”
“Forever!” gasped the Prince of Ragbad, who had scarcely recovered from the chimney business. As fast as he could, Grampa told of the flower messages, and when they hurried back to the bed, a pansy sentence had already grown there.
“Good-night,” said the pansies politely, then fluttering off their stems, blew like gay little butterflies across the lawn.
“Good night!” choked Grampa bitterly. “It’s the worst night I ever heard of. I won’t be rooted to the spot, nor a tree for any old wizard wizzing. Come on! Company ’tenshun!”
“Here I come by the name of Bill,” crowed the weather cock, hurling into the air.
“But what are we coming to?” panted Tatters, shouldering his red umbrella dutifully, while Urtha kept anxiously beside him.
“We’re going back to those stepping stones,” puffed Grampa, stumping along determinedly. The lanterns winked lower and lower and soon it was so dark and shadowy they lost the path entirely. Smothering his alarm, Grampa marched doggedly on, bumping into benches and trees, but never once pausing.
“They ought to be here some place,” wheezed the old soldier and then stopped with a grunt, for he had run plump into an iron railing in the dark.
“What is it?” whispered Tatters, straining his eyes in the gathering gloom.