"Oh! how good it sounds!" said Margery. "I vote for the salad garden."
That very evening, Margery's father took pencil and paper, and drew out a plan for her garden; first, they talked it all over, then he drew what they decided on; it looked like the diagram on the next page.
"The outside strip is for flowers," said Margery's father, "and the next marks mean a footpath, all the way round the beds; that is so you can get at the flowers to weed and to pick; there is a wider path through the middle, and the rest is all for rows of salad vegetables."
"Papa, it is glorious!" said Margery.
Papa laughed. "I hope you will still think it glorious when the weeding time comes," he said, "for you know, you and mother have promised to take care of this garden, while I take care of the big one."
"I wouldn't NOT take care of it for anything!" said Margery. "I want to feel that it is my very own."
Her father kissed her, and said it was certainly her "very own."
Two evenings after that, when Margery was called in from her first ramble in a "really, truly pasture," she found the expressman at the door of the little house.
"Something for you, Margery," said her mother, with the look she had when something nice was happening.
It was a box, quite a big box, with a label on it that said:—