'Like men's human figgers,' said the gardener sagely. 'Ain't no two on 'em just alike.'
Talking and cutting, they had crossed the meadow and came to a rocky height which rose at one side of it; such as one is never very far from in New England. Here there were no dandelions, but Esther eagerly sought for something more ornamental. And she found it. With exclamations of deep delight she endeavoured to dig up a root of bloodroot which lifted its most delicate and dainty blossom a few inches above the dead leaves and moss with which the ground under the trees was thickly covered. Christopher came to her help.
'What are you goin' to do with this now, Miss Esther?'
'I want to plant it out in my garden. Won't it grow?'
Christopher answered evasively. 'These here purty little things is freaky,' said he. 'They has notions. Now the Sanguinaria likes just what it has got here; a little bit of rich soil, under shade of woods, and with covering of wet dead leaves for its roots. It's as dainty as a lady.'
'Sanguinaria?' said Esther. 'I call it bloodroot.'
'Sanguinaria canadensis. That's its name, Miss Esther.'
'Why isn't the other its name?'
'That's its nickname, you may say. Look here, Miss Esther,—here's the Hepatica for you.'
Esther sprang forward to where Christopher was softly pushing dead leaves and sticks from a little low bunch of purple flowers. She stretched out her hand with the trowel, then checked herself.