Jemmy was five, I seven—two quaint little people we must have looked, as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.
"We mustn't be idle—the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy, turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded—
"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."
"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?" reasoned Jemmy.
"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and thinking myself a very industrious little woman.
Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the cross-roads, we met Uncle John.
"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"
"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.
"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma—and we're not midges, uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.
"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply, putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.