Nasturtiums for Grandma Minnie

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Fresh Micro Basil Thai. Fresh Micro Beet Bulls Blood. It had become a baby with a big naked head and a gaping bird mouth, opening and shutting. Her father broke into a loud clattering laugh and Linda woke to see Burnell standing by the windows rattling the venetian blinds up to the very top.

Nothing much the matter with the weather this morning. Weather like this set a final seal upon his bargain. He felt, somehow, that he had bought the sun too, got it chucked in, dirt cheap, with the house and grounds. He dashed off to his bath and Linda turned over, raised herself on one elbow to see the room by daylight. But this page 41 room was much bigger than their other room had been—that was a blessing. Her clothes lay across a chair; her outdoor things, a purple cape and a round hat with a plume in it, were tossed on the box ottoman. Back came Stanley girt with a towel, glowing and slapping his thighs.

He pitched the wet towel on top of her cape and hat, and standing firm in the exact centre of a square of sunlight he began to do his exercises—deep breathing, bending, squatting like a frog and shooting out his legs. He was so saturated with health that everything he did delighted him; but this amazing vigour seemed to set him miles and worlds away from Linda—she lay on the white tumbled bed, and leaned towards him, laughing as if from the sky.

He stalked over to her waving his arms. Young chaps, you know—about my own age. He began parting and brushing his stiff ginger hair, his blue eyes fixed and round in the glass, bent at the knees, because the dressing table was always—confound it—a bit too low for him.

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Stay where you are until after lunch, won't you? She had a big piece of syringa stuck through a braid of her hair. You should see poor dear Mother wringing out the sofa and chairs. It's a good six-and-a-half miles from here to the office—'. Even when they lived in town, only half an hour away, the house had to slow down each morning, had to stop like a steamer, every soul on board summoned to the gangway to watch Burnell descending the ladder and into the little cockle shell. They must wave when he waved, give him good-bye for good-bye and lavish upon him unlimited sympathy, as though they saw on the horizon's brim the untamed land to which he curved his chest so proudly—the line of leaping savages ready to fall upon his valiant sword.

But Pat was evidently not to be found; the silly voice went baaing all over the garden. Later she heard her children playing in the garden. Lottie's stolid, compact little voice cried: Isabel wheeled a neat pram-load of prim dolls and Lottie was allowed, for a great treat, to walk beside holding the doll's parasol over the face of the wax one. Fairfield, coming in at that moment with a breakfast tray. Fairfield, putting down the tray on the bed table. She brought from the cupboard a white woollen jacket trimmed with red bows and buttoned it round her daughter.

Fairfield walked about the room; she lowered the blinds, tidied away the evidences of Burnell's toilet, and gently she lifted the dampened plume of the little round hat. There was a charm and a grace in all her movements. She wore a grey foulard dress, patterned with large purple pansies, a white linen apron and one of those high caps, shaped like a jelly mould, of white tulle.

At her throat a big silver brooch shaped like a crescent moon with five owls sitting on it, and round her neck a black bead watch chain. If she had been a beauty in her youth—and she had been a very great beauty; indeed, report had it that her miniature had been painted and sent to Queen Victoria as the belle of Australia—old age had touched her with exquisite gentleness.

Her long curling hair was still black at her waist, grey between her shoulders, and it framed her head in frosted silver. The late roses—the last roses, that frail pink kind, so reluctant to fall, such a wonder to find—still bloomed in her cheeks, and behind big gold-rimmed spectacles her blue eyes shone and smiled. And she still had dimples. On the backs of her hands, at her elbows—one in the left hand corner of her chin. Her body was the colour of old ivory. She bathed in cold water, summer and winter, and she could only bear linen next to her skin and suede gloves on her hands.

Upon everything page 47 she used there lingered a trace of Cashmere bouquet perfume. Pat has turned out a treasure. He has laid all the linoleum and the carpets, and Minnie seems to be taking a real interest in the kitchen and pantries. You should have a good look round when you get up.

Nasturtiums for Grandma Minnie

The house can bulge cupboards and pantries, but other people will explore them. You ought to try—to begin—even for Stanley's sake. Besides, I can rave all the better over what I haven't seen. If I were to jump out of bed now, fling on my clothes, rush downstairs, tear up a ladder, hang pictures, eat an enormous lunch, romp with the children in the garden this afternoon, and be swinging on the gate, waving, when Stanley hove in sight this evening, I believe you'd be delighted. A normal, healthy day for a young wife and mother.

Fairfield began to smile.

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I'm going to get up. Getting dressed never took her long.

She had beautiful hands, white and tiny. The only trouble with them was that they could not keep her rings on them. Happily she only had two rings: But it was her wedding ring that disappeared so. It fell down every possible place and into every possible corner.

Once she even found it in the crown of her hat. It was a familiar cry in the house: Stanley Burnell could never hear that without horrible sense of discomfort. He left that kind of rot to people who had nothing better to think about—but all the same it was devilishly annoying. And she laid dowrn the brush and went over to the mantelpiece and leaned her arms along it, her chin in her hands, and looked at his photograph.

He was taken in the fashion of that time, standing, one arm on the back of a tapestry chair, the other clenched upon a parchment roll. Her father had died the year that she married Burnell, the year of her sixteenth birthday. All her childhood had been passed in a long white house perched on a hill overlooking Wellington harbour—a house with a wild garden full of bushes and fruit trees, long thick grass and nasturtiums.

Nasturtiums grew everywhere—there was no fighting them down. They even fell in a shower over the paling fence on to the road. Red, yellow, white, every possible colour; they lighted the garden like swarms of butterflies. Fairfield managed a small insurance business page 51 that could not have been very profitable, yet they lived plentifully. He had one saying with which he met all difficulties. She was a wild thing, always trembling on the verge of laughter, ready for anything and eager.

When he put his arm round her and held her he felt her thrilling with life. He understood her so beautifully and gave her so much love for love that he became a kind of daily miracle to her, and all her faith centred in him. People barely touched her; she was regarded as a cold, heartless little creature, but sheseemed to have an unlimited passion for that violent sweet thing called life—just being alive and able to run and climb and swim in the sea and lie in the grass.

Bring you in a good round million yearly. One day we shall dine in a palace and the next we'll sit in a forest and toast mushrooms on a hatpin…. We shall have a little boat—we shall explore the interior of China on a raft—you will look sweet in one of those huge umbrella hats that Chinamen wear in pictures. We won't leave a corner of anywhere unexplored—shall we? By the time Linda was fourteen, the big family had vanished; only she and Beryl, who was two years younger, were left.

The girls had married; the boys had gone away. Linda left off attending the Select Academy for Young Ladies presided over by Miss page 53 Clara Finetta Birch from England , a lady whose black hair lay so flat on her head that everybody said it was only painted on, and she stayed at home to be a help to her mother. That summer Burnell appeared. Every evening a stout young man in a striped shirt, with fiery red hair, and a pair of immature mutton chop whiskers, passed their house, quite slowly, four times.

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Twice up the hill he went, and twice down he came. He walked with his hands behind his back, and each time he glanced once at the verandah where they sat—Who was he? None of them knew—but he became a great joke. But he had that unfortunate complexion that goes with his colouring, and every time he so much as glanced in Linda's direction a crimson blush spread over his face to his ears.

That young fellow is after you.

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Linda and her Papa attended. She wore a green sprigged muslin with little capes on the shoulders that stood up like wings, and he wore a frock coat and a wired buttonhole as big as a soup plate. The Social began with a very painful concert. The gentlemen sang with far greater vigour and a kind of defiant cheerfulness which was almost terrifying. They looked very furious, too. Their cuffs shot over their hands, or their trousers were far too long … page 55 Comic recitations about flies on bald heads and engaged couples sitting on porch steps spread with glue werecontributed by the chemist.

Helping Linda to a horrible-looking pink blancmange, which he said was made of strangled baby's head, her father whispered: I've just spotted him blushing at a sandwich. Look out, my lass. He'll sandbag you with one of old Ma Warren's rock cakes. Away went the plates—away went the tables.

Diddle dee dum tee um tee tum Diddle dee um te um te tum ….

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Diddle dee tum tee diddle tee tum! When the dance was over they sat on a bench against the wall. Linda hummed the valse tune and beat time with her glove; she felt dreadfully shy and she was terrified of her father's merry eye. At last Burnell turned to her. He danced with a girl and then they sat on the stairs and they could not think of a thing to say.

And after he'd picked up everything she dropped from time to time, after the silence was simply unbearable, he turned round and stammered: Then she did not hear them any more. What a glare there was in the room. She hated blinds pulled up to the top at any time—but in the morning, in the page 57 morning especially! She turned over to the wall and idly, with one finger, she traced a poppy on the wallpaper with a leaf and a stem and a fat bursting bud.

In the quiet, under her tracing finger, the poppy seemed to come alive. She could feel the sticky, silky petals, the stem, hairy like a gooseberry skin, the rough leaf and the tight glazed bud. Things had a habit of coming alive in the quiet; she had often noticed it. Not only large, substantial things, like furniture, but curtains and patterns of stuffs, and fringes of quilts and cushions. How often she had seen the tassel fringe of her quilt change into a funny procession of dancers, with priests attending … for there were some tassels that did not dance at all, but walked stately, bent forward as if praying or chanting.

How often the medicine bottles had turned into a row of little men with brown top hats on. And often the washstand jug sat in the basin like a fat bird in a round nest. But the strangest part about this coming alive of things was what they did. They listened; they seemed to swell out with some mysterious important content, and when they were full she felt that they smiled. Sometimes, when she had fallen asleep in the daytime, she woke and could not lift a finger, could not even turn her eyes to left or right … they were so strong; sometimes when she went out of a room and left it empty she knew as she clicked the door to, that they were coming to life.

And Ah, there were times, especially in the evenings when she was upstairs, perhaps, and everybody else was down, when she could hardly tear herself away from them —when she could not hurry, when she tried to hum a tune to show them she did not care, when she tried to say ever so carelessly—'Bother that old thimble! Where ever have I put it? They knew how frightened she was; they saw how she turned her head away as she passed the mirror. For all their patience they wanted something of her. She opened her eyes wide; she heard the stillness spinning its soft endless web.

How lightly she breathed, she scarcely had to page 59 breathe at all … Yes, everything had come alive down to the minutest, tiniest particle and she did not feel her bed—she floated, held up in the air. The study group is still going strong today. Cornell Plantations moved offices to the old Forest Home School in From the second-floor windows Audrey gazed out over the empty, one-acre, former play yard, and her long-dormant vision for a Cornell herb garden at last began to sprout. One day over lunch, Richard M. Lewis, then director of Cornell Plantations, sketched out their ideas on a paper towel, and a basic concept for the herb garden took form.

Robison, a Cornell graduate from the class of , and he eventually funded the project as a tribute to his wife, Doris Burgess Robison. It took several more years of hard work to bring the dream to life. Finally in , overflowing with plants raised lovingly by Audrey in her home garden, the gate to the Robison York State Herb Garden at Cornell Plantations swung wide open for visitors.

Today, as you approach the garden from the old schoolhouse, you are greeted by a rather recent addition. This leafy display is punctuated by colorful exclamations of herbal flowers. The scene here varies from year to year. You may discover soft clouds of white and lavender blooms, dramatic sweeps of bold foliage and flowers in dark purples and reds, or perhaps a sunny show with golden variegated leaves and yellow blossoms. Inside the herb garden, architectural features lend an upstate New York flavor to the place. Six raised beds, the north and south enclosing walls, flagstone paving, and a central sundial are all constructed of native stone quarried locally.

The dry-laid south wall, with its stone stile for climbing, is reminiscent of early New York State farm construction, as are the split-rail fences that define the east and west boundaries. Be sure to stop and admire the antique iron gates around which the garden was built. The central court with stone benches is the perfect spot to gather for an herbal talk or demonstration, the wide grass pathways readily accommodate tour groups and photographers, and the raised beds allow easy access to some of the smaller herbs.

The hundreds of different herbs at home in the garden are grouped by use or association into a variety of theme beds. These make it easy for visitors to find herbs of special interest. Within the beds, each plant is labeled with its common and scientific names, its family, and a brief. Herbs containing oils that calm bees or soothe their stings are also included.