I

STILL, IT WAS REALLY A RADISH

AND so the month of February passed. Once the vines had started up the strings, they seemed to grow faster—almost as if they were running races, while the pease reached out and clung to the little twigs, and stood up straight and trim, like soldiers. The pansies and nasturtiums, too, and the lettuce and radishes all sent out more and more leaves, and began to hide the little pods. Davy was wild to pull up just one radish to see if it wasn't big enough to eat, but on the first day of March, when the Chief Gardener told him that he might do so, he was grieved to find only a pale little root, just a bit larger and a trifle pinker at the top, instead of the fat, round vegetable he had expected.

Still, it was really a radish, Davy said, and he cut the thickest part in two and gave half to little Prue, who brought out her little dishes and set her table that Santa Claus left under the Christmas Tree. Then she put her piece on one little plate, and Davy's piece on another, and picked one tiny pansy leaf and one from the nasturtiums to make bouquets. And Davy picked a lettuce leaf—a very small lettuce leaf—for a salad, so that when their little table was all spread and ready, with some very small slices of bread, and some cookies—some quite large cookies—and some animal crackers, with milk for tea, it really looked quite fresh and pretty and made you hungry just to look at it.

And, oh, yes, I forgot to say that there was some salt, the least little bit, in two of the tiniest salt dishes, and when they sat down at last to the very first meal out of their garden, all on the first day of March, when no other gardens around about had been planted yet, they dipped the tiny bits of radish into the tiny salt dishes, and nibbled it, just a wee bit at a time to make it last, and last, ever so long. And they said it tasted real radishy, and that the lettuce leaf, with one drop of vinegar and a speck of salt, was just fine. And little Prue held her doll and made her taste, too, and then the Chief Gardener and grown-up Prue must each have a tiny, tiny bite.

And so, of course, Davy got to be really quite proud of his first radish, and said that after all it wasn't so bad for the first one, and that it was almost as big as a slate-pencil, in the thickest part. Pretty soon they might have a radish that would be big enough for each one to have quite a piece, and they would serve it on a whole leaf of salad. He felt sure that on his birthday, which would be on the tenth, they might really have something very nice.

Then Prue was very quiet for a minute, thinking. By and by she asked:

"And do you think I will have flowers for Davy's birthday? Davy can just pick his lettuce and radishes any time. My 'sturtiums and pansies are as big as his things, but I have to wait for them to bloom."

"Why, that's so, Prue." The Chief Gardener went over to her pansies and looked at them very closely, but if he saw anything he did not speak of it. "Oh, well," he said, "if you don't have flowers for Davy's birthday, maybe you will for mine. It comes in March, too, you know. And then it's ten days yet till Davy's, and you never can tell what will happen in ten days."

Alas, this was too true. It got quite warm during the second week of March, and the fire in the furnace was allowed to get low. Then one night it suddenly turned cold—as cold as January.

"Oh, what makes some of my pea leaves look so dark?" asked Davy, as they stopped in the icy sitting-room for a moment, before hurrying through to the warm dining-room, where a big open fire was blazing.

The Chief Gardener shook his head, rather solemnly.

"I'm afraid they are bitten a little by Jack Frost," he said.

"Oh, mine are all dark, too," whispered Prue, sorrowfully. "I am going to take them right out to the dining-room fire, and warm them."

"And that would be the very worst thing you could do," said the Chief Gardener. "Let them stay right where they are, and we will heat the room slowly by opening the register just the least bit at a time, and draw the shades to keep out the sun. Perhaps if we do that the frost will come out so gently that the plants will not be killed. If you should warm them quickly they would be very apt to die, or at least to be badly injured."

So they did as the Chief Gardener said, and kept the sitting-room quite cool all day. Then by another day the pease and all the others looked about as well as ever, only a few of the tenderest leaves withered up and dropped off because Jack Frost had breathed harder on these than on the others. As for the radishes and lettuce and pansies, they hadn't minded it the least bit, for they can stand a good deal of cold, and the corn and sunflower and nasturtiums didn't lose any leaves, so, perhaps, they didn't care for a touch of frost either.

II

THE SUN SWINGS LIKE A GREAT PENDULUM

And now with each day there was brighter sunshine that came earlier and stayed longer. From a high east window they saw the sun rise each morning, when it was bright weather, and when they happened to be awake in time, and they saw how the big red ball crept farther and farther to the north, along the far fringe of trees, beyond all the houses which they could see.

"It rose away down beyond that little white house on Christmas morning," said Davy, who was always up early. "I remember very well. Now it's got past the tall pine by the red barn. How much farther will it go?"

The Chief Gardener pointed to a dim pencil-mark on the window-sill.

"That was the angle of the shadow," he said, "on the twenty-first of June, and points to just where the sun will rise on the longest day of the year. You will have to be up very early to see it on that day." He pointed to another faint line. "That," he said, "was the angle on the twenty-first of December, the shortest day. The sun swings like a great pendulum from one point to the other and gives us winter and summer, and all the seasons between. Half-way between these marks is due east, and there the sun will rise on the twenty-first of March, which is the first day of spring."

"Do you think our garden things are looking at it, and wishing it would hurry and get farther toward the June mark," said little Prue.

"I think they are," the Chief Gardener answered. "They don't have eyes, as we have, but they have a way of seeing the sun, and of knowing just where it is, for most of them turn toward it as they grow, and some of them follow it all the way across the sky, from morning until night, and then turn back and wait for it to rise again. Your sunflower would do that, Prue, if it were out under the open sky."

"Oh, it does now. I mean it looks toward the sun in the morning, with its top leaves, and keeps them turned toward it as far as it can."

"So you have noticed that, have you? Well, I'm glad, for I have read in books—books written by very wise men—that the sunflower did not really do this, but that it was just an old fable. I think those wise men, perhaps, never saw the wild western sunflowers, but only the big tame ones that have heavy, coarse stems and are so big and clumsy and fat that they couldn't well turn, even if they wanted to. I have seen whole fields of wild sunflowers—little ones like yours, and long before they were in bloom—with every stem bent toward the sunrise, when there was not a breath of wind blowing; and I have seen the same flowers straighten their little stems as the sun rose higher, and then bend them again to the west in the evening; and the little bend would be so tight and firm that you could hardly straighten the stalk without breaking it. Very wise men make mistakes sometimes, mistakes that even a little girl would not make, just because they have not happened to see something which a little girl with sharp eyes has seen and thought about. It is a wonderful and beautiful sight on the prairies of the West to see miles of wild sunflowers in full bloom. They are like a great sea of gold, and in the early morning, when the air is still, every bloom is faced toward the sunrise, as bright and fresh and faithful as the sun itself."

"I should think there would be a story about the sunflower," said Davy, half speaking to himself.

"Oh, there have been many stories about it, Davy. After breakfast I will try and remember the one I like best."

So then they hurried down to the dining-room, pausing just long enough to see that the garden was all safe, and to notice that the upper leaves of Prue's sunflower were really faced so far to the sun that there was a sharp little crook in the stem, then out to the big dining-room fire, for the fragrant breakfast that was waiting, and back to the library fire for the story that was to be told.

III

LONG BEFORE THERE WERE ANY RAILROADS AND CITIES

"Once upon a time—"

"Oh," said Prue, "once upon a time—I just love 'once upon a time.'"

"Yes," nodded Davy, solemnly, "and once upon a time there was a little girl who couldn't keep still so that her Papa could tell a story."

Prue snuggled down, and the Chief Gardener began all over.

"Once upon a time, long before there were any railroads, and cities such as ours, long before Columbus ever sailed over the ocean to a new world—when all this great wide country, as you know, was held by Indians, who hunted and fished, and made war sometimes, when they had disputes—there lived away in the far West two very friendly tribes. Their lands joined and they hunted together, and when one tribe was at war the other joined in and helped to fight the enemy. So they became almost as one tribe and their children grew up together.

"Now, in one tribe there was a little Indian boy, a chief's son, who was very fond of a little Indian girl of the other tribe. Their mothers had always been great friends, and often for a whole day at a time the little Indian boy and girl played together, and as they grew up they cared for each other more and more, and the Indian boy, Ahlogah, said that when he was older and a chief he would make the little Indian girl, Laida, his wife.

"But it happened that in Laida's tribe there was also a chief's son, a jealous-hearted and cruel boy that Laida did not like. But this boy cared for Laida, and like Ahlogah made up his mind that some day she should be his wife.

"So they all grew up, and Ahlogah and Laida loved each other more dearly every day, and Kapoka, the other youth, grew more jealous and more cruel-hearted. And when one day his father died, and he became chief of his tribe, he said that if she did not give up Ahlogah, he would make war on Ahlogah's tribe.

"So then Ahlogah and Laida met one evening just before sunset to say good-by for the last time. Their tribes had never been at war, and they were willing to part forever to keep Kapoka from making a war now. Laida had not promised to marry Kapoka, she had only promised not to see Ahlogah again. And now they parted, just as the sun was going down, and they both turned to see it for the last time side by side. And then Ahlogah said:

"'To-morrow just at sunrise go to the high rocks above the river and look to the east. And where the river passes through our lands, I will go also to see some high rocks, and I will look to the east, too, when the sun rises, and I will know that though we are apart, we are watching the sun rise together, and it will be always our message of love to each other as it travels across the sky.'

"So Laida went back to her tribe and Ahlogah to his, and every morning they watched from their high rocks above the river, and held out their arms to the rising sun, as a message it should bear between them.

"And Kapoka found out that Laida went every morning to the high rocks, and held out her arms to the sun. And he found that Ahlogah also went every morning to the high rocks farther up the river. Then Kapoka knew that Laida would never be his wife as long as Ahlogah was alive. And one morning very early Kapoka left his wigwam and crept across to the lands of the other tribes, and to the high rocks where Ahlogah stood waiting for the sunrise. And just as the sun rose, and Kapoka knew that Ahlogah would not hear him, he slipped up behind Ahlogah, and gave him a great push that sent him over into the swift river, hundreds of feet below.

"And the swift river caught him and tossed him and whirled him about, and finally carried him down past the high rocks where Laida was sending her message to the sun. And Laida looked down and saw him coming. She saw his chieftain's dress and plumes tossed and whirled by the water. She knew it was Ahlogah, and she waited for him. Then, when he just was below the high rocks where she stood, she gave a great cry, 'Ahlogah!' and she was in the whirling, tossing water beside him.

"Then the tribes searched together, and they found Ahlogah and Laida far below, cast up on a place of white pebbles, side by side. And they buried them, side by side, and both the tribes mourned. But when the spring came there grew upon their graves two strange flowers with bright, beautiful faces that turned each morning to the sunrise. And these they named Ahlogah and Laida, but in another year there were more of them, so they called them sunflowers, and after that the land in September, the month when they had died, was like gold with the beautiful flowers of the sun."

"But what became of the wicked Kapoka? What did they do with him?" asked Prue, anxiously.

"They never saw him again. I suppose he was ashamed to come back, and by and by his brother, who was good and noble, ruled the tribe, and they dwelt in peace for many generations."

"Do sunflowers belong to a family now?" asked Davy.

"Oh, yes, to the very largest of all families—a family that spreads all over the world, and the sunflower has been found to be so perfect in form that the family is sometimes called the Sunflower Family. Its true name is the Composite Family, which means flowers with thick, bunchy centers, formed of a lot of very tiny little flowers, with a rim of petals around the whole—rays they are called—making it into one big flower."

"The black-eyed Susans must belong to that family, too," said Davy.

"They do, and the daisy, and the marigold, and the zinnia, and the aster, and your lettuce, too, Davy, and many, many more. Whenever you see a flower with a round bunchy center and a rim of petals, like a sunflower—no matter what color or how small it is—you will know it belongs to the Composite Family. I suppose there are more of this family in America than in any other country, but the sunflower is the finest of them all, and the most generally useful. Its seeds are full of fine oil, and are excellent food for cattle and poultry. The Indians sometimes use them for bread. The flowers themselves are full of honey, the leaves, too, are good for cattle, and the stalks make fine fuel. In many places and many countries the sunflowers are cultivated and valued highly. Of course, there are other useful members, and your lettuce is one of the finest salads in the world."

IV

DID YOU EVER SEE THE LITTLE MAN IN THE PANSY?

March was really an exciting month in the little window gardens. With longer and brighter suns, everything grew faster, until the windows began to look full and green, and the children often went outside to look in, and were very proud, indeed, of the pretty show of vines and leaves beyond the glass.

The race of vines became very close. Davy had one bean and Prue one morning-glory which kept ahead of the others, and grew about the same each day. They grew so fast that Davy thought if he would only watch very closely he would be able to see them grow a little, but watch as he would, he never could catch the little vine turning or sending out a new leaf. It was like the short hand of the clock. It went twice around each day, but nobody could see it move.

The corn and the sunflower were having a race, too, and the sunflower was a little ahead, though Davy's corn was a good deal taller when he lifted the points of the leaves.

"I don't think that is fair," said Prue, and the Chief Gardener was called to decide.

"No," he said, "the corn must be measured from where the leaves turn over, until it sends up its tassel, or bloom. Then it may be measured to the top of that. And that may be sooner than you think, too," he added, as he looked down into the healthy-looking green stalk that was fully two feet high. "And just see those vines; why they are more than half-way up the casings already!"

It was the day before Davy's birthday, and Prue was looking anxiously at her pansies. All at once she gave a joyous cry.

"Oh, Papa, a bud! Oh, it truly is, a real sure enough bud!"

The Chief Gardener looked with care.

"Yes," he said, "it is really a bud, and quite a large one, too. It begins to show the color. It's going to be a purple one, I believe."

Prue was fairly wild with excitement.

"Oh, may I pick it to-morrow for Davy's birthday?" she asked.

"I don't believe I would, Prue. It won't be open for a week or more, perhaps. I would wait until it opens."

So Davy's birthday came and passed without flowers from their garden, but they did have radishes, two of them, and these were cut in two and divided around so that each had quite a nice taste, and a leaf of salad, too. The radishes were nearly as big as marbles, little marbles, of course, and very red and beautiful, and Prue put her pansy-pot on the table, and showed the bud, with its purple tip, every time Davy made any mention of his radishes or his lettuce, and with a big cake and other good things they had a very happy time indeed.

But now things began to happen in real earnest. The pansy bloomed—a big velvety, purple bloom, and then there was a yellow bud and a yellow bloom with a purple spot in the center. Little Prue was simply too happy to keep still, and danced in front of her garden almost from morning until night.

Then suddenly they found a bud on the bean vines, and then on the morning-glories, and then there were blooms—pink and purple blooms on the morning-glories, and scarlet and white ones on the beans. Then Davy's corn sent out a plume at the top, a wonderful tassel, and when Davy measured to the top of it he found that it was over three feet high.

"My birthday will be a regular feast of flowers," said the Chief Gardener, and really there was good reason for saying so, for the window casings were white, scarlet, pink, and purple, and the tasseling corn and the broad green leaves of the sunflower were fair and lovely. And Prue's pansy-pot was again on the table, and when the dinner was over, the Chief Gardener drew it toward him, and picking one of the purple blooms that was nearly ready to fall, said:

"Did you ever see the little man in the pansy?"

"No, oh, no," said Prue and Davy together. "Show him to us, Papa."

So then the Chief Gardener pulled off carefully all the petals of the flower, and there, sure enough, sat a little round-bodied man, in a wonderful green chair, made of the outer part, or calyx, of the flower. His head was light green, his coat pale yellow, and he wore a rich, brown collar. Just below him was a round green sack or tube, filled with water, and when the Chief Gardener slitted it down, why there, truly, were two little legs and feet that had been in the little vessel. The children were delighted.

"Oh, tell us about him!" they said. "Who is he?"

"He was a king," said the Chief Gardener, "a poor, feeble king, who always sat on a green throne, with his feet in a tub of water. And his wife and daughters, all very splendidly dressed, used to perch themselves around him on the throne and ask for more money to spend on their fine clothes, and they were often cruel to him because he wouldn't give it to them, crowding him and almost smothering him with their velvet dresses.

"So one day the fairies heard of it, and came to see. And they took pity on the poor king, and the next time the wife and daughters were crowding him on his throne they changed the king and his throne and all the others, with their fine dresses, into a flower. And the flower was the pansy. The velvet petals are the wife and daughters. The calyx is the green throne, and this little man is the poor, sick king with his feet and legs still in the little tub of water, though he can never be worried and scolded again."

"I know that story is true," said little Prue, "for there is the very little man, himself, and oh, see, you can take his coat off, and there is a little green body inside."

Sure enough, it was as Prue had said, and the Chief Gardener explained. "That little body becomes a pod to hold the seeds by and by. The little coat helps to make the seed, too. I won't tell you all the names of these things now, for you could not remember so much. Only try to remember that the green throne is called the calyx, and each little piece of it is a sepal, while the beautiful wife and daughters are called petals, and when taken together are called a corolla, and that this is true of every complete flower."

And so March, too, slipped away. And on one day near the very end of the month, when it had been warm and bright for nearly a week, the Chief Gardener went out into his garden and turned over some of the earth which was getting dry. Davy said that it smelled all new and springy, and reminded him of kite-time. And then the Chief Gardener made two little beds of his own, and in one he sowed some lettuce, and in the other some radish seed, because these were the things most likely to grow from an early planting. Davy and Prue watched and helped, and were very anxious to have little beds of their own, but the Chief Gardener told them that they would better wait at least another month before they did any outside gardening. Their window gardens were just coming to their best time, he said, and planting outside so early was always risky.

And that night when the wind went to the northeast, and a cold rain set in, that turned to snow before morning, and made the ground all white and glassy like December, they were very glad they had not made any beds, and were sorry for the Chief Gardener's little beds of vegetables, outside beneath the cold, cold snow.