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Bill’s Tombstone
by
But we were not to be thus repulsed with impunity. We made complete but cautious inquiries, and found out that the reason she cried when she saw soldiers was that she had only one son, a boy. He was twenty-two, and he had gone to the war last April. So that she thought of him when she saw the soldiers, and that was why she cried. Because when your son is at the wars you always think he is being killed. I don’t know why. A great many of them are not. If I had a son at the wars I should never think he was dead till I heard he was, and perhaps not then, considering everything.
After we had found this out we held a council.
Dora said, “We must do something for the soldier’s widowed mother.”
We all agreed, but added, “What?”
Alice said, “The gift of money might be deemed an insult by that proud, patriotic spirit. Besides, we haven’t more than eighteenpence among us.”
We had put what we had to father’s L12 to buy the baccy and pipes.
The Mouse then said, “Couldn’t we make her a flannel petticoat and leave it without a word upon her doorstep?”
But every one said, “Flannel petticoats in this weather?” so that was no go.
Noel said he would write her a poem, but Oswald had a deep, inward feeling that Mrs. Simpkins would not understand poetry. Many people do not.
H. O. said, “Why not sing ‘Rule Britannia’ under her window after she had gone to bed, like waits,” but no one else thought so.
Denny thought we might get up a subscription for her among the wealthy and affluent, but we said again that we knew money would be no balm to the haughty mother of a brave British soldier.
“What we want,” Alice said, “is something that will be a good deal of trouble to us and some good to her.”
“A little help is worth a deal of poetry,” said Denny. I should not have said that myself. Noel did look sick.
“What does she do that we can help in?” Dora asked. “Besides, she won’t let us help.”
H. O. said, “She does nothing but work in the garden. At least if she does anything inside you can’t see it, because she keeps the door shut.”
Then at once we saw. And we agreed to get up the very next day, ere yet the rosy dawn had flushed the east, and have a go at Mrs. Simpkins’s garden.
We got up. We really did. But too often when you mean to, over night, it seems so silly to do it when you come to waking in the dewy morn. We crept down-stairs with our boots in our hands. Denny is rather unlucky, though a most careful boy. It was he who dropped his boot, and it went blundering down the stairs, echoing like thunder-bolts, and waking up Albert’s uncle. But when we explained to him that we were going to do some gardening he let us, and went back to bed.
Everything is very pretty and different in the early morning, before people are up. I have been told this is because the shadows go a different way from what they do in the awake part of the day. But I don’t know. Noel says the fairies have just finished tidying up then. Anyhow it all feels quite otherwise.
We put on our boots in the porch, and we got our gardening tools and we went down to the white cottage. It is a nice cottage, with a thatched roof, like in the drawing-copies you get at girls’ schools, and you do the thatch–if you can–with a B.B. pencil. If you cannot, you just leave it. It looks just as well, somehow, when it is mounted and framed.
We looked at the garden. It was very neat. Only one patch was coming up thick with weeds. I could see groundsell and chickweed, and others that I did not know. We set to work with a will. We used all our tools–spades, forks, hoes, and rakes–and Dora worked with the trowel, sitting down, because her foot was hurt. We cleared the weedy patch beautifully, scraping off all the nasty weeds and leaving the nice clean brown dirt. We worked as hard as ever we could. And we were happy, because it was unselfish toil, and no one thought then of putting it in the Book of Golden Deeds, where we had agreed to write down our virtuous actions and the good doings of each other, when we happen to notice them.