FullReads

“And mother’s garden,” said my mother very softly, “is only a story.”

“It’s an awfully nice story,” said Rosalee.

Young Derry Willard seemed to like stories.

“Tell it!” he begged.

It was Rosalee who told it. “Why, it was when Carol was born,” she said. “It was on a Christmas eve, you know. That’s why mother named him Carol!”

“We didn’t know then, you see”–interrupted my mother very softly–“that Carol had been given the gift of silence rather than the gift of speech.”

“And father was so happy to have a boy,” dimpled Rosalee, “that he said to mother, ‘Well, now, I guess you’ve got everything in the world that you want!’ And mother said, ‘Everything–except a spruce forest!’ So father bought her a spruce forest,” said Rosalee. “That’s the story!”

“Oh, my dear!” laughed my mother. “That isn’t a ‘story’ at all! All you’ve told is the facts! It’s the feeling of the facts that makes a story, you know! It was on my birthday,” glowed mother, “that the presentation was to be made! My birthday was in March! I was very much excited and came down to breakfast with my hat and coat on! ‘Where are you going?’ said my husband.”

“Oh–Mother!” protested Rosalee. “‘Whither away?’ was what you’ve always told us he said!”

“‘Whither away?’ of course was what he said!” laughed my mother. “‘Why, I’m going to find my spruce forest!’ I told him. ‘And I can’t wait a moment longer! Is it the big one over beyond the mountain?’ I implored him. ‘Or the little grove that the deacon tried to sell you last year?'”

“And they never budged an inch from the house!” interrupted Rosalee. “It was the funniest—-“

Over in the corner of the room my father laughed out suddenly. My father had left the table. He and Carol were trying very hard to make the spruce-tree stand upright in a huge pot of wet earth. The spruce-tree didn’t want to stand upright. My father laughed all over again. But it wasn’t at the spruce-tree. “Well, now, wouldn’t it have been a pity,” he said, “to have made a perfectly good lady fare forth on a cold March morning to find her own birthday present?”

My mother began to clap her hands. It was a very little noise. But jolly.

“It came by mail!” she cried. “My whole spruce forest! In a package no bigger than my head!”

“Than your rather fluffy head!” corrected my father.

“Three hundred spruce seedlings!” cried my mother. “Each one no bigger than a wisp of grass! Like little green ferns they were! So tender! So fluffing! So helpless!”

“Heigh-O!” said young Derry Willard. “Well, I guess you laughed–then!”

When grown-up people are trying to remember things outside themselves I’ve noticed they always open their eyes very wide. But when they are remembering things inside themselves they shut their eyes very tight. My mother shut her eyes very tight.

“No–I didn’t exactly laugh,” said my mother. “And I didn’t exactly cry.”

“You wouldn’t eat!” cried Rosalee. “Not all day, I mean! Father had to feed you with a spoon! It was in the wing-chair! You held the box on your knees! You just shone–and shone–and shone!”

“It would have been pretty hard,” said my mother, “not to have shone a–little! To brood a baby forest in one’s arms–if only for a single day–? Think of the experience!” Even at the very thought of it she began to shine all over again! “Funny little fluff o’ green,” she laughed, “no fatter than a fern!” Her voice went suddenly all wabbly like a preacher’s. “But, oh, the glory of it!” she said. “The potential majesty! Great sweeping branches–! Nests for birds, shade for lovers, masts for ships to plow the great world’s waters–timbers perhaps for cathedrals! O–h,” shivered my mother. “It certainly gave one a very queer feeling! No woman surely in the whole wide world–except the Mother of the Little Christ–ever felt so astonished to think what she had in her lap!”