Chapter 9: How Spring Came to the Cabbage Patch

“The roads, the woods, the heavens, the hills
Are not a world to-day—
But just a place God made for us
In which to play.”
WHEN the last snow of the winter had melted, and the water was no longer frozen about the corner pump, the commons lost their hard, brown look, and a soft green tinge appeared instead. There were not many ways of telling when spring came to the Cabbage Patch; no trees shook forth their glad little leaves of welcome, no anemones and snow-drops brought the gentle message, even the birds that winged their way from the South-land hurried by, without so much as a chirp of greeting.

But the Cabbage Patch knew it was spring, nevertheless; something whispered it in the air, a dozen little signs gave the secret away; weeds were springing up in the fence corners, the puddles which a few months ago were covered with ice now reflected bits of blue sky, and the best token of all was the bright, warm sunshine that clung to the earth as if to love it back into beauty and life again.

One afternoon Mrs. Wiggs stood at her gate talking to Redding. It was the first time he had been there since Christmas day, for his first visit had been too painful for him to desire to repeat it.

“Yes, indeed, Billy kin go,” Mrs. Wiggs was saying. “I’m mighty glad you drove him by home to git on his good coat. He never was to the fair grounds before; it’ll be a big treat. How’s Mr. Dick to-day?”

“No better,” said Redding; “he coughed all night.”

“He was takin’ a nap o’ sleep when I went to clean up this mornin’,” said Mrs. Wiggs, “so I didn’t disturb him. He ain’t fer long, pore feller!”

“No, poor chap,” said Redding, sadly.

Mrs. Wiggs saw the shadow on his face, and hastened to change the subject. “What do you think of Asia’s fence?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“She done it herself,” said Mrs. Wiggs. “That an’ the pavement, too. Mrs. Krasmier’s goat et up her flowers las’ year, an’ this year she ‘lowed she’d fix it different. Chris Hazy, that boy over yonder with the peg-stick, helped her dig the post-boles, but she done the rest herself.”

“Well, she is pretty clever!” said Redding, almost incredulously, as he examined the fence and sidewalk. “How old is she?”

“Fourteen, goin’ on to fifteen. Asia, come here.”

The girl left the flower-bed she was digging, and came forward.

“Not a very big girl, are you?” said Redding, smiling at her. “How would you like to go up to the tile factory, and learn to do decorating?”

Her serious face lit up with great enthusiasm; she forgot her shyness, and said, eagerly: “Oh, yes, sir! Could I?”

Before Redding could answer, Mrs. Wiggs broke in:

“You’d be gittin’ a artist, Mr. Bob! Them fingers of hers kin do anything. Last fall she built that there little greenhouse out of ole planks, an’ kep’ it full of flowers all winter; put a lamp in durin’ the cold spell. You orter see the things she’s painted. And talk about mud pictures! She could jes’ take some of that there mud under that hoss’s feet, an’ make it look so much like you, you wouldn’t know which was which.”