The Brimming Cup

* * * * *

Mr. Welles drew back humbly from out their path. These were men, useful

to the world, strong for labor. He must needs stand back with the child.

With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, still

valid, still fit for something. For a moment it did not seem as sweet as

he had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old and

useless.

II

April 12.

He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morning

applied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work. Surely this must

be late enough, even in this "suburb of the North Pole," as Vincent

called Vermont. Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping her

rapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, if

he was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for the

sweet peas. It wouldn't do any harm to plant them now, though it might

not do any good either; and he mustn't be surprised to find occasional

chunks of earth still frozen. She would be over in a little while to

show him about it. Let him get his pick-mattock, spade, and rake ready,

up by the corner of his stone wall.

* * * * *

He was waiting there, ten minutes later, the new implements (bought at

Mrs. Crittenden's direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall.

The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earth

alive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held it

like stone when he had first trod his garden. He leaned against the

stone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, and

looked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones. There

it lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stems

of last year's weeds, and unsightly with half-rotten lumps of manure.

And that would feed and nourish . . .

For an instant there stood there before his flower-loving eyes the

joyful tangle of fresh green vines, the pearly many-colored flesh of the

petals, their cunning, involved symmetry of form--all sprung from a

handful of wrinkled yellow seeds and that ugly mixture of powdered stone

and rotten decay.

It was a wonderful business, he thought.

Mrs. Crittenden emerged from her house now, in a short skirt, rough

heavy shoes, and old flannel shirt. She looked, he thought, ever so trig

and energetic and nice; but suddenly aware that Vincent was gazing idly

out of an upper window at them, he guessed that the other man would not

admire the costume. Vincent was so terribly particular about how ladies

dressed, he thought to himself, as he moved forward, mattock in hand.