c1934
Stately and tall they grew that first sweet summer. They
were late, purposely late; planted in the deep shadow of the north side of the
stone wall that separated the front yard from the garden. Then they were
breeders---the latest and the tallest obtainable. Early cottage, later Darwins—all
had gone; but these persisted into June, nodding in the cool shadow of the grey
stone masonry, their gold accentuated by the greyness.
Half a dozen varieties were there—all yellow save some
delicate white [plumeria] albas that mingled with the back row.
Thanksgiving morning, they had planted them.
*****
In to the florists for the third time that week went
Johannen. Sick people were numerous. This and that hospital address he looked
up. Finally, he wrote a card to M. Hestern—“what was that number 28? 31-yes.
238i. Backlots Pl.” He knew it by heart, that steep hill, couldn’t keep a quiet
engine going up, all the neighbors could hear. This florist was on the other
side of the village—he wouldn’t guess. He paid his money, wrote the card, went
out the back door.
In by the front came elder Green; looked over the flowers,
sweet peas—nay daffodils, he didn’t like yellow. The Widdow Hestern did, he
didn’t cause she did. He looked around, walked to the desk, paid his five
dollars, and saw—the Rev. Johannen card when the florist was waiting on another
customer. He peered in the envelope, yes Rev. Johannen. “In remembering May Day
27.” “’27?” Green’s mind went back. He hurried home to his diary. Yes, an X was
there. He was sure Reverend Johannen had been there that day when Widdow
Hestern had turned him down.
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