Henry Mitchell’s nursery garden was set with long rows of trees, shrubs and plants. It sat on the edge of the town. In one corner of its acreage was the little grey cottage where Henry and his wife, Anne, lived. They were childless and well on in years, trying honestly to choke down homesickness and to acclimatize themselves as well as their Old Country plants to their step-land. Small came into the nursery garden…
It happened many times, and it always happened just in that corner of the old garden. When it was going to happen, the dance in your feet took you there without your doing anything about it. You danced through the flower garden and the vegetable garden till you came to the row of currant bushes, and then you danced down it. First came the black currants with their strong wild smell. Then came the…
I heard two women talking. One said to the other, “Mrs. Crane has a large heart.” “Yes,” replied her companion, “and it is in the right place too.” I thought, “That’s queer–hearts are in the middle of people. How can any person know if another person’s heart is big or small, or if it is in the right or the wrong place?” Soon after I heard this conversation about Mrs. Crane’s heart, our Mother…