The robin was tremendously busy.  He was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate.  He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff.  Where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil.  Now here was this new kind of creature who was not half Ben’s size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once.

Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner.  In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours.  She had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them.

“I shall come back this afternoon,” she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her.

Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy.  She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted.

“Two pieces o’ meat an’ two helps o’ rice puddin’!” she said.  “Eh! mother will be pleased when I tell her what th’ skippin’-rope’s done for thee.”

In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion.  She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was.

“Martha,” she said, “what are those white roots that look like onions?”

“They’re bulbs,” answered Martha.  “Lots o’ spring flowers grow from ’em.  Th’ very little ones are snowdrops an’ crocuses an’ th’ big ones are narcissusis an’ jonquils an’ daffydowndillys.  Th’ biggest of all is lilies an’ purple flags.  Eh! they are nice.  Dickon’s got a whole lot of ‘em planted in our bit o’ garden.”

“Does Dickon know all about them?” asked Mary, a new idea taking possession of her.

“Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk.  Mother says he just whispers things out o’ th’ ground.”

“Do bulbs live a long time?  Would they live years and years if no one helped them?” inquired Mary anxiously.

“They’re things as helps themselves,” said Martha.  “That’s why poor folk can afford to have ’em.  If you don’t trouble ’em, most of ’em’ll work away underground for a lifetime an’ spread out an’ have little ’uns.  There’s a place in th’ park woods here where there’s snowdrops by thousands.  They’re the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th’ spring comes.  No one knows when they was first planted.”

“I wish the spring was here now,” said Mary.  “I want to see all the things that grow in England.”