And the same can be said o' these miller's wheels. 'Tis
a flower I like very much, though so simple. John says he never
cares about the flowers o' 'em, but men have no eye for anything
neat. He says his favourite flower is a cauliflower. And I
assure you I tremble in the springtime, for 'tis perfect murder.'
'You don't say so, Mrs. Smith!'
'John digs round the roots, you know. In goes his blundering
spade, through roots, bulbs, everything that hasn't got a good
show above ground, turning 'em up cut all to slices. Only the
very last fall I went to move some tulips, when I found every bulb
upside down, and the stems crooked round. He had turned 'em over
in the spring, and the cunning creatures had soon found that
heaven was not where it used to be.'
'What's that long-favoured flower under the hedge?'
'They? O Lord, they are the horrid Jacob's ladders! Instead of
praising 'em, I be mad wi' 'em for being so ready to bide where
they are not wanted. They be very well in their way, but I do not
care for things that neglect won't kill. Do what I will, dig,
drag, scrap, pull, I get too many of 'em. I chop the roots: up
they'll come, treble strong. Throw 'em over hedge; there they'll
grow, staring me in the face like a hungry dog driven away, and
creep back again in a week or two the same as before. 'Tis
Jacob's ladder here, Jacob's ladder there, and plant 'em where
nothing in the world will grow, you get crowds of 'em in a month
or two.
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