122 UNOPENED PARCELS.

Now papa was no gardener, as we all knew, and
his giving his opinion at all about tulips and
crocuses made me laugh. Besides, I couldn’t
think what the Lord Mayor’s Show could have to
do with our flowers, and said so. But when I rested
my flowerpot on a chair to hear his answer, he
would give no explanation of the how and the
why, only repeated that it was so: he didn’t know
the inside of all the unopened parcels in the world,
he said. On which I laughed again, and ran away
to my garden and its easier thoughts.

Two years later grandmamma’s parcel contained
for me a copy of Longfellow’s poems, and before
many days were over I had come across his “‘ Lad-
der of St. Augustine,” and the old memories re-
vived as fresh in my mind as a Californian rock
rose in water :—the walnut,—the long evening
with my father,—his warning the following day.

Iran downstairs to my happy haunt, the library,
and rushed in regardless of ceremony. “Do you
remember, papa?” I cried, proud to remember so
well myself, and pointed triumphantly to the open
page of the book—‘‘there’s something about it