That window, with its many tiny panes,
once had looked out across a wilderness, with an Indian
camp not far away. Grossmutter Pflugel had sat at that
window many a bitter winter night, with her baby in her
arms, watching and waiting for the young husband who was
urging his ox-team across the ice of Lake Michigan in the
teeth of a raging blizzard.
The little, low-ceilinged room was very still. I
looked at Alma Pflugel standing there at the window in
her neat blue gown, and something about the face and
figure--or was it the pose of the sorrowful head?--seemed
strangely familiar. Somewhere in my mind the resemblance
haunted me. Resemblance to--what? Whom?
"Would you like to see my garden?" asked Alma
Pflugel, turning from the window. For a moment I stared
in wonderment. But the honest, kindly face was
unsmiling. "These things that I have shown you, I can
take with me when I--go. But there," and she pointed
out over the bare, wind-swept lot, "there is something
that I cannot take. My flowers! You see that mound over
there, covered so snug and warm with burlap and sacking?
There my tulips and hyacinths sleep. In a few weeks,
when the covering is whisked off--ah, you shall see!
Then one can be quite sure that the spring is here.
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