“I guess people aren’t very nice about it since the war,” said Wilfred knowledgeably.

“Oh no, Old Tom doesn’t care about that,” I said. “No, he says it’s because taking care of it is such a bear. But I know he doesn’t mean it. It’s the one he truly loves, and he fusses over it the most with all its precise plantings and little walkways. It’s also the one he’s spent the most money on. Every time he does something new in it, it reveals something else that should be there. First it was stone lanterns that led to a little bridge over the creek. After that he dammed the creek and made a water lily pond. The lily pond revealed a need for a pergola with wisteria hanging from it in long lavender strands. Which revealed a lack of koi, so he started buying koi, which the herons ate until he figured out a netting he could put over the top of the pond to keep them out. Whenever a true gardener visits the farm it’s the Japanese garden they ooh and aah over.”

We worked in silence for a bit after that. The last load we dumped was in the Japanese garden. Winifred and I stopped to sniff the wisteria. I didn’t spend a lot of time in the Japanese garden. It was a little persnickety for my taste, but the wisteria smelled wonderful. If Old Tom ever needed some peace, he could be found on the stone bench by the tiny waterfall he had built. He said there was nothing like listening to the sound of water burbling to calm yourself.

Then Old Tom called from the English garden, and Wilfred trotted off there to help weed and to spread the compost.

Winifred and I headed back to the chicken coop to finish gathering, candling, and packing eggs.

“Aren’t we supposed to leave compost outside the night garden?” asked Winifred as we packed the last egg and picked the boxes up to take to the root cellar to keep cool.

Before I could answer, Sina came into the egg-candling room and broke all precedent by saying, “Franny, dear, can you put the eggs and milk into the truck? I’m going to Brookman’s.”

“But you were just there Saturday,” I said.

“Yes, I know, but I can go again if I like, I guess. And besides, Zebediah wants me to mail his letter for him.”

“Zebediah is writing to Mother and Daddy?” asked Winifred.

Sina pulled the letter out of her pocket and said, “No, just your father apparently.”

Winifred and I looked at each other.

“What?” said Sina. “Why shouldn’t he write to his father?”

“No reason,” said Winifred and I together.

Sina gave us a long, speculative look, so I said, “Anyhow, Sina, you never go to Brookman’s more than once a week. You always say that to go more often would cost us in gas what little profit we make on the eggs and milk.”