I much admired some daffodils, and Mr. Andrewes at once
began to pick a bunch of them for me.
"Isn't it a pity to pick them?" I said, politely.
"My dear Regie," said Mr. Andrewes, "if ever you see anybody with a
good garden of flowers who grudges picking them for his friends, you
may be quite sure he has not learnt half of what his flowers can teach
him. Flowers are generous enough. The more you take from them the more
they give. And yet I have seen people with beds glowing with
geraniums, and trees laden with roses, who grudged to pluck them, not
knowing that they would bloom all the better and more luxuriantly for
being culled."
"Do daffodils flower better when the flowers are picked off?" I asked,
having my full share of the childish propensity for asking awkward and
candid questions. Mr. Andrewes laughed.
"Well, no. I must confess they are not quite like geraniums in this
respect. And spring flowers are so few and so precious, one may be
excused for not quite cutting them like summer flowers. But it
wouldn't do only to be generous when it costs one nothing. Eh, Regie?"
I laughed and said "No," which was what I was expected to say, and
thanked the parson for the daffodils.
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