[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger worked quite happily in the Inn garden. The potatoes had been mounded all nicely in their little hills of straw, and now she knelt down, taking care to keep her skirt out of the dirt and weeded the neat rows of herbs. Sages of several sorts with their grey, powdery leaves came first. She pinched off a small bud and sniffed it appreciatively. It brought memories to her of a fat goose roasting in a large pan, winter snows at the dark of the year, and the smell of her mother’s bread dressing, redolent of onion and sage. Then came subtle thyme, recalling her father’s grilled trout basted with the little plant’s crushed leaves in butter. And salmon with dill and soured cream. Porkchops with apples and rosemary. Lamb with mint. Ginger’s nimble fingers plucked the weeds from the wanted plants as her mind wandered through each herb's myriad of uses.

The vegetables, proper, came next. Ginger took a small break before she began. She walked to the pump nearby and filled a small wooden bucket half full of cool water. Dipping her mug in it, she drank deep, then dipped in a handkerchief, and wringing it out, cooled her neck and face with it. Two sparrows darted down as she poured the rest along a row of summer squash. They drank their fill where the water puddled, then poked about in the softened dirt for the worms that rose to escape the wet. She watched their antics for a while, smiling at them as they hopped about, their heads cocked this way and that.

Unbidden an old song came to her lips as she knelt back down to weed among the onions, peas, and beans.

Hi! says the blackbird, sitting on a chair,
Once I courted a lady fair;
She proved fickle and turned her back,
And ever since then I'm dressed in black.

Hi! says the blue-jay as she flew,
If I was a young man I'd have two;
If one proved fickle and chanced for to go,
I'd have a new string to my bow.

The sparrows looked up at her once or twice, fixing their bright black eyes on her. She took this as approval and went on.

Hi! says the little leather winged bat,
I will tell you the reason that,
The reason that I fly in the night
Is because I lost my heart's delight.

Hi! says the little mourning dove,
I'll tell you how to gain her love;
Court her night and court her day,
Never give her time to say "0 nay."

Hi! said the woodpecker sitting on a fence,
Once I courted a handsome wench;
She proved fickle and from me fled,
And ever since then my head's been red.

Hi! says the owl with my eyes so big,
If I had a hen I'd feed like a pig;
But here I sit on a frozen stake,
Which causes my poor heart to ache.

The sparrows, glutted with fat worms had flown away. but now, she noted, a trio of robins harried the beetles along the hills of potatoes and one dusty and decrepit looking crow, perched on a bean pole, cast his yellow eye down at the strawberry patch. He flapped his wings in irritation noting that netting had been placed over the plants. The red jewels were out of my reach! he squawked irritably. Ginger shooed him away with a loud shout and a flap of her damp handkerchief. He flew off, but not without first giving her a loud caw! caw! of sharp disapproval.

Hi! says the swallow, sitting in a barn,
Courting, I think, is no harm.
I pick my wings and sit up straight
And hope every young man will choose him a mate.

Hi! says the hawk unto the crow,
If you ain't black then I don't know.
Ever since old Adam was born,
You've been accused of stealing corn.

Hi! says the crow unto the hawk,
I understand your great, big talk;
You'd like to pounce and catch a hen,
But I hope the farmer will shoot you then.

Hi! says the robin, with a little squirm,
I wish I had a great, big worm;
I would fly away into my nest;
I have a wife I think is the best.

A little ways away, Ginger could hear the sound of hammer and saw coming from the Inn. And someone singing along at times with her in a fair voice, though oft times the verses were punctuated by mumbled curses it seemed when something had gone quit wrong . . .