“Oh, please don’t go away,” he begged. “I’m so awfully ashamed of myself I don’t know what to say. That’s the reason I didn’t answer.” “You poor dear old Feather Flop,” cried Mary Frances, opening the slats. “You poor old fellow!” “I’m so awfully ashamed,” went on the rooster, “that I’d gladly have you chop my head off and make a potpie of me.” “Oh, Feather Flop, don’t feel quite so bad as that,” exclaimed Mary Frances. “I forgive you, my friend.” For the first time, Feather Flop looked up. “Do you?” he asked. “Please tell me again.” “I forgive you, Feather Flop,” repeated Mary Frances, gathering him up in her arms. “The lettuce wasn’t so badly hurt, after all.” “My, I’m so thankful,” said Feather Flop, “though I don’t see how you can forgive me. Are you certain that you do?” “Very certain!” smiled Mary Frances. “As certain as I am that you’ll never do such a thing again!” “Never again!” solemnly declared Feather Flop, holding up one claw. “Never again!” “Well, now, eat your breakfast,” said Mary Frances, putting him down and gently stroking his beautiful feathers. “I—haven’t—eaten—a—beakful,” said Feather Flop between hungry pecks, “since—I—was—put—in prison,—so—you—can—imagine—how—awfully—hungry—I—am.” “Indeed I can,” laughed Mary Frances, delighted to see him his own self again. “Does being forgiven always make a person feel hungry?” asked Feather Flop. “Well, being unforgiven makes a person feel very unhungry,” said Mary Frances. “A strange thing about me, I guess,” said Feather Flop, “is, that after I’ve eaten a full meal, I’m not hungry.” “Of course not,” laughed Mary Frances. “Nobody ever is.” “It’s very sad, though,” declared the rooster. “Why,” began Mary Frances, “I don’t see anything sad about that.” “It’s sad, because it’s so much fun to be hungry and eat. I’d like to eat every minute myself—when I’m forgiven.” “You do pretty well, Feather Flop,” said Mary Frances. “I wouldn’t complain. It’s far worse to be hungry and not to be able to get food.” “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Feather Flop. “What’s the next lesson?” he asked abruptly. “Next lesson?” echoed Mary Frances. “Oh, about roses. Isn’t that a nice one?” “Call on me for anything I can do,” said Feather Flop. “I’d starve a year and a half before I’d touch anything good in the garden again.” “Oh, thank you, my friend,” said Mary Frances. “Thank you! I’ll call upon you, never fear. I must go now, though.” “Shake hands?” asked Feather Flop, holding out his claw. “Just to show real forgiveness.” “Certainly,” said Mary Frances, taking his claw in her hand and shaking it in a most serious fashion. As much as she wanted to, she did not smile. CHAPTER XXXV ROSES “VERY many people love roses more than any other flowers,” began Billy, “and Miss Gardener explained to us that for this reason, rose growing has become a specialty among professional floriculturists.” “Mercy, Billy,” interrupted Mary Frances, “please explain those last two long words.”