Under the melting snow,

Crocus is starting to grow.

It's head will soon show,

as it's body rises from below.

The Ides of March is nearly here.

The snow should soon disappear,

setting the stage for the first

floral show of the year.

Crocus will be in good company,

sharing the stage with Dwarf Iris,

Glory of the Snow, Grape Hyacinth,

Lily of the Valley and Daffodil,

a symphony of colour and good will.

The script was written long ago.

The actors know their roles by heart.

The only uncertainty is March,

The craziest month of the year!

Why do I hold March so dear?

Two crazies, a long time ago,

tied the knot under the biggest

Snow storm of the year!

Every March we celebrate

our wedding anniversary,

as soon as the snow clears,

with the first floral show of the year!

Once upon a time there was a little cottage that had a garden. The garden was large and beautiful. Flowers waved gently in the breeze all spring and summer long. Tulips, lilacs, daisies, sunflowers, bleeding hearts, crocuses, buttercups, violets and many more grew there. Cobblestone paths wound about the garden, with benches under shady trees. A pond with goldfish swimming in it sparkled in the sunlight.

The owner of the cottage was a gardener; he was old and gray-haired but his shaky hands were gentle when they touched the satiny petals of the flowers. The flowers all adored him greatly and were rivals for the most attention. The kind gardener distributed his praise evenly between them all.

In the early morning hours you could hear his voice saying, “Ah, daisies dear, how much you have grown! And how fresh you look, violets…” as he went down the paths and greeted them all by name.

The flowers all knew each other well. The violets were quiet and unassuming; The daisies were cheerful and happy; The lilacs were somewhat more sophisticated and tended to stay apart; The crocuses were happiest in colder weather and complained of the heat on warm days; The buttercups spent their time in the sunlight laughing and singing; The bleeding hearts whispered sadly together; The tulips gossiped all day long; The sunflowers were bold and somewhat impolite. But they all knew what the characters of the others were, so they lived in contentment together.

On a usual day all the flowers were awake and over the garden was a hum of voices. They were always talking, unless the gardener was in the far corner of the garden, for there, beneath a little white gravestone, lay the gardener’s little girl, Rosalynn, who had just changed from a gentle child to a delicate young lady when she fell ill.

All events in the followed the same pattern year after year. Or they did until the day the gardener came in with a scraggly little plant. He carried it over to the corner and, using a trowel, carefully planted it. He watered it and tended it attentively. The other flowers grew envious; for the new plant was receiving more attention than any of them. They watched her grow day by day, and mocked her ugliness.

“Look at her!” scoffed one of the tulips, “See her thorns on her stem?”

“She never says a word!” declared one of the daisies “Is she too ‘distinguished’ to have anything to do with us?”

“Maybe she thinks that she is a princess.” a buttercup said scornfully.

“Perhaps she is shy, and that is why she is so quiet.” suggested a gentle violet.

The others laughed and said that was ridiculous. They spent their days taunting the poor little unattractive plant. She never said a word, but sat there silently and cringed slightly when their laughter grew loud enough to reach her.

The poor little plant was shy and dared not say anything in her own defense. She treasured the moments when she received gentle words from the gardener. But she wondered why she was so hideous. It was true that the little plant had thorns, but she did not choose to have those! The plant fought back tears as she whiled away her time alone in the corner. Slowly she crept closer to the little white gravestone next to her. She was very lonely, and there seemed a kind of companionship in the little gravestone. She felt, somewhere deep down in her roots, a connection with it. The little plant tried her best to shade the gravestone from the burning sun, and sheltered it from the pounding rain. She protected it carefully, and began to feel that perhaps it wasn't too lonely in the corner of the garden.

Days went by and the little, brave plant slowly struggled and grew. She began to grow over the gravestone and she got bigger and stronger. Yes, she had the thorns still, but no longer was she scraggly and weak. Buds began to form on her. They were at first a soft pink and then they began to darken to a lovely crimson. The other flowers still mocked her though. They were not close enough to see the buds. Though perhaps even if they were they would not have seen them, for they had blinded themselves to any beauty in the unwanted plant. They could not see a use her since she did not compare in loveliness with them.

All continued until one dawn, when in the early morning light, the buds unfolded. Deep crimson flowers lay bright against the white gravestone and contrasted against the green grass. The little plant gazed down at herself in amazement! The gardener stepped down the path, and leaned over. His gnarly fingers gently brushed the petals of the flowers. And his eyes filled with tears.

Softly he whispered, “Ah, now my little Rosalynn has roses to keep her company. You know,” addressing the little plant, “You have a very important job: keeping my little girl company. She was your namesake, so you are very fit for the job.”

The little plant raised her head high and thought proudly, “I am not just an ugly thorny bush! I am a rosebush!”

Thereafter, the little rosebush was very happy. The other flowers apologized for their rudeness, and of course, being the sweet little plant that she was, the rosebush forgave them. They all grew to be great friends, and everyone confided their deepest secrets to the lovely, sweet and caring plant. And on soft summer days, she leaned close to the little white gravestone. So captivated and absorbed did she look, one would swear that wonderful secrets were being whispered to her. And who knows; maybe they were!

In the Tinder Forest there lived a marvelous bunny rabbit. What marked him as marvelous was his fantastic set of ears. They were grey and fluffy and had a marvelous sheen to them, like little flecks of silver had been distributed throughout by a particularly tasteful hand. And as the marvelous bunny hopped through the forest the other animals whispered to each other, “Such fantastic ears.”

The marvelous bunny didn’t particularly love his fantastic ears, he thought they were a tad ostentatious, but rather than spend his time arguing about why he wasn’t marvelous, the marvelous bunny accepted the perks they granted and went about his days. It was these marvelous ears, after all, that afforded the bunny his lackadaisical and romantic lifestyle. The marvelous bunny’s fantastic ears wrapped him in the warm blanket of having something that the other bunnies in the forest, undeniably, did not have.

Day after day the marvelous bunny hopped from one grove of the forest to the next, meeting female bunnies and spending the night with them. Then awakening the next morning to the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” And our marvelous bunny happily obliged those voices, hopping to the next grove or clearing, and repeating the charming and wooing all over, and then waking up the next morning to the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?”

The marvelous bunny and his fantastic grey ears continued on like this, never questioning or regretting his wanton ways; awakening each morning and hopping away. His epic love and curiosity sated him. Exploring the great Tinder Forest was his true love, and each nook and cranny he uncovered made him feel full.

It was not until he came across a small clearing with a beautiful pool of still water that the marvelous bunny took pause. In the middle of the reflecting pool his image stared back at him. Good gracious, he mused, how beautiful these ears have become. And it was true; the midday sun shone down and caused his grey -with silver flecks- ears to shimmer relentlessly into the pool. They were coruscated on a wavelength hitherto unknown to him. Just then, he heard a rustling in front of him, and, almost as if by fate, a gorgeous brown bunny hopped out of a bush into the clearing. They spent the afternoon admiring themselves and each other in the pool. Then they bounced happily around the clearing and surrounding trees throughout the evening. By the time the moon had reached its peak in the serene night sky, the two rabbits were curled up together in a little burrow just past the clearing, behind a little bush, and around an oak tree.

The marvelous bunny awoke and stared lovingly at his gorgeous burrow-mate curled up so gently against him. But soon his happiness turned to anguish, he remembered that, as it did every day before and would every day after, the morning would arrive soon and with it the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” The thought terrified him; he didn’t want to bounce on. This gorgeous bunny was the singular rabbit that he wanted to be satisfied by, to love and to snuggle, for the rest of his days. How could he prevent those terrible morning calls?

Unable to sleep, the marvelous bunny hopped over to the peaceful pond. He gazed at himself, even more beautiful in the silvery moonlight than earlier, and began sobbing. It wasn’t long before he heard behind him, in a startling baritone, “Hoo, Hoo. Young rabbit, hold your tears. Hold your tears. How could something so beautiful be so sad?’ The marvelous bunny, quite shook, could see from the reflection in the pool that behind him was a tremendous grey owl. The tremendous owl, perched in a tree at the edge of the clearing, continued, “Pray now, young rabbit, tell me what it is that has brought out this melancholy. What is it that troubles you?”

“You see,” replied the marvelous bunny through tears. “You see, I am afraid of the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, ‘Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?’ Tomorrow morning. I am sure that it will break me away from my beloved, just as it has every morning prior and just as it will every morning for the rest of my life.”

“I see,” she said after a long pause, ”I see what you fear, but it is easily solved. For what you fear is just a sound, and if you cannot hear the sound you shall not be tempted.”

“But how can I ignore such a racket?” snapped the marvelous bunny.

“All you must do,” replied the tremendous owl, “is give me your fantastic ears, and you will be troubled no more.”

The marvelous bunny, taken aback at the suggestion, peered at himself again in the moonlit pool. His ears shimmered; they were as calmly perfect and peacefully elegant as ever. But, he thought, the tremendous owl is right. Until I get rid of them, the grotesquely beautiful things, I will never be at peace. I will hear the call every morning and bounce on, away from my beloved. Our marvelous bunny had made up his mind.

“Yes owl, I accept, I will give you my ears. But how…” He turned around to face the owl, expecting her to be on her perch. Instead she was towering over him, having silently glided down to the pool while the marvelous bunny had been thinking to himself, and extended a massive talon, pining our marvelous bunny to the ground.

“And may you never hear such a racket again,” said the tremendous owl, as she reached out two talons and clamped them onto the marvelous bunny’s fantastic left ear. Then, pinching and puncturing, she tore the ear from the marvelous bunny’s head. The bunny was shocked, too quickly rent to make a noise, as the tremendous owl began the process again with the other ear.

After finishing, the tremendous, marvelous owl lifted herself into the air with the bunny in one foot and his fantastic silvery ears in the other. She eclipsed the moon with her tremendous, marvelous silhouette, dropped the bunny into the pool, and flew away. The bunny, weightlessly drifting down into the water, was still for a moment before all of his functions came cautiously back to him. He paddled to the edge of the pool, lifted himself onto the bank, and shook himself dry. He gingerly felt the now smooth spots where his ears had been. He peered back into the pool, still rippling, and saw something like himself, but not quite the same. The bunny hopped away in a thick mist of questions, not sure what to make of himself and the events of the night.

The next morning the bunny awoke cuddling his beloved. He looked around with trepidation, expecting the worst, expecting the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” But he heard nothing, and his beloved, gorgeous bunny turned over to face him and they smiled together and spent the day hopping, and jumping, and bouncing to and fro- together and happy.

That night they cuddled comfortably. Their burrow was now more complete and inviting. Our bunny could not imagine a more perfect moment. The moon rose over the pool and lowered back to the earth, as they passed the night curled up as one. The next morning, once again, he did not hear the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” and smiled. He turned over, excited to see his beloved, gorgeous bunny next to him and begin another perfect day. But she had left. Gone, just like his fantastic ears.

The setting sun was purple shadowing the sagebrush when The Rocking Horse Kid moseyed on into the town of Moist Gusset to go a courting his sweetheart, Miss Fanny Dimples.

He rode a white maned and tailed appaloosa with black spots painted on its hindquarters, like polka dots on a neckerchief, he called Joiner. Joiner Dots.

Twin leather holsters held a pair of pearl handled revolvers. Not that The Kid had ever shot anyone. He didn't need to. When the bad guys heard he was in town they skedaddled for the hills as fast as their ske could daddle.

A white stetson hat kept the sun out of his eyes.

His cowboy boots had pointed, silver tipped toes.

He wore a pair of fringed chaps for fringing the high chaparral.

A cow hide vest with a sheriff's badge pinned over his heart.

And spurs that jingle jangle jingled.

Miss Fanny Dimples lived in a two room tar-paper shack behind the respectable tearoom where she helped her widowed mother. When The Kid jingle jangled through the tearoom's door, Miss Fanny looked out the window with its blue gingham curtains.

Where's your horse? She asked him.

The hitching post was already taken, he told her.

Moist Gusset was a one horse town.

The Kid's full name was G. Russell Horne. Miss Fanny had soon shortened it to Rusty. Rusty Horne and Fanny Dimples were often seen parading, arm in arm, down Main Street. Moist Gusset's only street. Her twirling a yellow parasol all the way from Paris. Paris Texas. And him trying not to trip over his spurs.

On Sundays after church, Rusty would hire a surrey from the stables to take Miss Fanny picnicking by the river. And if he played his cards right, she might even allow him the familiarity of dunking his jam fancy in her pot of cream.

Everything was satisfactual. Little bluebirds were doo-dahing their zippeties. Miss Fanny was the belle of Moist Gusset's annual harvest barn dance and christian ladies' mud wrestling contest, taking home the winner's blue ribbon.

Down in the barnyard

Swinging on a gate

Take your girl

And don't be late

Chicken in a bread pan

Picking out dough

Swing your girl

And do-si-do

Allemande left

With the corner maid

Meet your own

And promenade

Promenade

Two by two

Now walk 'em home

Like you ought to do

Here we go

Heel and toe

Hurry up cowboy

Don't be slow

Swing 'em high

Swing 'em low

Turn 'em loose

And watch 'em go

Bow to your corners

Weave the ring

Cats can't fiddle

And dogs don't sing

Rusty was proudly promenading Miss Fanny in step and in time with the other heel kickers when Pecos Pete tapped him on the shoulder.

Pass on through, said Rusty. Nobody's handling my Fanny, but me.

Pete had been drinking. Corn-jugged to the eyeballs, he wasn't about to take no for an answer. He swung a wild haymaker at Rusty's lantern jaw.

Rusty ducked. Pecos Pete just about swung himself off his feet. His punch found the preacher's wife instead. Reverend Lamb was a peaceful man of God, but he couldn't abide to stand there and turn the other cheek. Snatching up a bottle of elderberry wine from the refreshments table, he smote Pete a mighty blow crying, Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!

Stumbling backwards, one of Pecos Pete's windmilling arms knocked the fiddle player's elbow. And while the wallflowers wilted, the young bucks yee-hawed and waded in. All hell broke loose. Tables were overturned. Chairs were thrown. A smashed lamp set the stacked strawbales ablaze. And the fiddler struck up Bonaparte's Retreat as the barn burned around them.

Hoisting Miss Fanny over his shoulder, The Rocking Horse Kid done git while the gittin' was good.

There was nothing Rusty Horne would have liked more than to sit in the tearoom, eating jam fancies, and talking about Fanny, but then the tearoom door crashed open and the barkeep from the Floating Nugget staggered in.

We need you down at the saloon! He hollered. His face behind the handlebar of his beeswaxed moustache whiter than his crisply starched apron.

Remembering his manners, The Rocking Horse Kid folded his napkin and brushed the crumbs off the blue gingham tablecloth into a saucer before excusing himself to Fanny’s mother. He picked up his hat. Loosened his twin pearl handled pistols in their holsters, just in case, and moseyed on down to the Floating Nugget to see what the trouble was.

Pushing through the batwing doors of the saloon, Rusty realized, too late, that the barkeep was right behind him. The spring hinged doors swung back, lifting the man off his feet and sending him flying through the air to land with a wet SPLAT in the mud of Moist Gusset’s Main Street.

The barkeep wasn’t alone in his predicament for long. Old Corky Sniffter, who was Moist Gusset’s town drunk, came windmilling through one of the Floating Nugget’s two plate glass windows, with their expensive gilt lettering, to land head first in the sludgesome quagmire.

Inside the Floating Nugget was a riot of splintered furniture and cracked skulls. Men sprawled everywhere, black eyed and bloody nosed, nursing bruised ribs and even more bruised egos. And in the middle of it all stood Moist Gusset’s blacksmith, Dolorous Dire.

Dolorous like Delores: Only the spelling was unfortunate.

Dolly Dire wasn’t a mean drunk, Rusty knew, and she wasn’t the type to start a bar room brawl. But she knew how to finish one.

Meanwhile, back on Main Street, the barkeep had managed to extricate himself from the sticky situation he’d been in and pushed through the batwing doors, only realizing, too late, that Old Corky Sniffter had also unpredicamented himself, and was right behind him.

It really wasn’t Corky’s day.

Who’s going to pay for all the damages? The barkeep quavered like an asthmatic soprano.

Don’t look now, Dolorous said to Rusty, but Pecos Pete is standing right behind you,

What’s he doing? Asked Rusty, cucumber cool.

He’s pointing a gun at your back.

The Kid’s palm scraped his stubbled lantern jaw. You don’t say?

I guess he really didn’t like you kissing his Fanny, said Dolorous.

The barkeep had already absconded as fast as his ab could scond and was crouched, snivelling falsetto, behind the bar.

This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, said Pete, thumbing the hammer back on his six shooter. Putting your hands on my Fanny was the last thing you’ll ever do, gravelled Pecos Pete. Say your prayers.

Back on Main Street, Old Corky Sniffter was snapping his braces and setting his shoulders, ready to make a run at the saloon doors. The thirst was on him something powerful, and nothing and nobody was going to stop him!

He hit them like a runaway locomotive.

Barrelling through the batwings.

And ploughing into Pecos Pete.

Causing Pete’s finger to tighten on the trigger.

The gun fired.

BANG!

The bullet ricocheted off a spitoon to part the barkeep’s toupe straight down the middle before it shattered three bottles of whiskey and one of tequila on the mirrored shelf behind the Floating Nugget’s spit polished mahogany bar and PINGED off a brass lampshade.

Where it went after that nobody knew...

Until Rusty hauled Pete’s head up by a fistful of lank hair and grinned at him. And there, clenched between The Kid’s teeth, was the bullet.