There are, however, people whose dispositions are so jolly that they forget sadness. Philippe's father was one of these people. Though Papa Paul wore a wooden leg, it did not seem to affect his sunny smile. When he was in the war he had been shot in the leg, and now he wore a leg of wood. He had been a chef only since the war.
Before the war Philippe's parents had farmed and raised vegetables together. They had been happy farmers. But their farm had been blown to bits by the enemy.
Many stormy years passed, and many terrible things happened to these poor people. But finally the sunny smile won out. Here was Papa Paul cooking in one of the best restaurants in Belgium, while Mother Yvelle was the farmer.
Mother Yvelle looked forward to the day when Philippe should be old enough to help her drive the dogs to town with the vegetables.
Philippe, too, wanted that day to come. He wanted to drive the fine dogs to town.
From the barn he made his way to a tiny shack, which was his own little kitchen. Here he spent many hours over a small stove his father had made for him. He prepared dishes that he thought were very fine.
Today he had gathered some vegetables and carried them with the other things he had in his arms.
"What are you going to cook today?" asked the gardener, Emile (ā-mēl´).
He stood in the door holding a big rake and looking amused.
"A stew – a very fine stew," answered Philippe, and he began to pour a number of things into a pot.
"What are you putting into the stew?" asked Emile.
"Onions and peas, some rice, a nice little fat snail and a root," the boy replied, as he began to stir.
"A root? What kind of a root?" inquired the gardener.
"Oh, a root that I found. A very big one. I dug it up."
Emile laughed and moved on. One could never tell what went into Philippe's stews. Sometimes Emile was made to taste them. Then he had to tell Philippe that the stews were good. But Emile always had to drink some water afterwards to wash away the taste.
But then Philippe was such a little boy. Besides, the gardener felt sorry for him, because he was lonesome.
Philippe called the gardener Emile Epinard (ā-mēl´ ā-pē-när´), which means "Emile Spinach." And, indeed, Emile did look like a ragged leaf of spinach!
Philippe had a vegetable game. He always tried to think what vegetable each person looked like.
Then he would call that person by the name of that vegetable. It was fun.
For instance, he always called his father "Papa Pomme" (pōm), which means "Father Apple." This name rather shocked Mother Yvelle. But it pleased the jolly round chef. He would tell his friends about it and laugh until his fat sides shook.
PAPA POMME WAS A VERY FINE CHEF
Philippe had a friend whom he called "String Bean Simon," another, "Celery Susan," and many others he gave different nicknames of the same kind.
As he was stirring his mixture, he suddenly remembered that he had not told Emile the great news.
"Oh, Emile Spinach, Emile Spinach," he called, "did you know that soon, soon the little sister will be here?"
But Emile Spinach had gone into the fields.
"This stew will be for the baby, Cauliflower," thought Philippe. "She will like this stew."
Soon he heard his mother's voice calling from the house, "Supper, my little one. Come to supper."
Carrying his precious pot, he started toward the cottage. On the way he once more examined the cabbages.
But there was still no sign of a baby in any of them.
As he neared the house, he noticed a beautiful rose growing near the wall.
It had been in full bloom the day before. Now it was beginning to droop. Philippe looked at it pityingly.
"Poor rose!" he said. "Tomorrow you will be dead."
Then he went into the house.
The next morning Philippe arose early. He ran to the cabbage patch. But the cabbages all looked neat and whole. None had been disturbed during the night.
"She has not come!" moaned poor Philippe.
Sadly he started toward the cottage, when again he noticed the rose. But this time it was only the stem he saw. The petals all had fallen to the ground.
"Poor rose!" he sighed. "She is dead!"
"POOR ROSE," HE SAID
There was a step behind him. A heavy hand was laid on his shoulder.
His father's deep, fine voice boomed, "What are you saying, my little cabbage?"
"Poor rose is dead!" answered Philippe sadly.
"What!" exclaimed Papa Pomme. "Why, Baby Rose is born!"
"Baby Rose?" questioned Philippe.
"Yes, my son," Papa Pomme said. "Your little sister came to us last night – your little sister Rose."
Philippe leaped up and threw his arms about his father's neck in a burst of joy. At last his little sister was here! Then he looked at the dead rose, and from it, to the live and healthy cabbages. He smiled knowingly.
"Papa Pomme," he said, "it was not from the cabbage that Baby came. So, you see, she shall not be our Cauliflower. It was the rose that opened to give her to us. That is why she is our Baby Rose."
Chapter II
PAPA POMME'S SURPRISE
For over a year now Philippe, the little Brussels Sprout, had been going to the market place with Emile Spinach. Mother had to stay at home with Baby Rose.
Philippe felt himself almost a man now. If only Emile would stay at home and let him drive the dogs alone! Ah, that would be heaven, indeed. Another dream was to bring his precious Baby Rose to the market place some day. Philippe was always wishing wishes.
Rose was so tiny. At first she could only laugh at Philippe's happy face as he bent over her cradle. She pulled his hair or clutched his finger.
Now she could stand alone and say a word or two. She was beautiful. She was fair and dainty, and her eyes were as blue as a summer sky. How Philippe loved his Baby Rose!
Soon Mother had promised to bring her to the market place. What a proud boy Philippe would be when he might set her upon the low cart on top of the vegetables and drive her to town! The fine, sleek dogs would be proud, too, knowing that a rare flower rested upon their vegetable load.
Philippe had a sweet voice and sang a number of Belgian folk songs. He was beginning to teach his Rose a little vegetable song which he had made up.
He had a fine plan. He wanted to station Rose in the market place, and have her sing for the passers-by. How proud the little fellow was of his baby sister!
Today as he walked along beside the sturdy dogs, he sang gayly. He was happier than usual. Today an exciting thing was to happen. Papa Pomme had told him that he would call at the market place and take him to lunch. Papa Pomme did not often do this. But today he was given the afternoon to himself.
Papa had put his finger to his lips and said mysteriously to Philippe, "You shall dine with me, little one; and then, in the afternoon – ah, you shall see!"
"AH, YOU SHALL SEE"
So as Philippe walked along, he wondered what surprise his father had planned for the afternoon. When he reached the market place, or Grande Place (grän pläs), as it is called in French, he helped Emile Spinach