ttle garden in the village of Bethlehem, many and many a
year ago, that four scarlet poppies stood side by side and swayed gently
back and forth upon their slim green stalks in the soft afternoon wind.

A little girl came running over the grass and halted before the
poppies.

"How beautiful you are!" said the little girl, whose name was Naomi, and
who was eight years old.

She clasped her hands before her in delight, and stood smiling down upon
the flowers that seemed to nod courteously in reply.

This little Jewish girl had dark curling hair and gentle brown eyes. Her
cheeks were as rosy as the poppies, and she wore a gay little robe of
scarlet and yellow striped stuff, while upon her bare brown feet were
tied soft leather sandals.

"How beautiful you are!" said Naomi again to the poppies. "You are mine,
for I made you grow, and you are the most beautiful flowers in all our
lovely garden."

And she looked as proudly round the tiny garden plot as if it were as
spacious and as wonderful as the famous gardens of the wicked King
Herod, or even those of the Temple High Priest himself.

In the center of the grass plot stood an orange-tree, and under it, in
the shade of its glossy leaves, had been placed a light wooden bench. A
tall hedge of prickly thorns prevented passers-by on the narrow village
street from peeping in. At one end a heavy grapevine clambered over a
trellis, while at the other there were several rich clumps of myrtle
that showed dark against the surrounding grass. Below the thorn hedge
stood a row of bold flaunting tulips, and there were two flower-beds,
one of white, the other of tall red lilies.

The garden was indeed a pleasant place, and Naomi's happiest hours were
spent here, whether playing peacefully alone, or amusing baby Jonas, or
when the family gathered together under the orange-tree, Father and
Mother, brother Ezra, baby Jonas, and herself.

To be sure there were vines and flowers growing on the roof of Naomi's
house, which was often used as a place to sit in the cool of the day and
even to sleep when the house grew unbearably warm. For Naomi's dwelling
looked like nothing so much as a square box turned upside down with only
a door cut in the front and not a window to break the smooth white
sides.

Within, there was a single room, round which ran a bench where were kept
the gay quilts, tightly rolled, which made the only beds Naomi knew.
Here, too, lay the cushions upon which the fami