While I sat weeping she went back into the parlor and began to pick up things.
"My wreath! my wreath!" I heard her moaning.
How well I remember that little assemblage of flower ghosts in wax! They had no more right to associate with human beings than the ghosts of fable.

Uncle Peabody used to call them the "Minervy flowers" because they were a present from his Aunt Minerva.

When Aunt Deel returned to the kitchen where I sat--a sorrowing little refugee hunched up in a corner--she said: "I'll have to tell your Uncle Peabody--ayes!" "Oh please don't tell my Uncle Peabody," I wailed.
"Ayes! I'll have to tell him," she answered firmly.
For the first time I looked for him with dread at the window and when he came I hid in a closet and heard that solemn and penetrating note in her voice as she said: "I guess you'll have to take that boy away--ayes!" "What now ?" he asked.
"My stars! he sneaked into the parlor and tipped over the what-not and smashed that beautiful wax wreath!" Her voice trembled.
"Not them Minervy flowers ?" he asked in a tone of doleful incredulity.
"Ayes he did!" "And tipped over the hull what-not ?" "Ayes!" "Jerusalem four-corners!" he exclaimed.

"I'll have to--" He stopped as he was wont to do on the threshold of strong opinions and momentous resolutions.
The rest of the conversation was drowned in my own cries and Uncle Peabody came and lifted me tenderly and carried me up-stairs.
He sat down with me on his lap and hushed my cries.

Then he said very gently: "Now, Bub, you and me have got to be careful.