Let's go to the nursery and buy some bulbs,"" said Cindy's father one September day. Cindy knew what kind of nursery. Not the one for little people. The one for little plants. And she knew what kinds of bulbs. Not the bulbs you put in lamps to make light. Bulbs you put in the ground to make flowers. Cindy picks out three snowdrop bulbs to plant all by herself. The nurseryman tells her that they will come up in March. ""I'll be six in March,"" says Cindy. Winter comes and winter stays; it is only February when Cindy sees ""a very green something beside the gray rock...was it, could it be--?"" It is and the first blossoms appear just on time, on the day Cindy eats birthday cake for breakfast. With Atti Forburg's ephemeral illustrations, this might have been a pleasant harbinger of spring for threes and fours, but it's just a drop in the snow for the sevens and eights who'll be able to read it alone.