36872	----	MAKING A ROSE GARDEN _THE HOUSE & GARDEN MAKING BOOKS_ It is the intention of the publishers to make this series of little volumes, of which _Making a Rose Garden_ is one, a complete library of authoritative and well illustrated handbooks dealing with the activities of the home-maker and amateur gardener. Text, pictures and diagrams will, in each respective book, aim to make perfectly clear the possibility of having, and the means of having, some of the more important features of a modern country or suburban home. Among the titles already issued or planned for early publication are the following: _Making a Lawn_; _Making a Tennis Court_; _Making a Garden Bloom This Year_; _Making a Fireplace_; _Making Roads and Paths_; _Making a Poultry House_; _Making a Hotbed and Cold-frame_; _Making Built-in Bookcases_, _Shelves and Seats_; _Making a Rock Garden_; _Making a Water Garden_; _Making a Perennial Border_; _Making a Shrubbery Group_; _Making a Naturalized Bulb Garden_; with others to be announced later. [Illustration: An English rose garden that is nearly ideal in its arrangement. All the paths are of grass, the beds being sunk a few inches below the turf level in order to conserve the moisture.] MAKING A ROSE GARDEN _By_ HENRY H. SAYLOR NEW YORK McBRIDE, NAST & COMPANY 1912 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY McBRIDE, NAST & CO. Published February, 1912 CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION 1 CLASSIFICATION 3 LOCATION AND SOIL 11 PREPARATION AND PLANTING 20 FERTILIZING 25 PRUNING 30 PESTS 38 PROPAGATION 40 WINTER PROTECTION 44 LISTS OF DEPENDABLE ROSES 46 GLOSSARY OF TERMS 51 THE ILLUSTRATIONS A ROSE GARDEN WITH THE IDEAL ARRANGEMENT OF GRASS PATHS _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE ULRICH BRUNNER, A RED HYBRID PERPETUAL ROSE 4 MARÉCHAL NEIL, A TENDER CLIMBING TEA ROSE 8 KILLARNEY, ONE OF THE BEST HYBRID TEAS 12 A GARDEN FOR ROSES ONLY 14 A DORMANT TEA ROSE AS IT COMES FROM THE GROWER 22 A STOCK OF MANETTI GRAFTED WITH AN IMPROVED VARIETY 42 A "STANDARD" ROSE 44 INTRODUCTION I well remember the caution given me by a noted horticulturist when, in the sudden awakening to the joys of gardening, I was about to attempt the cultivation of nearly everything named in the largest seed and plant catalogue I could find: "Leave the rose alone; it is not worth fighting for." And leave it alone I did, until one day I was browsing about an old book shop and came upon a well-thumbed copy of good old Dean Hole's "A Book About Roses." Let me tell you that there is something radically wrong with the person who can read that book and then go on plodding along his dreary, roseless way. But why, if there is such a book as that to be had, do I presume to put forth what can at best be but a feeble ray in its predecessor's blaze of inspiration? Merely because Dean Hole's book, and a later volume by the Rev. Andrew Foster-Melliar that is almost as inspiring, with perhaps even more helpful guidance, are both written for the English rosarian and for a cool, moist climate that necessitates a somewhat different method of procedure throughout as compared with that which would bring success in growing roses here in America. Then too, there is to my mind something encouraging in a very small book, a book that will merely attempt to lay the foundations for the superstructure that, after all, only experience can bring. Perhaps there are those who, like myself, are content with the bare essentials of classification, content to be told the basic rudiments of cultivation, and who are in haste to be done with all of these homely means to an end, that they may begin growing roses. Making a Rose Garden CLASSIFICATION When one considers the fact that the majority of botanists recognize over a hundred species of the genus _Rosa_, and that a French botanist lists and describes 4,266 species from Europe and western Asia alone, it will readily be understood that this chapter can give but a rough, working knowledge of groups and species. Fortunately the amateur rosarian in the United States is concerned with very few of the species, largely for the reason that the efforts of our rosegrowers have naturally been confined to a few important groups where general merit is most strongly marked. Indeed, for the purposes of a modest rose garden, one would not go far wrong if he limited his choice of varieties to the Hybrid Teas, Hybrid Perpetuals and a few of the Teas, with several of the _wichuraiana_ and _rugosa_ hybrids for trellis and hedge. The name Hybrid Perpetual is borne by an enormous group of roses which have been derived from various species, crossed and recrossed until the parentage is in most cases hopelessly involved. The "Perpetual" half of the name signifies that the rose continues to bloom more or less frequently throughout the summer. As a matter of fact, it is usually _less_. Teas or Tea-scented China roses form a distinct group that is readily recognized by the characteristic scent of the flowers and by the smoothness of its leaves. Teas are, in a way, the aristocrats of the rose garden. They bloom with no great blare of trumpets in June, like the Perpetuals, but they keep steadily at their work of producing exquisite blooms, one or two at a time, throughout the summer. Their one serious handicap is a lack of hardiness, which they possess only in a slight and very variable degree; and they must be very carefully protected in the north to bring them safely through the winter. Even though I were forced to buy new plants each spring, however, I would not have a rose garden without Teas. [Illustration: Ulrich Brunner, a red Hybrid Perpetual that has achieved an excellent reputation. The H.P. type is characterized by hardiness and great freedom of bloom in June. Thereafter throughout the summer the burden of display must be borne by the Teas and Hybrid Teas.] Hybrid Teas, as the name signifies, are successful crosses between the Tea and roses in the Hybrid Perpetual group. This class combines the persistence of the Tea with the sturdier growth of the Perpetuals, and from it we shall probably get the great bulk of our garden roses for some years to come. The Moss Rose, of which you will surely want a representative in your garden, belongs in the Provence group, as will be seen in the tabular classification at the end of this chapter. Who does not know its beautiful buds in their setting of mossy stems? This rose, like many a one that has not gotten such a grip on our affections, has refused steadfastly to mix its blood with another species, and has retained its good points and its bad ones for over three hundred years. It is quite hardy but is rather susceptible to mildew. There are other roses, too, outside the larger and best-known groups--roses that, because of some superlative merit in one direction or because of past associations, lay a strong hand on our heart-strings and plead for an obscure corner of the new rose garden: the bristling Scotch Rose, the fragrant Damasks, the sweetbrier or eglantine with its inimitable fragrant foliage, the Penzance Brier Hybrids, the White Banksian of southern gardens with its odor of violets, the Persian Yellow of our grand-mothers' gardens, and the hundred-petaled Cabbage Rose, parent of the Moss. Climbing roses are to be found in many of the groups--Wichuraiana, Ayrshire, Polyantha, Musk, Noisette and as sports in the Hybrid Perpetual, Tea and Hybrid Tea groups. It is in another class, however, that we may look for the ideal American roses of the future. Not many years ago, came to us three natives of Japan, _Rosa wichuraiana_, _Rosa multiflora_ and _Rosa rugosa_. From the first two has been developed by our American hybridizers the race of Ramblers, while from the third has come such sturdy children as Conrad F. Meyer, perhaps the ideal hedge rose for our northern climate. In the estimation of Professor Charles S. Sargent, the dean of American horticulture, it is along the line of _rugosa_ hybrids that we shall succeed in filling our gardens with large, beautiful, hardy and continuously flowering roses. The climate of the South and California seems ideally suited to the Teas, producing a wealth of exquisite bloom that fills those of us that live in more trying surroundings with envy. In the South also they have the Cherokee Rose (_Rosa lævigata_ or _sinica_), flourishing along roadsides and in great masses on the prairies, its long, arching stems bearing a wealth of pure white, single flowers, four or five inches across, in a setting of brilliant, evergreen foliage. It is one of our American hybridizers' hopes and aims to cross this with a hardy rose to gain sufficient stamina for the North. And out in Oregon, the Hybrid Perpetuals and Hybrid Teas grow to a size and beauty that is unsurpassed the world over. Practically every kind of rose can be grown in the Puget Sound district, and the amateurs of that locality seem to have as little trouble with rose pests as we do here with our hardy decorative shrubs. [Illustration: Marechal Neil, a tender climbing Tea rose, dark golden-yellow in color, requires winter protection in the North. The Tea is the aristocrat of the rose garden, unapproached for delicate fragrance, refined form of the individual blooms, and continued flowering throughout the summer.] To sum up the whole matter of classification and to show the relative positions of many groups that, for lack of space, have not even been mentioned above, the following tabular key is given--a slightly modified form of the classification given in the Cyclopedia of American Horticulture: _I. Summer-flowering Roses, blooming once only_ A. Large-flowered (double). 1. Growth branching or pendulous; leaf wrinkled. _Provence_ Moss Pompon Sulphurea 2. Growth firm and robust; leaf downy. _Damask and French_ Hybrid French Hybrid Provence Hybrid Bourbon Hybrid China 3. Growth free; leaf whitish above; spineless. _Alba_ B. Small-flowered (single and double). 1. Growth climbing; flowers produced singly. _Ayrshire_ 2. Growth short-jointed, generally, except in Alpine. _Briers_ Austrian Scotch Sweet Penzance Prairie Alpine 3. Growth climbing; flowers in clusters. _Multiflora_ Polyantha 4. Growth free; foliage persistent (more or less shiny). _Evergreen_ Sempervirens Wichuraiana Cherokee Banksian 5. Growth free; foliage wrinkled. _Pompon_ _II. Summer- and Autumn-flowering Roses, blooming more or less continuously_ A. Large-flowered. 1. Foliage very rough. _Hybrid Perpetual_ _Hybrid Tea_ _Moss_ 2. Foliage rough. _Bourbon_ _Bourbon Perpetual_ 3. Foliage smooth. _China_ Tea Lawrenceana (Fairy) B. Smaller-flowered. 1. Foliage deciduous a. Habit climbing. _Musk_ Noisette _Ayrshire_ _Polyantha_ Wichuraiana Hybrids b. Habit dwarf, bushy. _Perpetual Briers_ Rugosa Lucida Microphylla Berberidifolia Scotch 2. Foliage more or less persistent. _Evergreen_ Macartney Wichuraiana LOCATION AND SOIL If there is any secret in connection with the growing of beautiful roses in abundance, it lies in the strict observance of a few fundamental principles through which the rose plants, or bushes if you will, are given a location and soil which they will find congenial and nourishing. If for one moment you may have thought that success depends upon some particular insecticide for the annihilation of the aphis, or some hard-and-fast rule for pruning, or the use of a fertilizer having magical attributes, dismiss that thought from your mind, once and for all time. Insecticides, judicious pruning and suitable manuring have each an important part in the campaign, but transcending all of these is the first choice of location and the preparation of the garden in which the roses are to grow. Warfare against the rose's enemies can be but a one-sided, hopeless struggle if we are working against nature all the way through. Far easier and more certain in effect will be our first efforts to establish the rose plants themselves so firmly in healthful, congenial surroundings that they, rather than we, will bear the brunt of the battle against the insect pests. In China I am told that a custom once prevailed whereby the emperor paid his physician a good salary as long as the ruler kept his good health. If he fell ill the physician's pay stopped; if he died, off came the practitioner's head. Be generous in the amount of thought and care you give in providing health, food and strength for your rose plants, and as a result you will have to give very little thought and care to curing disease and killing off the rose-bugs and slugs. In the first place let us take up the matter of situation. Unfortunately most of us will have little leeway in this, for the average suburban place is not one that will offer hill and valley, windswept open space and warm shelter. The ideal location is to be found neither on a hilltop where the winter winds would play havoc with our winter protection, nor in a low hollow where frosts are always more frequent. A gentle slope to the south, well above nearby low spots into which the cold air will drain, sheltered in some way from the north, would be all that we could ask. In the matter of this shelter, however, we meet a further difficulty, for our rose garden must be kept well away from any trees. It is a matter of common knowledge that the root system of a tree will, as a rule, extend as far out from the base as the tree rises about the ground. Obviously it would be merely a waste of time and effort to locate the rose garden where the hungry roots of trees would rob it of the food supply furnished the roses. In general, therefore, we shall have to use the wall of a house or a garden wall for our needed protection, though in case of necessity we could sink a masonry wall or an iron plate as a barrier between the upper rich soil of our rose beds and the roots of the sheltering trees. [Illustration: Killarney, the comparatively new Hybrid Tea rose, having a beautiful shell-pink color, has achieved a wide popularity. The Hybrid Tea combines in a measure the hardiness of the Hybrid Perpetual with the continuous flowering habit of the Tea.] Sun, it is perhaps unnecessary to say, is essential, though it will be found that if the beds are in shade for the first part of the morning one will have greater opportunity of enjoying the roses at their best--before the dew has been drunk from their petals by the thirsty midsummer rays. The matter of the size and design of the rose bed is of comparatively little importance; what really is vital, however, is that the roses be permitted to have the beds to themselves--absolutely. But recently I read a magazine article purporting to be good advice for the rose-growing amateur. Therein appeared words of regret that the rose must needs have such bare, gaunt stalks, and suggesting as a remedy the growing of some vine about the base of the bush--I am not sure, indeed, that the honeysuckle was not specifically named for the place. I can well imagine that the result might be a very beautiful honeysuckle, but we should look there for the rose in vain. [Illustration: Keep the roses by themselves; they will not only thrive better, but their beauty seems not to be increased by comparison with other flowers.] The Queen of Flowers will brook no liberties of this kind. She insists upon reigning alone in her glory, and anyone who dares presume to introduce even a low-growing, shallow-rooted ground cover with the intention of making the rose bed seem less bare, will never see his roses at their best. Personally I have never felt that a rose garden need be in the least unattractive. There is one type of beauty that might be represented by a carpet of creeping phlox; there is another that belongs to the rose garden, bearing its single blooms here and there, sparsely, among the green foliage and thorny stems. In the former instance one looks at the mass effect without a thought of the beauty of individual flowers; in the latter case one's glance seeks out instinctively the single bloom to drink in its beauty and fragrance. Ah, but you say, how about the time when there is not a single rose in sight? There need be no such time between spring and fall if you plant your rose garden to best advantage. There is no need nor reason to put all the June-blooming roses together, with the Teas and Hybrid Teas off by themselves in another place. If the remontant types are interspersed throughout your garden you need never, between May and October, look for a rose in vain. The shape of the beds, too, may be such as to avoid an appearance of "too much dirt" in the rose garden. For my own part I would have a rectangular garden and simple parallelograms for the beds, although the rose garden about a central feature has its strong attractions. But if you arrange the beds in long narrow units--four feet wide for a double row of plants or twenty inches wide for a single row, and as long as your purse will allow, having the paths between the rows of turf rather than gravel or brick, and the beds slightly sunk below this turf, the rose garden need never be less than most attractive. Avoid beds wider than will accommodate two rows of plants, for it is essential that every rose bush in the garden be immediately accessible from a path. [Illustration: A suggestion for a rectangular rose garden with paths of turf. The beds are about forty inches wide, the paths four feet, excepting the center one, which is five feet in width. A hedge, which might be of _rugosa_, contributes a desirable air of seclusion.] To those intensely practical persons who object to walking through dew-wet paths in the morning tour of the rose garden, let me point out the obvious impossibility of having gravel paths immediately adjacent to the rose beds, and the continued care required to keep in a presentable condition a narrow strip of sod between path and bed. Now as to the preparation of the rose bed itself. First of all, dig the soil out to a depth of two feet at least, keeping the top soil and sods and the subsoil in separate piles as they are taken out. Loosen up the floor of the trench with a pick and on this, if the ground needs draining, which it will if it is a compact, sodden surface, put a layer of stones, cinders and other material that will not decompose. On top of this place the best of the sub-soil mixed with a generous dressing of well-rotted manure. Finally, add the sod, well broken up, and the top soil, also enriched with manure. Then fill in the bed with enough good top soil, unmanured, to bring it two or three inches above the adjoining surface. Make sure that the surface of the bed, after it has settled, will be about one inch below that of the adjoining sod in order to retain the moisture from rain. This preparation of the bed should be done at least several weeks in advance of planting time. In composing the soil for the rose bed, it is well to remember that the Hybrid Perpetuals require a heavy soil containing some clay. For Teas and Hybrid Teas a lighter, warmer soil is better. In his most admirable "Book of the Rose," the Rev. Andrew Foster-Melliar tells an amusing incident in connection with soil. The good rector was dining out and had been served with a generous portion of plum pudding. It was very dark, rich, strong and greasy. Absent-mindedly he sat back in his chair gazing at the dish intently. His hostess, noticing his hesitancy, asked if anything were wrong with the pudding. "Oh, no," replied the rector unthinkingly, "I was thinking what rare stuff it would be to grow roses in." Top soil from an old pasture, if it be a moderately heavy loam, taken with the grass roots and chopped very fine, will do excellently for the Hybrid Perpetuals. For the Teas and Hybrid Teas, mix with soil of this kind about one-quarter of its bulk of sand and leaf mold to lighten it. Remember that all the manure that is used should be incorporated with the lower two-thirds of the bed; the upper third should not contain any recently added manure as it is apt to harm the roots of new plants. PREPARATION AND PLANTING In the vicinity of New York and further north, I think it will be found that spring planting is best. South of Philadelphia many roses are set out in the fall, for here they become well established before cold weather sets in, and are therefore ready to start active growth at the first touch of spring. If spring planting is chosen the plants must be put in the ground early--at the very first opportunity--so that they will have time to become firmly established before hot weather. Pot-grown plants from a greenhouse cannot, of course, be set out until all danger from frost is past. Roses that are planted so late cannot be expected to show really satisfying results in bloom the first year. Roses that are planted early in the spring, if field-grown stock as explained below, will with proper cultivation give at least a reasonable amount of bloom the first year, though not so much as in later years. One hears a great deal of argument on the question of whether roses are best grown on their own roots or when grown on a sturdier stock, such as Manetti for Hybrid Perpetuals and brier for Hybrid Teas, which are probably the best rose stocks for this country. It seems to be the general consensus of opinion that roses budded on these stocks will thrive much more luxuriantly and give much better blooms than those which depend upon their own root systems. It is necessary, however, to set the point at which the shoot is budded to the stock about two inches beneath the surface; otherwise there is the constant danger that suckers will spring from the root and, if overlooked for a time, these will kill the more desirable shoots. Several kinds of roses are offered by the dealers for setting out in the spring. There are the pot-grown roses mentioned above--the only form in which many of the climbers may be readily obtained. Mail-order houses make a practice of sending out the Hybrid Perpetuals, Hybrid Teas and Teas also in this form of very young plants grown from cuttings under glass during the winter. Costing more, and surely far more dependable, are the field-grown roses that have originally been budded on Manetti or brier and, usually in two-year-old form, taken out of the ground the previous fall while dormant, to lie in cold houses until ready for planting. Such roses as these will surely bloom the first season and are far better equipped for the shock of being set into the open ground again than the pot-grown plants that have never had a taste of real garden life. A word of warning might profitably be uttered against the cheap roses budded on _multiflora_ stock, grown in Holland and sold in some of the department stores. They are short-lived and very poor in comparison with plants on brier and Manetti. _Multiflora_ has been entirely discarded as a stock by English and Irish growers. Roses on their own roots have the advantage of being cheaper, due to the saving of labor in striking cuttings rather than budding--one-year-old plants costing a dollar for six to a dozen; two-year and three-year-old bushes, which are, of course, far more desirable, cost more in proportion. Dormant, field-grown budded roses cost, in the two-year-old size, from thirty-five cents to a dollar each. [Illustration: A dormant Tea rose as it is received from the grower for planting in March. After planting it should be still further pruned.] Before setting the plants examine each carefully and cut off the broken roots with a sharp knife, as well as all eyes that may appear on the root stock, in order to forestall suckers. The plants should be set immediately upon their receipt from the nurseryman, so that they will not become dried out. If they seem dry it may be well to puddle the roots in thin mud just before setting. Make the hole large enough to accommodate all of the plant's roots without crowding, remembering to put the budding point not less or more than two inches below the surface and with the roots spread out nearly horizontally, but inclining downward towards their ends and without crossing one another. This will not be an easy matter, for in shipment the roots will have probably been so compressed that they extend almost directly downward from the collar. After the plants have been firmly set and the earth carefully packed in around the roots, rake the soil to loosen it up over the whole surface. The soil will probably be moist enough at the time to need no watering. With the pot-grown plants, the moist ball of earth that comes about the roots is carefully retained intact and placed in the hole prepared for the plant. Set the plant firmly in place by pressure with the soles of your shoes, give a generous watering and finally break up the surface of the soil with a rake. It is absolutely essential to keep the surface of the ground loosened with a hoe and a sharp steel rake throughout the summer. After very hard rain loosen the soil as soon as it is dry enough to work, to conserve the moisture. FERTILIZING In striking contrast to the exquisite beauty of the rose is the food that we must give it in abundance if we would have the most healthy plants. But for the true rose enthusiast the turning over of a muck heap to find manure in just the right form, or the dilution of the by-products of the cow barn with water to make the best stimulant, have nothing about them that is in the least objectionable. If the soil at our disposal is inclined to be rich in clay, we can probably do no better than incorporate well-decomposed stable manure with it, by raking it, well pulverized, into the surface in the early spring. In sandy or gravelly soils, however, cow manure or that from the pigsty will serve far better. It must be remembered that when properly set out the rose plant is comparatively shallow-rooted, so that this raking of fine old manure into the soil must be just that, and _not_ the deep digging of half-rotted manure into the bed with a spading-fork. The aim in the method advocated is to put the solid manure where the spring rains will carry it in time to the feeding roots, and in the liquid form in which it is readily assimilated. The theory of this manurial feeding will make clear the fact that a proper application of liquid manure has practically all the advantages of the former method without its drawbacks. For solid manure, if applied to the beds in quantities sufficient to be of real value, has a tendency to keep the needed air out of the top soil, and to bring in its train an abundance of weeds that will be hard to exterminate. So that, with the exception of light sandy soils, where the humus is needed, we shall do well to feed the rose garden liquid nourishment. The time when this stimulant will be most effective is in the months of May and June, when most of the plants are putting all their efforts into the forming buds. Withhold the liquid in dry spells, for it is most appreciated immediately after a good, soaking rain. Avoid getting the manure on the foliage, and make sure that it errs on the side of weakness rather than strength. Suspending a burlap sack containing a bushel of cow manure in a barrel of water for two days, will give a solution that needs dilution with its own bulk of water. A half-gallon to a plant each week will be a sufficient normal feeding. Immediately after dosing the beds go over them with a rake or prong-hoe and loosen up the surface to prevent evaporation. A vital principle in feeding rose plants is one that seems to be overlooked instinctively by seven out of ten amateur gardeners. It is this: A strong-growing, healthy plant needs and will absorb a large quantity of liquid manure; a sickly plant, or one that is not yet well established, does not need and cannot absorb even the normal quantity of this food. Yet how often are we tempted to feed to excess this weakling and withhold food from that nearby sturdy bush, because the latter "doesn't need it." Just bear in mind the fact that we do not give burgundy to a puny child that is struggling against the effects of malnutrition, but that a healthy, growing boy can consume an astonishing amount of food and drink. To review the year's activities in fertilizing: let us put a top dressing of rough manure over the beds in the fall, about three inches deep, with further protection where the climate demands it. In the spring we shall rake off the coarse portion of this covering, leaving the finely pulverized manure to be raked gently into the top soil if it needs this additional humus (the manure's food value will have been washed down by the winter's rain and snow). If our soil is clayey the whole top dressing will be hoed off. In May and June come the generous applications of the liquid manure, and for the Teas and Perpetuals that really do continue to flower, these applications may well be continued through the summer at less frequent intervals, leaving off at the end of August, let us say, so as not to encourage unnecessarily the late summer's growth of wood. Although not many of us, in all probability, will meet the unusual condition of having for our rose gardens only an over-fertilized soil in a long-used garden, it may be well to mention the fact that such a soil will not produce good roses. Treatment with lime will help matters for a time, but if within the range of possibility we should remake the garden with virgin soil. The use of nitrate of soda and like stimulants may be undertaken sparingly in the spring, but these are better left to those gardeners who have learned, possibly through disastrous experiences, how properly to use them. PRUNING The rose is one of those plants that seem to need the firm hand of man to direct them in the way they should grow. If left to their own devices, most of the highly cultivated roses revert quickly to lower types; they need the pitiless pruning-knife to spur them to their best endeavor. It will readily be seen that severe pruning, as a general principle, tends towards greater beauty of individual blooms, while light pruning is conducive to a better rounded-out form of bush at the expense of the flowers. Or, again, the severe pruning gives quality of bloom as opposed to quantity of bloom. Always cut back the plants severely when first setting them out--Teas and Hybrid Teas less than the Hybrid Perpetuals, and the climbers least of all. Unreasonable as it may seem, the plants of vigorous habit of growth need less pruning than the less active ones. Pruning may be started with the dwarf Hybrid perpetuals in March--leaving four or five canes three feet in length if large masses of bloom are wanted. The result will be a large number of small flowers. If, on the other hand, fewer and larger flowers are wanted, all weak growth should be removed and every healthy cane retained and cut back in preparation for the plant's development. The weakest should not have more than four inches of wood left on the root, while the strongest may have eight or nine inches. Always prune a cane about a quarter of an inch above an outside bud unless the cane is very far from the vertical, when an inside one should be left for the terminal shoot. See that the wood is not torn or bruised in the operation. The pruning of Hybrid Teas and Teas had better be postponed until the first signs of life appear. The bark becomes greener and the dormant buds begin to swell. Dead or dying wood will then readily be noticeable and it may be removed. Remember that these two classes do not need such severe pruning as do the Hybrid Perpetuals; twice the amount of wood may safely be left if it seems promising. Dormant rose plants bought in the spring will arrive from the growers already partly pruned. In general, from one-half to two-thirds of the remaining length of cane should be cut off when the plants are set out, removing entirely all bruised or dead wood. Bear in mind always, if your conscience revolts at such severe cutting, that the strongest dormant buds are nearest the base of the plant and it is these we want to force into growth to bear the prize blooms. With the ramblers very little cutting is needed; merely cut back the shoots that seem to be outdistancing their neighbors by too much, and cut out entirely the dead canes. The _rugosa_ is intended to be a bush rather than a strong, lean plant for prize blooms. Merely cut out old, dry wood and trim back the longer shoots to the desired form. Use a first-class pair of pruning shears in order that the work may be done quickly and, above all, with clean cuts that show no tearing or abrasion of the bark. PESTS Once more let me repeat the fact that by far the most effective campaign against the insects and other pests that infest rose plants is to be found, not in sprayings and dustings, but rather in maintaining to the best of our ability a condition of health in the plant itself. Prevention here, as always, is better than cure. Nor can it be too strongly emphasized that the daily use of a powerful but finely divided spray from the hose will make life on the rose plant miserable for practically all of the parasites. The following are the chief enemies that we may encounter in the rose garden. They are briefly described so as to be recognizable when found, and for the annihilation or keeping in check of each is given one of the many remedies. Practically every rosarian develops, after a time, his own pet formulæ for these poisons, so that rose books will be found to contain a wonderfully varied assortment of weapons--so numerous in fact that one would think the army of rose pests could never live to continue their depredations another season. _Aphis or Green Fly_ A small, pale green louse, winged or wingless, with a soft, fat, oval body apparently too big for its legs. A single aphis in five generations may become the progenitor of 6,000,000,000. Tobacco smoke is an excellent weapon, or, if a spray is found more convenient to apply, a solution of 4 oz. of tobacco stems boiled for 10 min. in 1 gal. of soft water, will do. The same weight of quassia chips may be substituted for the tobacco. If the tobacco is used, the cheapest that can be bought is the best for the purpose. Strain the solution and add 4 oz. of soft soap while it is still hot, stirring well to dissolve the soap. Another remedy--1 qt. of soft soap boiled in 2 qts. of soft water, adding 1 pt. of paraffin before cooling--is well recommended. It should be applied diluted with soft water to ten times its bulk. The paraffin acts as an astringent which, together with the soft soap, cleanses the plant of honey-dew, which is exuded by the aphis to protect its feet against cold and wet. _Mildew_ A fungous disease that may appear when the rose plants are in a damp, shady or ill-ventilated location. Although some varieties are more susceptible than others to this disease, the rose garden located out in the open, where the air has unobstructed access, will not be troubled much by mildew. When the disease appears late in the autumn it need not be feared. Dusting flowers of sulphur upon the foliage, taking care to reach the under side of leaves as well as the upper, and upon the ground about the plants, is a well established remedy. It will be found convenient to shake the powder from a baking-powder can, the end of which is punched with holes, if a regular powder gun is not at hand. Use the sulphur in the early morning, when the dew will help to hold it on the leaves, or else spray the plants with water beforehand. _Rose Thrip_ A small, yellowish white insect with transparent wings, usually found on the _under_ side of the rose leaves. This pest appears in swarms and in an astonishingly short time turns the foliage yellow. If the pest appears, spray the rose plants daily with a hose as suggested above. If this does not prove efficacious, dust the under side of the leaves with white hellebore in a powder gun. Whale oil soap solution, in the proportions of 5 oz. of soap to 1 gal. of water, is a very good remedy. It is easier to dissolve the soap if the water is hot. _Rose Caterpillar or Leaf-roller_ Several kinds of caterpillars may appear, varying from one-half to three-quarters of an inch in length, and either green, yellow or brown in color. They have a habit of enveloping themselves in the rose leaves, or boring their way into the flower buds. In the latter case they are very apt to be overlooked. Powdered hellebore will hinder their progress, but by far the most effective weapons are the finger and thumb--gloved, if you insist. _Rose Chafer or Rose-bug_ This brown beetle, less than one-half inch in length, is one of the best-known rose pests. It is a slow-moving creature that appears suddenly in armies in the blooming season in June, and is the more annoying for the reason that it devotes its attention almost entirely to the flowers themselves. Paris green, dusted over the plants, will kill the pest, but this poison has a disagreeable way of showing no intelligent discrimination in the choice of its victims. Really the only satisfactory method of attack is to knock the stupid creatures off the flowers into a tin of kerosene and then burn it. _Rose Slug_ The larvæ of a saw-fly which comes up out of the ground in May and June. The female makes incisions in the leaves and deposits her eggs, which hatch out in about two weeks. The slugs will eat an astonishing amount of leaf if not checked. They are about a half-inch long, green, and will be found on the upper side of the leaf. Powdered white hellebore, dusted on the foliage, or the solution of whale oil soap mentioned for the Rose Thrip, will keep it in check. _White Grub_ An underground enemy that feeds on the roots of rose plants. The withering or sickliness of the plant is sufficient reason to cause a thorough search to be made by lifting it. The grub, which is provided with six legs near the head, and which coils itself into a crescent shape when in repose, is particularly fond of strawberry plants, so it will be well to keep these some distance away from the rose garden. There is no insecticide that will be effective, because of the underground point of attack. Lifting the plant and removing the grub is the only thing that can be done. _Bark Louse or White Scale_ This appears when the rose bush is grown in a damp, shady place. It is snow white and individual scales are about one-tenth of an inch in diameter, irregularly round. Cut off and burn badly infested shoots. Spray with 1 lb. of soap in 1 gal. of water in early winter and again in early spring. Weaker summer applications may be used also--1 lb. in 4 or 6 gal. once in three weeks throughout the season will reach all the larvæ. _Our Allies_ It is well to remember that there are friends of the rose in the lower animal world as well as enemies--the toad, lady-bug, ground-bird and swallow, particularly. The toad is sometimes brought by the English gardeners from a distance to help wage war on the pests; the lady-bug may be passed thankfully by when seen; and it may be well to try attracting the birds to the rose garden by scattering a few crumbs there daily--not too many, but just enough to arouse a real appetite for insect pests. PROPAGATION The propagation of his own stock is a task for which the expert is better fitted than the beginner for whom this book is written. Nevertheless, I doubt whether the amateur will pass through his first year of rose growing without wishing to make an attempt to multiply the stock of those roses which have with him been most successful, or to bud a choice variety from a friend's garden on the foster-parent stock for his own place. Whereas in England the process of budding is carried on very widely and with fair success among amateur and professional rosarians alike, with us this means of propagation seems fraught with greater difficulty. Excepting in the case of varieties that do not readily root from cuttings, this latter method of propagation is generally adopted where roses on their own roots are desired. The best time for taking cuttings from a plant is towards the end of the summer, when the ripe wood of the current year's growth will be available. Ten inches is a convenient length for the pieces and some rosarians feel that if a "heel," or portion of older wood, remains on the lower end there will be greater likelihood of rooting. Remove all but the two top leaves and set the cutting in a light soil, or even in pure sand, so that only the two upper buds are exposed. Leave the cuttings in the ground until the following autumn, when those that have taken root may be transplanted and set at a less depth in their permanent quarters. Budding is a far more interesting process to carry through, and by it we may have sturdier roses on a stock like Manetti or brier. A very sharp knife is required, with some raffia for tying the bud securely into the stock. In the limited scope of this book I can but indicate very roughly the general procedure, and, indeed, budding is far more readily learned by watching a skilled rosarian do it than by reading many pages of description. Briefly, then, a bud, which may be found under any petiole, is carefully sliced, with its surrounding bark and backing of wood, from the half-ripe stalk of the variety to be propagated, leaving the petiole in place to serve as a handle. This is probably best done in July. After removing very gently the wood backing from the bark and bud, the latter are slipped into a T-shaped incision in the foster stock, this incision to be made through the bark to the actual wood of the stalk. The bud and its supporting bark are inserted between the wood and bark of the stock, the latter then being wrapped with a few turns of raffia to hold the bud in place. After a period of a month the bud will either have taken hold or failed, and the tie may be removed. The rose plants that we buy already budded on Manetti or brier are produced in this way, excepting that the bud is inserted very low on the stock, so that the junction will be underground. This is the more desirable place for budding, insuring, if we nip the suckers as they may appear, a plant that above ground shows only the shoots of the desired variety. [Illustration: A shoot of an improved variety of rose grafted and held in place with raffia to the stock of a sturdy growth like Manetti. At the right is a "sucker" or growth from the root, and it must be cut off as soon as it appears.] Grafting is practiced only in the case of roses grown under glass, when the scions are cleft into stocks of Manetti or brier grown in pots for the purpose. Layering is used as a means of increasing the stock only in the case of roses that do not readily strike from cuttings. It consists of bending down a long shoot so that a section of it may be pegged underground to take root. Propagation by seed is limited to the efforts to obtain new varieties after cross-fertilization, and is a discouragingly slow and uncertain process. WINTER PROTECTION It will be a red-letter day for amateur rosarians when the existing favorites among rose plants shall have been so improved by cross-breeding that we can leave off all the winter overcoats of straw, brush and earth, with the happy knowledge that spring will find as many live plants in the rose garden as we rejoiced in during the previous season. [Illustration: In England the "standard" rose, having a long stem of the foster stock, is quite common. With us it is less frequently seen on account of the bother of proper winter protection.] Although the Hybrid Perpetuals are, for the most part, sufficiently hardy to withstand an ordinary winter unprotected, it is still the part of wisdom to conserve their energy and health by hoeing up the earth about their bases and putting over all a top dressing of rough manure when protecting the Hybrid Teas and Teas. In the northern states it will be well to tie up the tops of the latter with straw or to surround the bed with a border of boards or wire netting, after winter has set in, and cover the plants with a thick blanket of leaves held down by brush. This protection should be removed gradually in March. Where the winters are particularly severe, a still more certain precaution is to dig up the plants and lay them in well-drained trenches, covering them with earth and a further layer of leaves, straw or brush. The aim is not to protect the plants from freezing at all, but to prevent the alternate freezing and thawing that is so disastrous. Another treatment for tender roses is to winter them in boxes of soil in a cool cellar. In case this is done, see that the earth is not allowed to dry out entirely. At planting time in the spring the dormant plants will be taken out, dipped in a bucket of thin mud and replanted in the garden. While we may be willing for the present to take such precautions with the garden roses, most of us will not care to coddle the climbers to anything like this extent. Beyond hoeing up a mound of earth about the bases of these and top-dressing them, we shall let the climbers fight their own battles, and leave the result to the principle of the survival of the fittest. LISTS OF DEPENDABLE ROSES It is a difficult matter, indeed, to select, from the experience of rose growers and from the long lists of the nurserymen's catalogues, a few that may be safely named as the best roses. In fact, it is a task that no one would care to undertake. It may be helpful, however, to add the following list; these are by no means the only good roses, but in choosing any or all of these the amateur cannot well go astray. For the benefit of his experience and advice regarding these lists, I am indebted, among others, to Dr. Robert Huey, of Philadelphia--probably the most experienced amateur grower of roses in the United States. It has been thought best not to attempt individual descriptions nor to go very far into details of color. The lists, then, are grouped into rough sub-divisions under the main colors, and it will be understood that "pink," for instance, will include a rather wide range of varying tints. HYBRID PERPETUALS _White_--Merveille de Lyon, White Baroness, Frau Karl Druschki, Margaret Dickson, Mabel Morrison, Gloire Lyonnaise (in reality a Hybrid Tea, but as it blooms only in June it may be included in the Hybrid Perpetual class). _Pink_--Baroness Rothschild, Caroline D'Arden, Heinrich Schultheis, Her Majesty, Lady Arthur Hill, Mrs. George Dickson, Mrs. Harkness, Susan Marie Rodocanachi, Mrs. John Laing, Paul Neyron, Marie Finges, Marquise de Castellane, Mrs. R. S. Sharman-Crawford, Souvenir de la Malmaison. _Red_--Captain Hayward, Fisher Holmes, General Jacqueminot, Oscar Cordel, Ulrich Brunner, Duke of Edinburgh, Duke of Teck, Anne de Diesbach, Duke of Fife, Étienne Levet, Prince Arthur, Ard's Rover (climber). Prince Camille de Rohan is the best of the very dark roses, among which also are Sultan of Zanzibar, Louis Van Houtte, and Xavier Olibo. These, however, are weak growers and frequently do not bring their blossoms to perfection. TEAS _White_--White Maman Cochet, Hon. Edith Gifford. _Pink_--William R. Smith, Maman Cochet, Souvenir d'un Ami, Duchesse de Brabant, Mrs. B. R. Cant. _Yellow_--Harry Kirk, Étoile de Lyon, Francisca Krueger, Isabelle Sprunt, Safrano, Marie Van Houtte. HYBRID TEAS _White or light-colored and mixed_--Viscountess Folkestone, Pharisaer, Molly Sharman-Crawford, Ellen Wilmot, Grace Molyneaux, Antoine Revoire, Joseph Hill, Mrs. A. R. Waddell, Betty, Prince de Bulgarie, La Tosca, Kaiserin Augusta Victoria. _Pink_--Killarney, Lady Alice Stanley, Lady Ursula, Dean Hole, Lyon Rose, Dorothy Page Roberts, Madame Edmée Metz, Lady Ashtown, Mrs. Charles Custis Harrison, Caroline Testout, La France. _Yellow_--Duchess of Wellington, Mrs. Aaron Ward, Madame Ravary, Madame Mélanie Soupert, Madame Hector Leuillot, Melody. _Red_--George C. Waud, Lawrent Carle, Gruss an Teplitz, Château de Closvoges, Étoile de France. MOSS ROSES _White_--Blanche Moreau. _Pink_--Crested Moss. RUGOSA AND ITS HYBRIDS _White_--Blanc Double de Coubert; _Rosa rugosa_, var. _alba_. _Pink_--Conrad F. Meyer. _Red_--Arnold; _Rosa rugosa_, var. _rubra_. WICHURAIANA HYBRIDS _White_--Wichuraiana, White Dorothy. _Pink_--Lady Gay, Dorothy Perkins, W. C. Egan, Sargent. _Red_--Hiawatha. NOISETTES _Yellow_--Cloth of Gold, Rêve d'Or (climber), Fortune's Yellow. POLYANTHAS _White_--Trier, Catherine Ziemet. _Pink_--Tausendschön, Clothilde Soupert. _Red_--Carmine Pillar. PRAIRIE ROSES _White_--Baltimore Belle. _Pink_--Rosa _setigera_. AUSTRIAN BRIERS _Yellow_--Harrison's Yellow, Persian Yellow, Austrian Copper. A GLOSSARY OF TERMS Anther--a rounded knob-like form at the top of the stamen, containing the pollen. Callus--a swelling which occurs at the base of a cutting previous to the formation of roots. Calyx--the narrow green leaves or sepals forming the covering for the bud. Corymb--a group of flower stalks arising from a common stalk and forming a level top. Cutting--a section of a stalk containing several eyes or dormant buds, taken for the propagation of a new plant. Disbud--to deprive a stalk of flower buds by pinching or rubbing these off. It is done in order to throw more energy into the remaining bud or buds. Hep or hip--the seed pod. Hybrid--a new species resulting from the cross-fertilization of two species. Leaflet--a single member of the compound leaf borne by all rose plants. Maiden plant--a plant blooming for the first time after being budded or grafted to a stock. Ovary--the hollow lower end of a pistil, containing the embryo seeds. Panicle--a cluster of flowers borne irregularly on a stem. Petiole--the stalk to which the several leaflets are attached. Pistil--the seed-bearing organ in the center of a flower, consisting of one or more styles, one or more stigmas and the ovary. Pollen--the powdery substance found in the anthers. Remontant--applied to roses that flower the second time in a summer. Sepals--the narrow green leaves of a pithy texture forming the calyx. Sport--a shoot or sucker from a plant, showing some peculiar feature or features distinguishing it from its parent. Stamens--the male organs surrounding the pistil. Stigma--the upper end of the pistil, capable of receiving the pollen and connected with the ovary by a tube extending down through the style. Style--the erect columnar support of the stigma. Sucker--a branch or shoot proceeding from the root or stem of a plant, below the surface of the ground. Frequently used as meaning a shoot from the root-stock of a budded or grafted plant. 
14859	----	THE DADDY SERIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS DADDY TAKES US TO THE GARDEN BY HOWARD R. GARIS _Author of_ _Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland_, _Uncle Wiggily Longears_, _Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose_, _Uncle Wiggily's Arabian Nights_ ILLUSTRATED BY EVA DEAN MADE IN U.S.A. M.A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK THE DADDY SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS The stories tell of a little boy and girl who go to various places with their dear Daddy. Each book contains something of value regarding nature lore, outdoor sports and animal life. Price 50 cents per volume. HOWARD R. GARIS * * * * * Daddy Takes Us Camping Daddy Takes Us Fishing Daddy Takes Us to the Circus Daddy Takes Us Skating Daddy Takes Us Coasting Daddy Takes Us to the Farm Daddy Takes Us to the Garden Daddy Takes Us Hunting Birds Daddy Takes Us Hunting Flowers Daddy Takes Us to the Woods Copyright, 1914, by R.F. FENNO & COMPANY * * * * * DADDY TAKES US TO THE GARDEN CONTENTS * * * * * CHAPTER PAGE I A New Game 9 II Making A Garden 20 III Upside Down Beans 34 IV The First Radish 49 V The Potatoes' Eyes 59 VI The Corn Silk 70 VII Early Tomatoes 78 VIII The Children's Market 92 IX Sammie Plants Tomatoes 102 X White Celery 113 XI Gathering Crops 123 XII Pumpkin Pie 134 CHAPTER I A NEW GAME "Mother, what can we do now?" "Tell us something to play, please! We want to have some fun!" As Harry and Mabel Blake said this they walked slowly up the path toward the front porch, on which their mother was sitting one early Spring day. The two children did not look very happy. "What can we do?" asked Hal, as he was called more often than Harry. "There isn't any more fun," complained Mab, to which her name was often shortened. "Oh, my!" laughed Mother Blake. "Such a sadness! What doleful faces you both have. I hope they don't freeze so and stay that way. It would be dreadful!" "It can't freeze," said Hal. "It's too warm. Daddy told us how cold it had to be to freeze. The ther--ther--Oh, well the thing you tell how cold it is--has to get down to where it says number 32 before there's ice." "You mean the thermometer," said Mab. "That's it," agreed Hal. "And look, the shiny thing--mercury, that's the name of it--the mercury is at 60 now. It can't freeze, Mother." "Well, I'm glad it can't, for I wouldn't want your face to turn into ice the way it looked a little while ago." "But there's no fun, Mother," and Mab, whose face, as had her brother's, had lost its fretful look while they were talking about the thermometer, again seemed cross and unhappy. "We can't have any fun!" "Why don't you play some games?" asked Mrs. Blake, smiling at the two children. "We did," answered Hal. "We tried to play tag, but it's too muddy to run off the paths, and it's no fun, staying in one place. We can't play ball, 'cause Mab can't throw like a boy, and I'm not going to play doll with her." "I didn't ask you to!" said Mab quickly. "I was going to play doll by myself." "Yes, but you'd want me to be a doctor, or something, when your doll got sick--you always do." "I should think that would be fun," said Mother Blake. "Why don't you play doll and doctor?" "I'm not going to play doll!" declared Hal, and his face looked crosser than ever. "Oh, it isn't nice to talk that way," said his mother. "You ought to be glad if Mab wanted you to be a doctor for her sick doll. But perhaps you can think of something else--some new game. Just sit down a moment and we'll talk. Then perhaps you'll think of something. I wonder why it is so warm to-day, and why there is no danger of anything freezing--not your faces of course, for I know you wouldn't let that happen. But why is it so warm; do you know?" "'Cause it's Spring," answered Hal. "Everybody knows that." "Oh, no, not everybody," replied his mother. "Your dog Roly-Poly doesn't know it." "Oh, yes, Mother! I think he does!" cried Mab. "He was rolling over and over in the grass to-day, even if it was all wet like a sponge. He never did that in the Winter." "Well, perhaps dogs and cats do know when it is Spring. The birds do, I'm sure, for then they come up from the South, where they have spent the Winter, and begin to build their nests. So you think it is warm to-day because it is Spring; do you, Hal?" "Yes, Mother," he replied. "It's time Winter was gone, anyhow. And the trees know it is going to be Summer soon, for they are swelling out their buds." "And after a while there'll be flowers," added Mab. "Didn't we have fun, Hal, when Daddy took us hunting flowers?" "Yes, and when he took us to the woods, and to see the different kinds of birds," added the little boy. "We had lots of fun then." "I wish we could have some of that kind of fun now," went on Mab. "When's Daddy coming home, Mother?" "Oh, not for quite a while. He has to work and earn money you know. He has to earn more than ever, now that everything costs so much on account of the war. Daddies don't have a very easy time these days." "Do Mothers?" asked Mab, thinking of how she played mother to her dolls. Maybe, she thought, she could make up a new game, pretending how hard it was for dolls' mothers these days. "Well, mothers have to do many things they did not have to do when things to eat and wear did not cost so much," spoke Mother Blake. "We have to make one loaf of bread go almost as far as two loaves used to go, and as for clothes--well, I am mending some of yours, Hal, that, last year, I thought were hardly useful any more. But we must save all we can. So that's why Daddy has to work harder and longer, and why he can't come home Saturday afternoons as early as he used to." It was a Saturday afternoon when Hal and Mab found so much fault about not having any fun. Almost any other day they would have been in school, and have been busy over their lessons. But just now they wanted to play and they were not having a very jolly time, for they could not think of anything to do. Or, at least, they thought they could not. "What makes it Spring?" asked Hal, after a bit, as he watched his mother putting a patch on his little trousers. Hal remembered how he tore a hole in them one day sliding down a cellar door. "Tell us what makes Spring, Mother," went on Mab. "That will be as much fun as playing, I guess." "The sun makes the Spring," said Mrs. Blake "Spring is one of the four seasons. I wonder if you can tell me the others?" "Which one starts?" asked Hal. "Spring, of course," exclaimed Mab. "You have to start with something growing, and things grow in the Spring." "That is right," said Mrs. Blake. "Spring is the beginning of life in the world, when the flowers and birds begin to grow; the flowers from little buds and the birds from little eggs. What comes next?" "Summer!" cried Hal. "Then's when we can have fun. The ground is dry, so we can play marbles and fly kites. And we can go in swimming and have a long vacation. Summer's the jolly time!" "It is a time when things grow that start in the Spring," said Mother Blake. "What comes after Summer?" "Autumn," answered Mab. "Some folks call it Fall. Why do they, Mother?" "Because the leaves fall from the trees, perhaps. It is a time when the trees and bushes go to sleep, and when most birds fly down to the warm South. And what comes after Autumn or Fall?" "Christmas!" cried Hal. "Yes, so it does!" laughed Mrs. Blake. "And I guess most children would say the same thing. But I meant what season." "It's Winter," Hal said. "Let's see if I know 'em. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter," he recited. "Four seasons, and this is Spring. I wish it would hurry up and be Summer." "So do I," agreed Mab. "You can't have any fun now. It's too wet to go without your rubbers, too cold to go without a coat and almost too hot to wear one. I like Summer best." "And I like Fall and Winter," said Hal. "But let's do something Mab. Let's have some fun. What can we do, Mother?" and back the children were, just where they started. "Why don't you get Roly-Poly and play with him?" asked Mrs. Blake. "He's gone away. I guess he ran down to Daddy's office like he does sometimes," said Mab. "Let's go down after him," exclaimed Hal. "That'll be some fun." "I don't want to," spoke Mab. "I'd rather play with my doll." "You never want to do anything I want to play?" complained Hal. "Can't she come with me after Roly-Poly, Mother?" "Well, I don't know. Can't you both play something here until Daddy comes home? Why don't you play bean-bag?" "We did, but Hal always throws 'em over my head and I can't reach," Mab said. "She throws crooked," complained Hal. "Oh, my dears! I think you each must have the Spring Fever!" laughed Mother Blake. "Try and be nicer toward one another. Let me see now. How would you like to help me bake a cake, Mab?" "Oh, that will be fun!" and Mab jumped up from the porch, where she had been sitting near her mother's rocking chair, and began to clap her hands. "May I stir it myself, and put the dough in the pans? "Yes, I think so." "Pooh! That's no fun for me!" remarked Hal. "I want to have some fun, too." "You may clean out the chocolate or frosting dish--whichever kind of a cake we make," offered Mab. "You always like to scrape out the chocolate dish, Hal." "Yes, I like that," he said, smiling a little. "Well, you may have it all alone this time, if I make the cake," went on Mab. Nearly always she and Hal shared this pleasure--that of scraping out, with a knife or spoon, the chocolate or sugar icing dish from which Mother Blake took the sweet stuff for the top and inside the layers of the cake. "Come on, Hal!" Hal was willing enough now, and soon he and his sister were in the kitchen, helping Mother Blake with her cake-making. Though, to tell the truth, Mab and Mrs. Blake did most of the work. While the three were in the midst of their cake-making, into the kitchen rushed a little poodle dog, whirling around, barking and trying to catch his tail. "Oh, Roly-Poly, where have you been?" cried Hal. "Did Daddy come home with you?" "Bow-wow!" barked Roly-Poly, which might mean "no" or "yes," just as you happened to listen to his bark. "Oh, don't get in my way, Roly!" called Mab as the little dog danced about in front of her, while she was carrying a pan filled with cake dough toward the oven. "Look out! Oh, there it goes." Just what Mab had feared came to pass. She tripped over the poodle dog, and, to save herself from falling, she had to drop the pan of cake dough. Down it fell, right on Roly-Poly's back. "Bow-wow-wow!" he barked and growled at the same time. "Oh, look at him!" laughed Hal "He's a regular cake himself." "Don't let him run through the house that way!" called Mother Blake. "He'll get the carpets and furniture all dough. Get him, Hal!" Hal made a grab for the little pet dog, and caught him by his tail. This made Roly-Poly howl louder than ever, until Hal, not wishing to hurt his pet, managed to get him in his arms. But of course this made Hal's waist all covered with cake dough. "Never mind," said Mother Blake, as she saw Hal looking at himself in dismay. "It will all wash off. Better to have it on your waist than on the carpets. Why, Mab! What's the matter?" for Mab was crying softly. "Oh--Oh, my--my nice ca-cake is all spoiled," she sobbed. "Oh, no it isn't!" comforted Mother Blake. "Only one pan of dough is spilled, and there is plenty more. The kitchen floor can easily be washed, and so can Roly Poly. "Hal," went on his mother, "you take the dog up to the bath tub and give him a good scrubbing. He'll like that. Take off your own waist and let the water run on that. I'll wipe up the floor and you can fill another pan and put it in the oven, Mab. Don't cry! We'll have the cake in time for supper yet." So Mab dried her tears and once more began on the cake, while Mrs. Blake cleaned up the dough from the floor. In a little while the cake was baking in the oven, and Hal came down stairs, rather wet and splattered, but clean. With him was Roly-Poly, looking half drowned, but also clean. "Well, we did a lot of things!" said Hal, when he had on dry clothes, and he and Mab were waiting for the cake to be baked, after which the chocolate would be spread over it. "It was fun, wasn't it?" "I--I guess so," answered Mab, not quite sure. "Did I hurt Roly when I stepped on him?" "I guess not. He splashed water all over me when I put him in the bath tub, though. I pretended he was a submarine ship and he swam all around." "I wish I had seen him." "I'll make him do it again," and Hal started toward the stairs with Roly in his arms. "No, please don't!" laughed Mother Blake. "One bath a day is enough. Besides, I think it's time to take the cake out, Mab." When the chocolate had been spread on, and Hal had scraped out the dish, giving Mab a share even though she had said she did not want any, the front door was heart to shut. "Here comes Daddy!" cried Mab. "Oh, I wonder if he brought anything?" said Hal, racing after his sister. Daddy Blake did have a package in his arms, and he was smiling. He put the bundle down on the table and caught up first Mab and then Hal for a hearty kiss. "Well, how are you all to-day?" he asked. "I just baked a cake," answered Mab. "And the dough went all over Roly-Poly, and I made believe he was a submarine ship in the bath tub," added Hal. "We had lots of fun." "Before that we didn't thought," spoke Mab. "We wanted to play something new but we didn't know what. Did you bring us anything, Daddy?" "Yes, I brought you and Hal a new game." "A new game? Oh, goody! May we play it now?" "Well, you can start to look at it now, but it takes quite a while to play it. It takes all Spring, all Summer and part of the Fall." "Oh, what a long game!" cried Hal. "What is it?" "It is called the Garden Game," said Daddy Blake, smiling. "And after supper I'll tell you all about it." "The Garden Game," murmured Mab. "It must be fun," said Hal, "else Daddy wouldn't laugh around his eyes the way he does." "Yes, I think you'll like this new game," went on Mr. Blake. "And whoever learns to play it best will get a fine prize!" "Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried Hal and Mab in delight. They could hardly wait to find out all about it. CHAPTER II MAKING A GARDEN "Now children," began Daddy Blake, as the table was cleared of the dishes, when supper had been finished, "I'll start to tell you about the garden game we are going to play." "Oh, are YOU going to play it, too?" asked Hal in delight "Won't that be fun, Mab?" "Lots of fun!" Anything Daddy Blake did was fun for Hal and Mab, whether it was playing a game, or taking them somewhere. Eagerly the two children watched while their father opened the package he had brought up from down town when he came home to supper. "Is it some kind of a puzzle?" Hal wanted to know. "Does it go around with wheels?" asked Mab, as she heard something rattle inside the paper. "How many can play it?" asked Hal. "Oh, as many as care to" answered Daddy Blake. I'm going to play it, and so is your mother, I think; and Uncle Pennywait, and Aunt Lollypop, and--no, I guess we can't let Roly-Poly play the garden game, but you two children can." "Oh, it must be a fine game if so many can play," laughed Hal. "Hurry, Daddy, and show us what it is." "Do you play sides?" Mab inquired. "Yes, you can play sides," her father answered with a smile. "As I told you I'm going to give a prize to whoever plays the game best. I'll tell you about it. Now here's the first part of the garden," and, as Mr. Blake opened the paper fully, out rolled a small parcel. The string came off it, and Hal and Mab saw a lot of beans. For a moment they looked very much disappointed. "Oh, Daddy Blake!" cried Hal. "This isn't a new game at all! We've got a bean-bag one!" "And we got tired of playing it to-day," went on Mab, in disappointed tones. "This isn't exactly a bean-bag game," said Mr. Blake with a smile, "though you can make it one if you like. It's ever so much more fun than just bean-bags, for there are many other different parts to the garden game. Now if you'll sit down I'll tell you about it." Hal and Mab saw some brightly colored pictures, among other things, in the big bag that had held the beans, and they thought perhaps they might have fun with the garden game after all. Some of you have met Hal and Mab Blake before, on one or more of their many trips with Daddy, so I do not need to tell all of you about the children. But to those of you who read this book as the beginning of the Daddy Series I may say that the first volume is called "Daddy Takes Us Camping." In that I told you how Daddy and the two children went to live in a tent, and how they heard a queer noise in the night and-- Well, I'll leave the rest for you to find out by reading the book. Hal and Mab lived with Daddy and Mother Blake in a nice house in a small city, and with them lived Uncle Pennywait and Aunt Lollypop. These were not their real names. Uncle Pennywait was called that because he so often said to Hal and Mab: "Wait a minute and I'll give you a penny!" Aunt Lollypop was more often called Aunt Lolly, and the reason she had such a queer name was because she was always telling the children to buy lollypops with the money Uncle Pennywait gave them. Lollypops, the children's aunt thought, were the best kind of candy for them, and perhaps she was right. Then there was Roly-Poly, the funny little poodle dog, and once when Daddy Blake took Hal and Mab skating, as you may read in THAT book, Roly slid under the ice and was lost for a long, long time. Hal and Mab just loved to go places with Daddy, to learn about the birds, trees and flowers. They had gone to the circus with him, had gone coasting, and had hunted birds with a camera to take pictures of them. There is a book about each one of the different trips Hal and Mab took with their father. They had many adventures each time they went out, and they learned many things. Just before the story I am going to tell you now, Daddy Blake had taken the children to the woods, telling them about the different kinds of trees. Sometimes Roly-Poly went along with Hal and Mab when Daddy started off with the children. Once Mab had a little cat that got lost up in a tree, and once her Dickey bird flew away and it was a long time before she found one she loved as much as her first singing pet. "But I don't see how you are going to take us anywhere, so we can have fun, just with BEANS," said Hal, as he waited for his father to tell something about the new game. "Oh, it isn't just beans," said Daddy Blake. "See here are some radishes, lettuce, carrots, turnips, potatoes, beets and--" "Why it sounds just like a GARDEN!" cried Aunt Lollypop, coming in from the hall at that moment. "It's a garden game, but we don't know how to play it yet," said Mab. "That's what I'm going to teach you," spoke her father. "We are going to make a garden." "Where?" Hal wanted to know. "In our back yard and in the lot next door. I have hired that to use in planting our garden." "How do you start to make a garden?" asked Hal. "That's part of the game you and Mab must learn," said Mr. Blake. "Now I'll begin at the beginning and tell you. I think you will like this game as well as any you have ever played, for not only will it be fun, but it will give you work to do, and the best fun in the world is learning to make fun of your work. And don't forget the prize!" "What's the prize for?" asked Hal. "For the one who has the best little garden, whether it is Hal, Mab, Uncle Pennywait, Aunt Lolly, Mother or myself. We're all going to play the garden game!" "What is the prize going to be?" asked Mab. Daddy Blake thought for a moment. Then he said: "Well, I suppose if YOU won the prize you would like it to be a nice doll." "Oh, I'd just love it!" cried Mab with sparkling eyes. "And Hal would want a pair of skates or maybe a sled, for I think his old one is broken," went on Daddy Blake. "It is," answered Hal. "So, as only one of us can win the prize, and as we would all want something different," spoke the children's father, "I think I'll make the prize a ten dollar gold piece, and whoever wins it can buy what they like with it." "Oh, that's great!" exclaimed Hal. "Ten dollars!" added Mab. "Why I could buy a lot of dolls for that!" "I hope you wouldn't spend ALL that money for dolls," said Aunt Lolly. "No, save some for candy!" laughed Uncle Pennywait. "I'll give you a penny extra as my prize." "We'll talk about spending the money when the prize is won," said Daddy Blake. "Here it is," and he took from his pocket a bright, shining ten dollar gold piece. Hal and Mab looked at it. "But everyone must work hard in the garden to win it," said Mr. Blake. "And, mind you! I may get my own prize, for I am going to work in the garden, too. We will each choose some one vegetable, and whoever raises the finest and best crop will get the prize." "What made you think of this game for us?" asked Hal. "Well, everyone is making gardens this year," said Daddy Blake. "You know we are at war, and in war time it is harder to get plenty of food than when we are at peace." "Why?" asked Hal. "Because so many men have to go to be soldiers," his father answered. "The farmers and gardeners--thousands of them--have been called away to fight the enemy, so that we, who never before helped to grow things from the earth, must begin now if we are to have enough to eat and to feed our soldiers. "That is why I am going to have a garden--larger than we ever had before. That is why many others who never had gardens before are going to have one this year. All over vacant lots and play-fields, and even some beautiful green, grassy lawns, are being turned into gardens. They will take the places of many gardens that have been turned into battle fields. We must raise more vegetables and fruits and we must save what we raise." "Why do we want to save it?" asked Hal, "Can't we eat it?" "We will eat all we need," his father, "But you know that gardens and farms can only be planted, and fruits vegetables can only grow when the weather is warm. Nothing grows in the cold Winter. So we raise all we can in Summer and save what we need to eat when snow is on the ground." "How are we going to make our garden?" asked Mab. "And what am I going to plant?" asked Hal. "Well, we'll begin at the very beginning," answered Daddy Blake. "The first part of any garden is getting the soil ready. That is the dirt, in which we plant the seeds, must be dug up and made soft and mellow so the seeds will grow." "What makes seeds grow?" asked Mab. "And why can't we plant 'em anywhere?" Hal wanted to know. Daddy Blake laughed. "You're going to have a lot of questions to answer about this garden game," said Uncle Pennywait. "You'll be kept busy." "Yes, I guess so," agreed Daddy Blake. "Well I'll answer all the questions I can, for I want Hal and Mab to know how hard it is to make even one bean or radish grow from a seed. Then, when they find out that it is not easy to have good vegetables, when the bugs, worms and weeds are fighting against them, they will not waste. For waste is wicked not only in war time but always." "Oh, Daddy!" cried Mab. "Do the worms and bugs and weeds fight the things in the garden?" "Indeed they do," answered her father. "It is just like war all the while between the things we want to grow and the things we don't want." "Oh, if the garden game is like war I'm going to have fun playing it!" exclaimed Hal, while Roly-Poly chased his tail around the table. I don't mean that the little poodle dog's tail came off and that he raced around trying to get hold of it again. No indeed! His tail just stayed on him, but he whirled around and around trying to get hold of it in his mouth, and he was having a good time doing it. "There is one of the enemies you'll have to fight if you make a garden," said Daddy Blake with a smile. "Who?" asked Hal. "Your dog, Roly-Poly. Dogs, when they get in a newly planted garden, often dig up the seeds, just as chickens do. So from the start you'll have to keep Roly-Poly away." "And chickens, too," said Mab. "They've got chickens next door." "Yes, but they are kept shut up in their yard, with a wire fence around it," said Daddy Blake. "However you must keep watch. Now suppose we start and pick out what crops we want to raise for the prize of the ten dollar gold piece. I have different kinds of seeds here--corn, beans, tomatoes, radishes and others." "I want to raise beans!" cried Mab. "Then I can have as many bean-bags as I want." "We mustn't waste too many beans just for playing games, since beans make a good meal, especially for soldiers," said Daddy Blake. "And much of the food raised on farms and gardens will have to go to feed our soldiers. So we'll give Mab the first choice and let her raise beans. What will you choose, Hal?" "Corn, I guess," Hal said. "I like pop corn." "Well, we won't raise much pop corn," laughed his father. "While that is good to eat it is not good for making corn bread, and that is the kind we may have to eat if we can't raise enough wheat to make all the white bread we want." "Why can't we raise wheat?" asked Hal. "Well, we could grow a little, for it would grow in our garden as well as in any other soil or dirt," explained Daddy Blake. "But to raise a lot of wheat, or other grains, a big field is needed--a regular farm--and we haven't that." "Will you take us to a farm some day?" asked Mab. "Yes, after you learn how to make a garden," his father told him. "So you think you want to try corn; eh?" and he laid a package of that seed in front of the little boy. "If Mab raises beans and Hal grows corn we'll have succotash at any rate," said Mother Blake. "And succotash is good to can and keep all Winter." "Well, we may have enough to eat, after all, from our garden," said Aunt Lolly. "I think I'll raise pumpkins for my share of the new game." "Then we can have Jack-o-lanterns!" laughed Hal. "That will be fun!" "Now look here!" exclaimed; Daddy Blake. "I want you children to have some fun in your gardens, but is isn't ALL fun. There is going to be hard work, too, if anyone wins this prize," and he held up the ten dollar gold piece. "You may have one pumpkin for a Hallowe'en lantern, maybe, but pumpkin pies are what Aunt Lolly is thinking of, I guess." "Indeed I am," she said. "When I was a girl we used to raise many pumpkins in the cornfield at home. So I'll raise my pumpkins between your rows of corn, Hal." "That's the way to do it," said Uncle Pennywait. "I think I'll raise potatoes. They're easy to grow if I can keep the bugs off them, and they'll keep all winter." "I'll raise tomatoes," said Daddy Blake, taking out a package of tomato seeds for his part of the garden. "We can eat them sliced in Summer and have them canned, ready to stew, in Winter, I'll have to plant some seeds in the house first to raise plants that I may set them out when it is warm enough. Now, Mother, what will you grow in the garden?" "Carrots," answered Mrs. Blake. "Oh, then we can keep a bunny rabbit!" cried Mab. "I've always wanted a bunny." "Well, a rabbit may be nice," said Daddy Blake. "But, as I said, this garden is not all for fun. We are going to raise as many vegetables as we can, so we will have them in the Winter to save buying them at the store. We can't afford to raise carrots for rabbits this year. There are your seeds, Mother," and he gave his wife a packet with a picture of yellow carrots on the outside. "But there are a lot of seeds left," said Mab, as she looked at the large opened bundle on the table. "Yes, well have to take turns planting these," her father said. "I just wanted you to pick out your prize crops first. Now we have made a start on our garden. The next thing is to get the ground ready as soon as it is warm enough. But first I think I'll start my tomato plants. I'll plant the seeds in the morning." "Where?" asked Mab. "In a box in the house. You may bring me in a little dirt and I'll let it dry out near the fire, for it is rather damp and cold yet in the garden." The next day Hal and Mab brought in some dirt from the yard. It was wet and sticky but when it had been spread out on a paper under the stove it soon dried. That night Daddy Blake filled a big wooden box with the dirt, which he worked with a trowel until it was made fine and smooth. "The first thing to learn in making a garden," the children's father said, "is to have your dirt made very fine, and to be sure that it is the right kind for what you are going to raise. Beans will grow in almost any kind of soil, but tomatoes and other vegetables must have soil which is called richer--that is it has more fertilizer in it--something which is food to the seeds and plants as bread, butter, meat and potatoes are food for us." "Do plants eat?" asked Hal. "Of course they do, just as I told you the trees did. Plants eat through their roots in the earth. They drink water that way, too, and through their leaves. And they breathe in the air and sunlight the same way. Plants, as well as boys and girls, need warm sun, enough water and good soil to make them grow." "But why don't you plant the tomato seeds right in the garden?" asked Hal. "Because it is a little too early. The weather is not warm enough and the ground is too damp. So I plant the seeds in the house and soon there will be many little tomato plants in this box, which, you children must see to it, must be kept in the sunny window, and not out in the cool air. When the plants are large enough we will take them from the box and put them in the garden in nice long rows. This is called transplanting, which means planting a second time, and is done with many garden things such as lettuce, cabbage and celery." "But you didn't tell us what makes the seeds grow," said Mab, as she watched her father carefully smooth the soil in the box and then scatter in the tomato seeds, afterward covering them up with a piece of window glass. "I'll tell you as best I can, though no one really knows what is in the seed to make it grow. Only Mother Nature knows that. But at least we have a start with our garden," said Daddy Blake, "and to-morrow I'll tell you, as well as I can, why a seed grows. It is time to go to bed now." As Hal and Mab started up stairs, thinking what a wonderful thing it was to have a garden, there came a ring at the front door. "My! Who can be calling this time of night?" asked Mother Blake, in surprise. Hal and Mab wondered too. CHAPTER III UPSIDE DOWN BEANS "Let's wait and see who it is, Hal," whispered Mab to her brother as they stood on the stairs. "Maybe it's somebody come to find out about a garden," added the little boy. "Daddy knows lots about how to make things grow, and maybe, on account of the war, everybody's got to plant corn and beans and things." "I don't like war and soldiers," spoke Mab, while Daddy Blake went to the front door. "I don't care when you play soldier, and make believe shoot your pop gun, but I don't like REAL guns. Maybe this is somebody come to tell Daddy to go to war." "I hope not!" exclaimed Hal. When Daddy Blake opened the door the children heard some one saying: "I guess this little fellow belongs to you, Mr. Blake. I found him over in my garden, digging away. Maybe he was planting a bone, thinking he could grow some roast beef," and a man's laugh was heard. Then came a sharp little bark. "Oh, it's Roly-Poly!" cried Hal. [Illustration] "He must have run away and we didn't miss him 'cause we talked so much about the garden," added Mab. "I wonder where he was?" "Yes, that's my children's dog," said Mr. Blake to the man who had brought home Roly-Poly. "So he was in your garden; eh?" "Well, yes, in the place where I'm going to make a garden. My name is Porter, I live next door. Only moved in last week and we haven't gotten acquainted yet." "That's right," said Mr. Blake. "Well, I'm glad to know you, Mr. Porter. Hal and Mab will be pleased to have Roly-Poly back, I'm also glad to know you're going to have a garden. I'm going to start my two youngsters with one, and if Roly-Poly comes over, and digs out your seeds, let me know and I'll keep him shut up." "I will, and you do the same with my chickens. They're bad for scratching in a garden, though I plan to keep them in their own yard. So your boy and girl are going to have gardens; are they?" "Yes. I want them to learn all they can about such things." "I've got a boy, but he's too young to start yet. Sammie is only five," said Mr. Porter. "Well, doggie, I guess you're glad to get back home," and he gave Roly-Poly to Mr. Blake who thanked his neighbor, asking him to call again. "Here, Hal and Mab!" called their father. "After this you must keep watch of your pet. I guess there will be many gardens on our street this Summer, and no dogs will be allowed in them until after the things are well grown. So watch Roly-Poly." Hal and Mab promised they would, and Mab said: "Oh, that's a cute little boy next door. He has red hair." "His name is Sammie," said Mr. Blake. "Now off to bed with you, toodlekins!" and he made believe Roly-Poly threw kisses from his paws to Hal and Mab. Daddy Blake had to go away early the next morning, to be gone three days, so he did not have time to tell Hal and Mab why it was that seeds grew when planted in the ground. But before going to school on Monday the brother and sister saw to it that the glass covered box in which the tomato plants were soon to grow, was put in a sunny window. On the way to school they looked in the big yard of Mr. Porter who lived next door. He was raking up some dried leaves and grass and a small, red-haired boy was watching him. "Hello, little ones!" called Mr. Porter. "Have you got your garden started yet?" "Not yet," answered Hal. "But we got tomato seeds planted in the house," said Mab. "Yes, and I must do that too. We'll see who'll have the finest garden," went on Mr. Porter. "How's your poodle dog?" "Oh, we got him shut up so he can't hurt your garden," Hal said. "Don't worry about that yet," went on the neighbor. "I haven't planted any seeds yet, and shall not until it gets warmer. So you may let your dog run loose." "All right. I guess I will," cried Hal, running back to the house. "You'll be late for school!" warned Mab. "I'll run fast!" promised her brother. "Roly-Poly cried when I shut him up. I want to let him out." Soon the little dog came running out of the barn where Hal had locked him. Over into Mr. Porter's yard ran Roly and Sammie laughed when he saw Hal's pet rolling around in the pile of dried leaves Mr. Porter had raked together. "Roly, you be a good dog!" warned Mab, shaking her finger at him. "I get him a cookie!" said Sammie with a laugh as he toddled toward the house. "Sammie likes dogs," said his father as Hal and Mab hurried on to school. Mr. Blake was away longer than he thought he would be, and it was over a week before he came back home. Each day Hal and Mab had placed the box of tomato seeds in the warm sun before going to school, moving it when they came home at noon and in the afternoon they also changed it so that the soil would always be where the warm sun could shine on it. They sprinkled water in the box, as their father had told them to do. Then, the day when Daddy Blake came back from his business trip, Hal, looking at the tomato box, cried: "Oh, Mab! Look! There are a lot of little green leaves here." "Yes, the tomatoes are beginning to grow," said Daddy Blake, when he had taken a look. "What makes the seeds grow and green leaves come out?" asked Hal. "Well, as I said, Mother Nature does it and no one can tell how," said Daddy Blake. "But somewhere inside this tiny little thing," and he held out in his hand a tomato seed, "somewhere there is hidden a spark of life. What it looks like we can not say. It is deep in the heart of the seed." "Do seeds have hearts?" asked Mab. "Well, no, not exactly," her father answered. "But we speak of the middle of a tree as it's heart and I suppose the middle of a seed, where its life is, is its heart. So this seed is really alive, though it doesn't seem so." "It looks like a little yellow stone--the kind that comes in sand," spoke Hal. "And yet it is alive," said his father. "It can not move about now, though when it is planted it begins to grow and it can move. It can push its leaves up from under the earth. Just now it is asleep, and has no life that we can see." "What will bring it to life and make it wake up?" asked Hal. "The warm dirt in which it is planted, the sunlight, the air and the water you sprinkle on it," said Mr. Blake. "If you kept this seed cold and dry it might sleep for many many years, but as soon as you put it under the warm, wet soil, and set the box of dirt where the sun can shine on it, then the seed begins to awaken. Something inside it--a germ some call it--begins to swell. It gets larger--the seed is germinating. The hard outside shell, or husk, gets soft and breaks open. The heart inside swells larger and larger. A tiny root appears and begins to dig its way down deeper in the ground to find things to eat. At the same time another part of the seed turns into leaves and these grow up. It is the green leaves you see first, peeping up above the ground, that tell you the seed has germinated and is growing." "Isn't it funny!" said Hal. "One part of the seed grows down and the other part grows up." "Yes," said Daddy Blake. "That's the way seeds grow. Each day you will see these little tomato plants growing more and more, and, as soon as they are large enough, we will set them out in the garden." Hal and Mab thought it was wonderful that a single, tiny seed of the tomato--a seed that looked scarcely larger than the head of a pin--should have locked up in its heart such things as roots and leaves, and that, after a while, great, big red tomatoes would hang down from the green tomato vine--all from one little seed. "It's wonderful--just like when the man in the show took a rabbit, a guinea pig and a lot of silk ribbon out of Daddy's hat," spoke Hal. "It is more wonderful," said Mr. Blake. "For the man in the show put the things in my hat by a trick, when you were not looking, and only took them out again to make you think they were there all the while. But roots, seeds and tomatoes are not exactly inside the seed all the while. The germ--the life--is there, and after it starts to grow the leaves, roots and tomatoes are made from the soil, the air, the water and the sunshine." "Are there tomatoes in the air?" asked Mab. "Well, if it were not for the things in the air, the oxygen, the nitrogen and other gases, about which you are too young to understand now, we could not live grow, and neither could plants. Plants also have to have water to drink, as we do, and food to eat, only they eat the things found in the dirt, and we can not do that. At least not until they are changed into fruits, grain or vegetables." Hal and Mab never tired looking at the tomato plants growing in the box in the house. Each day the tiny green leaves became larger and raised themselves higher and higher from the earth. "Soon they will be large enough to transplant, or set out in the garden," said Daddy Blake. Two or three days after their father had told Hal and Mab why seeds grow, the children, coming home from school, saw something strange in their garden. There was a man, with a team of horses and the brown earth was being torn up by a big shiny thing which the horses were pulling as the man drove them. "Oh, what's that in our garden?" cried Hal to Uncle Pennywait. "It's a man plowing," said Hal's Uncle. "But won't he spoil the garden?" Mab wanted to know. "He's just starting to make it," Uncle Pennywait answered. "Didn't Daddy Blake tell you that the ground must be plowed or chopped up, and then finely pulverized or smoothed, so the seeds would grow better?" "Oh, yet, so he did," Hal said. "Well, this is the first start of making a garden," went on Uncle Pennywait. "The ground must be plowed or spaded. Spading is all right for a small garden, but when you have a large one, or a farm, you must use a plow." Mr. Blake owned a large yard back of his house, and next door, on the other side from where the new Porter family lived, was a large vacant lot. The children's father had hired this lot to use as part of his garden. Hal and Mab watched the man plowing. He held the two curved handles of the plow, and it was the sharp steel "share" of this that they had seen shining in the sun as it cut through the brown soil. A plow cuts through the soil as the horses pull it after them, and it is so shaped that the upper part of the earth is turned over, bringing up to the top, where the sun can shine on it, the underneath part. The undersoil is richer and better for seeds to start growing in than the upper part, where the rain may wash away the plant-food things that are needed to make a good garden. "But Daddy said the ground had to be SMOOTH to make a garden," said Mab. "The plowing man is making it all ROUGH." "Yes, it does look rough now," said Daddy Blake, as he came along just then, in time to watch the man plowing. "Those long lines of overturned soil which you children see are called furrows." "Could you plant anything in them?" asked Hal. "Well, you could, yes. But it would not grow very well, and when the corn, beans or whatever you planted came up, you could not work around them well to cut down the weeds. It would be too rough. So after the man has plowed the ground he will harrow it." "What's that?" asked Hal "Well a harrow is something like a big rake," explained Daddy Blake. "There are three kinds of harrows, but they don't often use more than one kind for a garden. The man will use a tooth harrow. It is called that because it is made of iron spikes, or teeth, driven through some long beams of wood. The teeth stick through and when they are dragged over the plowed ground they make it quite smooth. When I take you to the farm I can tell you about and show you other kinds of harrows or big rakes." It took the man with the plow the rest of the day to turn over the soil in the Blake garden, and Hal and Mab looked on every minute they had out of school. Mr. Porter's garden, next door, was plowed too. When Hal and Mab went to the fence to see how Mr. Porter's ground looked they saw little Sammie standing near. The red-haired boy was looking at something on the ground. "What is it?" asked Hal. "Big snake," was the answer. "I don't like a snake. I'm goin' home," and he started to run. "Oh, a snake!" cried Mab. "I don't like snakes either;" and she turned to go away. "Where's the snake, Sammie? Show me!" said Hal. "See him crawlin'?" and red-haired Sammie pointed. "I guess he goin' to bite! I run!" and away he started, but he fell down on the rough ground. He did not cry, however, but picked himself up and kept on. "That isn't a snake!" called Hal with a laugh, "It's only a big angle worm. That won't hurt you, Sammie! Don't be afraid." "Dat no snake?" the little boy wanted to know. "No. Only a fish worm. Don't you remember how we went fishing with Daddy, Mab?" asked her brother. "Yes, I do. But I thought it was a snake." Hal had jumped over the fence and picked up the worm. It was a large one and had been crawling about the newly-plowed field. "Oh, I don't like 'em," said Mab with a little shiver. "Worms are good," said Mr. Porter coming out into his garden. "You mean good for fishing?" asked Hal "Yes, and good for gardens, too. They wiggle through the ground and sort of chew it up so it does not get so hard. The earth around the roots of trees and plants ought to be kept loose and dug up so the air and water can get through easier. So worms in a garden help to make the plants grow." "I didn't know that," said Hal, as he put down the big worm, which at once began to crawl slowly along, stretching itself out until it was almost twice as big as at first. In a few days the weather was much warmer, and the soil in the two gardens began to dry out. The man came with the spiked, or tooth, harrow, and his horses dragged this over the ground several times. Soon the soil was quite smooth, the big lumps or clods of earth being broken up into little fine chunks. "But it must be finer yet for some things, like lettuce and tomatoes," said Mr. Blake. "So I'll use a hand rake." "Can't we help too?" Hal wanted to know. "Yes, I want you and Mab to do as much garden work as you can. In that way you'll understand how to make things grow. And remember the more you work around in the garden, digging up the earth above the roots of your plants, keeping the weeds cut down, the better your things will grow. Making a garden is not easy work, but, after all think what a wonderful lot the seeds and plants do for themselves. Still we must help them." "When can I plant my beans?" asked Mab. "Well, pretty soon now. Make your part of the garden, where you are going to plant your beans, as smooth as you can. Then mark it off into rows. You should plant your beans in rows with the rows about two feet apart, and put the beans in each row so they are about four inches, one from the other. That will give the plants room enough to spread." "How do I plant my corn?" asked Hal. "Well, corn must be planted a little differently from beans," answered Daddy Blake. "You should have your rows from two to three feet apart and each hill of corn should be from a foot to a foot and a half from the next hill." "Does corn only grow on a hill?" asked Hal. "Oh, no," laughed his father, "though on some farms and gardens the corn may be planted on the side of a hill. What I mean was that after your corn begins to grow, the ground is hoed around the corn stalks in a sort of little hill. That is done to keep it from blowing over, for corn grows very tall, in the West sometimes ten and twelve feet high. "However that is yellow or field corn, from which corn meal is made. The kind you are going to plant, Hal, is called sweet corn, such as we eat green from the cob after it is boiled. That may not grow so high. But in a day or so it will be time for your corn and beans to be planted, for Spring is now fully here and the weather is warm enough." Hal and Mab worked hard in their gardens. They raked the ground until it was quite smooth. Daddy Blake, his wife, Aunt Lollypop and Uncle Pennywait also raked and smoothed the parts of the garden where they were going to plant their seeds. Sometimes the older folks helped the children. Next door Mr. Porter was planting his garden, and red-haired Sammie thought he was helping. At least he picked up the stones and threw them at the fence. If Roly-Poly had been there maybe Sammie would have thrown the stones for the little poodle dog to run after. But Roly had been sent away for a few weeks, until the gardens had begun to grow. For Roly never could see a nicely smoothed patch of ground without wanting to dig in it, and spoil it. "We'll bring him back when the garden things are larger and well-enough grown so he can not hurt them," said Daddy Blake. Hal and Mab planted their corn and beans. Daddy Blake showed his little girl how to punch holes in the brown earth along a straight row which her father made with the rake handle, and into the holes she dropped the beans, covering them with earth so that they were about two inches down from the top. Hal's corn did not have to be planted quite so deep, and he dropped five kernels in a circle about as large around as a tea-saucer. This circle would, a little later, be hoed into one big hill of corn. "How long before my beans will grow?" asked Mab. "And my corn?" Hal wanted to know. "Well, beans begin to grow almost as soon as they are in the ground," answered her father, "but you can't see them until about a week. Then the little leaves appear. Hal's corn will take longer, maybe ten days, before any green shows. You must be patient." Hal and Mab tried to be, but each day they went out in the garden and looked at where they had planted their beans and corn in the garden rows. "I don't believe they're EVER going to grow," said Mab at last. "Maybe some worms came and took my seeds. I'm going to dig some up and look." "Don't," begged Hal. But Mab did. With a stick she poked in the earth until she saw something that made her call: "Oh, Hal! Look. My beans are all swelled up like a sponge." Hal looked, Mab had dug up one bean. It had swelled and split apart, and inside the two halves of the bean something green showed. "Oh, Mab! Cover it up, quick!" he cried. "The beans are growing--they're sprouting! Cover it up, quick!" And Mab did. Now she was sure her beans were growing. Two mornings afterward she went out into her part of the garden before starting for school. She saw something very queer. "Oh, Daddy! Hal!" cried the little girl "My beans were planted wrong! They're growing upside down! The beans are all pushed upside down out of the ground. Oh, my garden is spoiled!" CHAPTER IV THE FIRST RADISH Daddy Blake came hurrying out of the house as Mab called. Hal, who was anxiously looking to see if any of his corn had come up, ran over to his sister. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Blake. "Did Roly-Poly come home and scratch in your garden?" "No. But look at my beans!" wailed Mab. "They're all upside down." It did seem so. Along the rows she had so carefully planted in her garden could be seen some light green stems, some of them curved like the letter U upside down. And sticking out of the brown earth were the beans, split open in two halves. "Who did it?" asked Mab, tears in her eyes. Daddy Blake looked and laughed. "Did you do it?" his little girl wanted to know. "Did you upside down my beans, Daddy Blake?" "No, Mother Nature did that for you, Mab." "Then I don't like Mother Nature!" "But she had to," explained Daddy Blake. "All the beans I know anything about grow that way. After the bean is planted the heart or germ inside starts to sprout, and sends the root downward. At the same time the leaves begin to grow upward and they take with them the outside husk of the bean which is of no more use. The plant wants to get rid of it, you see, and as there is no room under ground for it, where it might be in the way of the roots, the leaves bring it up with them. For a time after the bean has been pushed out of the ground it keeps the tender leaves from being hurt. Then the bean dries and drops off--that is all that is left of it, for the germ, or heart, has started growing another plant, you see. "So don't worry, Mab. Your beans are all right, even if they do seem to be growing upside down. That is the only way they know. From on your beans will grow very fast." And so they did. Daddy Blake told the children that beans are ready to eat sometimes within six weeks after the seeds are planted. The beans are not ripe, of course, and some are green, while others are yellow, or wax beans. Inside the pods, which are almost like peas, are small green beans. If they were allowed to stay on the vines the green beans inside the pods would get hard and ripe, some turning white like the beans which boys and girls stuff into cloth bags to play games with, and other beans turning a sort of brownish red, with a white spot on. "Some bean vines like to climb poles," said Daddy Blake, "and others are what are called bush-beans, growing as peas grow. That is the kind we planted, as I did not have time to get the poles. Then besides string beans, which is the sort in your garden, Mab, there are the larger or lima beans, which are very good to eat. I have planted some of them, and we will have them for dinner with your corn, Hal, when it grows." "Will my corn grow upside down like Mab's beans?" Hal wanted to know. "Oh, no," answered Mr. Blake. "Corn sprouts and grows from the bottom. In another week you ought to see some tiny green spears, like blades of grass, coming up through the brown soil. It is then that crows like to come along, pull up the green stalks and eat the soft kernel of corn which is still there, fast to the root." "How are we going to keep the crows away?" asked Hal. "Well, I think none will come here, as our garden is in the city and so near the house," said Mr. Blake. "Crows are more plentiful in the country and--" "I know how to keep them away!" cried Mab. "How?" asked her brother. "You take an old coat and a pair of pants and stuff 'em with straw, and fasten 'em on a stick in the field." "Oh, you mean a scare-crow!" cried Hal. "Yes," said Mab. "Could I make a scare-crow for my beans, Daddy?" "I hardly think you'll need it, Mab," her father said with a laugh. "Beans are not eaten by crows. But you will have to begin to hoe away the weeds soon, and work around your rows of bean plants. Nothing makes garden things grow better than keeping the weeds away from them, and keeping the soil nicely pulverized and damp." "What do the weeds do to the beans?" asked Mab. "Well, the weeds grow faster than the beans, and if the weeds are too near they would keep off the sunlight. Weeds also eat out of the soil the food that the beans need, so if you let weeds grow in your garden your bean plants would starve. It is just the same as if some big giant sat beside you at the table and took from your plate nearly everything Mother put on for you to eat. "So, in order that you might grow well and strong, we would have to take the giant away. It's the same with weeds. They are the bad giants that eat the good things in the soil which our plants need. I'll get you and Hal each a little hoe to use in your garden." Mab's beans grew very fast and soon the two green leaves on each plant were quite large. Then other leaves appeared. By this time Hal's corn had begun to show green above the earth, and he was anxious to hoe the dirt around it up into hills, as he had been told he must do. "It is too soon now, though," his father said. "If you work around plants when they are too young you would kill them. They must be allowed to get their roots well down into the ground, to begin eating and drinking. A little baby, at first, does hardly anything but eat and sleep, so that it may grow fast. Plants need to do the same thing. I'll tell you when it is time to hoe." Aunt Lolly and Uncle Pennywait, as well as Daddy Blake, had planted their parts of the garden, and the land around the Blake house looked smooth and brown, with, here and there, a little green showing. "I know what I'm going to do with that ten dollar gold piece prize when I win it," said Uncle Pennywait. "What are you going to do?" asked his wife. "I'm going to buy ice cream," said Uncle Pennywait. "I never yet had all the ice cream I wanted. But I will when I get that ten dollars." "Ten dollars is an awful lot of ice cream!" said Mab, sighing. "He's only joking," laughed Aunt Lolly. "You children mustn't let him win the prize. Keep busy in your gardens, and get it yourselves." Hal and Mab did, hoeing away each afternoon when school was out. Daddy Blake showed them how to cut off the weeds that grew in between the rows of corn and beans. The earth was chopped up fine, for the children were told that earth which is made fine holds water, or moisture, longer than when it is in big chunks. "And plants need to drink water from the soil, as well as through their leaves when it rains," said Daddy Blake. "A plant can no more get along without water to drink than you children can." "Oh Daddy!" cried Mab, running in the house from her garden one day. "A lot of my bean leaves have holes in them. Has Hal been shooting his pop gun at them?" "No," said Hal. "I didn't! I wouldn't shoot your beans, Mab." "Well, something did!" cried Mab. "Will my beans be spoiled, Daddy?" "I don't know. I hope not. We'll take a look." As Mab had said many of the leaves did have holes in them. Daddy Blake looked carefully and found some little bugs on the undersides of the bean plants. "Ha!" he cried. "Here is the enemy!" "It sounds like war to hear you say enemy," spoke Hal. "Well, if you have a garden you have to make war on the weeds, bugs and beetles," said Mr. Blake. "A bean-leaf beetle is eating your plants, Mab." "Can't we make him stop, Daddy?" "Yes, we'll spray some poison on the leaves, so that when the beetles eat them the poison will kill them," said Mr. Blake. "But if you poison the beans won't they poison us when we eat them?" Hal wanted to know. "The rain will wash off all the poison the beetles do not eat," answered his father. "Besides there are no beans on Mab's plants yet. By the time the bean pods come I hope we shall have driven the beetles away." Mr. Blake mixed some poison called arsenic in a can of water and sprinkled it on Mab's bean plants. In a few days the beetles had died, or they went away, not liking the taste of the poisoned leaves, and Mab's beans were allowed to grow in peace. That war was over. But other bugs and worms came in the Blake garden, and Daddy Blake, Uncle Pennywait and Aunt Lolly, as well as the children and their mother, were kept busy. The cut worms got in among the cabbages, and many a nice plant was gnawed off close to the ground, dropping over and wilting away until it died. The cut worms came up out of the ground and ate the tiny cabbage stalks close to the earth. "We shall have to put collars on the cabbage plants," said Daddy Blake, as he looked at some which were killed. "Put collars on cabbages--how?" asked Mab. "I'll show you," said her father. He took some tough paper and made a sort of hollow tube around the stalk of each cabbage plant, tying the paper with string. One end was shoved down in the ground, the other being close up around the lowest cabbage leaves, until it did look as though the plant had on a high, stiff collar. "The worms can't bite through the paper--or at least they hardly ever do," said Daddy Blake, "and after a while the cabbage stalk will get so strong that the worms can not do it any damage." By this time many things were growing in the Blake garden. The tomato plants had been set out, and for the first day or so had been kept covered with pieces of paper so the strong sun would not wilt them. They had been used to living in the house, where they started to grow, and transplanting made them tender. But soon they took root in their new soil and began to grow very fast. Hal and Mab hoed and raked their gardens. When it did not rain they watered their corn and beans, and they were anxious for the time to come when they could really eat some of the things they had grown. Daddy Blake said Mab's beans might be ready to pick green, so they could be boiled, in about six weeks, but Hal's corn would not be ready for ten weeks. Then the ears would be filled out enough so they could be boiled and eaten with salt and butter. Corn grows more slowly than beans. "When will we have anything to eat from our garden?" asked Mother Blake one day, when the Summer sun had been beaming down on the green things for a week. "Well, we'll see," said her husband. "Come with me, Hal and Mab. I'll take you to the garden and we'll see what we can find." "My beans aren't ready yet," said Mab. "And there are only little, teeny ears of corn on the stalks in my garden," Hal said. "We'll see," said Daddy Blake. He led the children to a plot of earth he himself had planted. Hal and Mab saw some dark green leaves in long rows. "Pull up some of them," directed Daddy Blake. Hal did so. On the end of the leaves, growing down in the ground, was something round and red. "It's a little beet!" cried Mab, clapping her hands in delight. "No, they're radishes!" exclaimed Hal. "Aren't they, Daddy?" "Yes, those are red early radishes. Here are some white ones over here for you to pull, Mab. They are called icicles." Mab gave a cry of delight as she pulled up some long, white radishes. They did look a little like icicles. "Radishes grow very quickly," said Daddy Blake. "They are ready to eat in about five weeks after the seeds are planted--sooner even that the quickest beans. But of course radishes do not keep over winter. They must be eaten soon after they are pulled, and they make a good relish with bread and butter. We'll have some for dinner." And the Blakes did. It was the first thing they had from their new garden, and Hal and Mab, who were allowed to eat a few, thought the radishes very good. Just as the children were getting up from the table one morning, to go out and hoe a little among the corn and beans before going to school, they heard a barking, whining, growling noise out in the yard, and the voice of Sammie Porter could be heard crying: "Oh, stop! Stop! Go on away! You're bad! Oh, come take him away! Oh! Oh!" "Something has happened!" cried Daddy Blake, jumping up from his chair. "I hope Sammie isn't hurt!" CHAPTER V THE POTATOES' EYES Hal and Mab ran after their father as he hurried out into the yard. They could hear Sammie crying more loudly now, and above his voice sounded a growling and barking noise. One part of the fence, between the Blake yard and that where Mr. Porter had made his garden, was low, so that the two children could look over. They saw Sammie standing near the fence, greatly frightened, and looking at a tangle of morning glory vines in which something was wiggling around and making a great fuss. "Oh, what is it?" asked Hal. "It's a--it's a lion!" cried the frightened Sammie. "A great--great big lion, all fuzzy like!" "Oh, it couldn't be a lion, Sammie," said Mr. Blake. "Tell me what it is that scared you." "'Tis a lion," said Sammie again. "He ran after me an' I ran an' he ran in the bushes an' he's there now. He barked at me!" "Ho! If he barked it's a DOG," cried Hal. "Where is he, Sammie?" "In there," and Sammie pointed to the tangle of morning glory vines. Just then Mab saw something that made her call out: "Why it is a dog. It's OUR dog--Roly-Poly!" "Are you sure?" asked her father. "Roly is over at Mr. Thompson's house you know," for the little poodle had been sent away while the garden was being made. Mr. Thompson had planted nothing, having too small a yard. "I don't care!" exclaimed Mab. "I DID see Roly. He's in the bushes there--under the morning glories." "Well, if it's your dog Roly I would not be so frightened of HIM," said Sammie. "Only I thinked he was a LION." "Here, Roly! Roly-Poly, come on out!" cried Hal, and out came a very queer-looking dog indeed. It was Roly, but how he had changed. He was all stuck over with leaves, grass and bits of bark from the trees. He certainly did "fuzzy," as Sammie had said, and not at all like the nice, clean poodle he had been. "Oh, whatever is the matter with him?" cried Mab. "He's got a lot of leaves stuck on him," added Hal. "Come here, Roly, and I'll pull 'em off for you." Roly came running over to Hal, but when the little boy tried to get the leaves, grass and bits of bark off his pet he found out what was the matter. "Roly's all stuck up in fly paper!" cried Hal. "Look!" "In fly paper?" asked Mr. Blake. "Are you sure?" "Yes, he must have sat down in some fly paper, and it stuck to him all over, and then he rolled in the leaves and grass," answered Hal. "And then the leaves and grass stuck to the fly paper," added Mab. "Oh, you poor Roly-Poly!" The little poodle dog must have known how he looked, and he must have felt quite badly, for he just stretched out at the feet of Hal, who had jumped over the fence, and he howled and howled and howled, Roly-Poly did. "I wonder how it happened?" asked Mr. Blake. "But we must take Roly-Poly in the house and wash him. Then he'll feel better and look better. Did he scare you very much, Sammie?" "A--a little bit. When I saw him in our yard, all fuzzy like, I thought sure he was a lion." Mrs. Porter came out, having heard her little boy crying, and when she saw Roly-Poly she laughed. Then she said: "You poor dog. Come over and I'll squirt the hose on you. That will take off some of the fly paper." "Oh, let me squirt it!" cried Hal. "Roly loves to be squirted on! Let me do it!" "I'm going to help," added Mab. "An' me, too!" called Sammie. "They'll drown the poor dog," spoke Mr. Blake, laughing. "I guess I'd better take a hand in this myself." "What's the matter?" asked Aunt Lolly from the back steps. "Is the house on fire?" She was always afraid that would happen. "No, it's just Roly-Poly and some sticky fly paper," answered Mr. Blake. "He must have run home to get a bath after he got all tangled up in the sticky stuff at the Thompson house." By using the hose, and by greasing the fly paper, which really loosened it more than water did, and then by using soap suds and a brush, Roly-Poly was finally cleaned. Then on their way to school Hal and Mab stopped at the Thompson home to find out what had happened. "Roly-Poly was very good, all the while he was here," said Mrs. Thompson, "though at first he was lonesome for you. He would have run back to your house if I had let him out, but I knew he might make trouble in your garden so I kept him here. "This morning I put some of the sticky fly paper around the house and left a window open in the room where Roly was sleeping. The wind must have blown the sticky paper on his curly coat of hair and this so frightened him that he jumped out of the window and ran back home to you." "Only he went in the yard next door, instead of in ours," said Mab, "and he hid under the morning glory vines." "And on his way," added Hal, "he rolled in dried leaves and grass until he was all covered, and he looked twice as big as he is now." "And Sammie thought he was a lion," went on Mab. "Are you going to bring Roly-Poly back to me to keep?" asked Mrs. Thompson. "Thank you, no," answered Hal. "Daddy says our garden is growing so well now that Roly can't do much harm. Besides we're going to teach him he mustn't dig holes, to hide his bones, in places where we have things planted. So we'll keep Roly now." "And we're much obliged to you for being so nice to him," added Mab, "and we're sorry he spoiled your fly paper." "Oh, I have plenty more fly paper," laughed Mrs. Thompson. "I'm only sorry poor Roly was so stuck up. Good-bye!" Hal and Mab hurried on to school, laughing over what had happened to their pet poodle. When their lessons were done they went back to their garden, anxious to see if Roly had been good, and had not dug up any corn or beans. "Everything is all right," said Mab, as she looked at her bush beans, which were now in blossom. Soon the blossoms would drop off and in their places would come tiny bean pods. "Oh, see Uncle Pennyweight!" cried Mab, when she had found that Roly was peacefully sleeping on the shady porch. "What's he doing?" "Planting something, I guess," replied Hal after he had looked at his growing corn, and hoed around a few hills. "And Aunt Lolly is working in her part of the garden," went on Mab. "I wonder if they'll win that ten dollar gold piece prize, Hal?" "I hope one of us wins it, Mab. If I win I'll give you half." "And I'll give you half if I win, 'cause you helped me hoe my beans one day when there was so many weeds in 'em." Daddy Blake had put the ten dollar gold piece in a little box on the dining room mantle, and every day Hal or Mab looked to make sure the prize was there. "What you doin' Uncle Pennywait?" asked Mab as she and her brother went over to the vacant lot next door, where part of the Blake garden had been planted. "I'm taking the eyes out of the potatoes," answered Uncle Pennywait. "Eyes out of potatoes!" cried Hal. "I didn't know they had any." "Of course they have!" laughed his uncle. "Else how could they see to get out of their brown skin-jackets when they want to go swimming in the kettle of hot water?" "Oh, he's only fooling us; isn't he Aunt Lolly?" asked Hal. His aunt was hoeing some weeds away from between the hills of cucumbers she had planted, for she was going to raise some of them, as well as pumpkins, which last had been planted in between the rows of Hal's corn. "Well, Uncle Pennywait may be fooling you a little," said Aunt Lolly, "but I did see him cutting some eyes from the potatoes." Hal and Mab looked at one another. They did not know what to think now. It was seldom that both Aunt Lolly and Uncle Pennywait joked at the same time. "Come over here and I'll show you," called Uncle Pennywait when he had laughed at the funny looks on the faces of the two children. "See," he went on, "these are the 'eyes' of the potato, though the right name, of course, is seeds." He pointed to the little spots you may see on any potato you pick up, unless it is one to small to have them. The spots are near the ends and in the middle, and they look like little dimples. Some of them may look very much like eyes, and that is what most gardeners and farmers call them, but they are really the potato's seeds. Mab and Hal watched what Uncle Pennywait was doing. He had a basket in which were some large potatoes and these he was cutting into chunks, letting them fall into another basket. In each chunk their uncle cut the children noticed several "eyes." "What are you doing?" asked Hal. "I am getting ready to plant a second crop of potatoes," said Uncle Pennywait. "The first ones I planted in my garden were early ones. Soon we will be eating them on the table. They are not the kind that will keep well all winter, and I am planting that kind now. I am going to win the ten dollar prize by raising a bigger crop of potatoes than you can raise of corn or beans, little ones," and he smiled at Hal and Mab. Then he went on cutting the eyes out of the potatoes, while the children watched him. They saw that each potato chunk had in it two or three of the queer dimple-spots. "A potato is not like other things that grow in the garden," said Uncle Pennywait. "It does not have its seeds separate from it, as beans have theirs in a pod, or as corn has its kernels or seeds on a cob, or a pumpkin or apple has seeds inside it. A potato's seeds are part of itself, buried in the white part that we cook for the table, and each potato has in it many seeds or eyes. "Of course I could plant whole potatoes, one in each hill, but that would be wasting seed, so I cut the potatoes up into chunks and plant the little chunks, each one with two or more seeds in it." "And do you only plant one chunk?" asked Mab. "No, I drop in two or three, according to the size and the number of eyes. This is done so that if one set of seeds doesn't grow the other will. Now you watch me." Uncle Pennywait had smoothed off a nice bit of his garden where, as yet, he had planted nothing, and into the long earth-rows of this he now began to plant his potato seed. He walked along the rows with a bag of the cut-up pieces hung around his neck, and as he dropped in the white chunks he covered them with dirt by using a hoe. "When my potatoes grow up into nice green vines, and the striped bugs come to have a feast on them, you may help me drive the bad creatures away," said Uncle Pennywait to the children. "In fact some of my early potatoes need looking after now." "Are there bugs on them?" asked Mab, when her uncle had finished his planting. "Indeed there are! Come and I'll show you." Over they went to the early-potato part of Uncle Pennywait's garden. There, on many of the green vines, were a lot of blackish and yellowish bugs, crawling and eating the leaves. "We'll just give them a dinner of Paris Green," said Uncle Pennywait, "and they won't eat any more of my vines." "What's Paris Green?" asked Mab. "It is a deadly poison, for grown folks or children as well as bugs, and you must never touch it, or handle it, unless I am with you, or your father is near," said Uncle Pennywait. "Here is some of it." He showed the children a bright, green powder, some of which he stirred into a sprinkling pot full of water. This water he sprayed over the potato vines. "The poison in the water goes on the potato leaves," explained Uncle Pennywait, "and when the bugs eat the leaves they also eat the poison, and die. We have to kill them or they would eat away the leaves of the vines until they all died, and we would have no potatoes. The potato bugs are very harmful, and we must get rid of them." Then he let Hal and Mab sprinkle the potato vines with the Paris Green, afterward making the children carefully wash their hands so there would be no danger. "Is that the only way to drive away the potato bugs?" asked Hal. "Sometimes farmers go through their potato field and knock the bugs from the vines into a can full of kerosene oil," said Uncle Pennywait, "or they may use another poison instead of Paris Green. But the bugs must be killed if we are to have potatoes." Just then Mab saw Aunt Lolly going into her garden with a bottle in her hand. "Are you going to poison bugs too?" asked the little girl. "No, I am going to make a cucumber grow inside this," was the answer. "Make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" exclaimed Hal. "Why, how funny!" "Let's go see!" cried Mab, and together they ran over to Aunt Lolly's garden. CHAPTER VI THE CORN SILK "Maybe this is another joke, like the eyes of the potatoes," said Hal to his sister, as they ran along. "That wasn't a joke--the eyes were REAL, though they couldn't see nor blink at you," Mab answered. "The potato eyes must see a little, else how could they find their way to grow up out of the dark ground?" Hal wanted to know. "Well, my beans didn't have any eyes, and they grew up," Mab answered. "Even if they did grow upside down, or I thought they did," and she laughed. "But let's see what Aunt Lolly is doing." Uncle Pennywait's wife was out among the cucumber vines now. She had planted them about the same time Hal had put in the five kernels of corn in each hill. Aunt Lolly's cucumber seeds had also been planted in hills, so there would be a raised mound of earth for the roots to keep moist in, and in order that the vines, at the start, would be raised up from the other ground around them. Now the cucumber plants were quite lengthy, running along over their part of the garden, and in some places there were growing tiny little pickles--or they would be pickles, when put in salt, vinegar and spices. "Are you really going to make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" asked Mab as she saw her aunt, with a bottle in her hand, stooping over one of the vines. "I really am," was the answer. "It is only a little trick, though, and really does no good. But I thought you children would like to see it." "How are you going to do it?" asked Hal. "You see this little cucumber, or pickle," spoke Aunt Lolly, and she showed one to Hal and Mab. "Well now I'm going to slip it inside this bottle, but not pull the pickle from the vine. If I did that the cucumber would stop growing and die." She had a bottle with a neck large enough so the pickle would go in it. The bottle was an odd shape. "The pickle will grow large and completely fill the bottle," went on Aunt Lolly. "It will grow because it is not broken off the stem, and the bottle, being glass, will let in the sunshine. The neck is also large enough so air can get in, for without air, sunlight and the food it gets through the stem the pickle would not live. "But as it grows it will swell and fill every part of the bottle and it also will grow just to the shape of the bottle, so that in the Fall, when it can't grow any more, because of the strong glass, I can break the bottle and I will have a pickle shaped just like it, curves, queer twists and everything else." "Oh, how funny!" cried Hal "I wonder if I could grow an ear of corn in a bottle?" "No," answered his aunt. "An ear of corn has to grow inside the husk, and you could not, very well, put a bottle over that." "Could I over one of my beans?" asked Mab. "Well, you might, but it would have to be a very long and thin bottle, for a bean is that shape when it has grown as large as it will ever get. So I don't believe I'd try it, if I were you. Ill let you each have one of my pickles to grow inside a bottle." Hal and Mab thought this would be fun so they found other bottles with which to do the funny trick of making cucumbers grow inside the glass. "I wish Daddy would give a prize for the funniest shaped cucumber," said Mab, when she had fixed her bottle with a pickle inside it. "Maybe he will," spoke her brother. "We'll ask him." But when Daddy Blake came home that evening he had a package in his arms, and the children were so interested about what might be in it that they forgot to ask for the cucumber prize. "What are you going to do now?" asked Mab. "I'm going to take you and Hal down to the garden and show you how to set out cabbage plants," said Daddy Blake. "But we've got some cabbage plants!" cried Hal. "Yes, I know. But these are a kind that will get a head, or be riper, later in the Fall. This is Winter cabbage that we will keep down cellar, and have to eat when there is snow on the ground, for cabbage is very good and healthful. We can eat it raw, or made into sauer-kraut or have it boiled with potatoes. We must save some cabbage for Winter and that is the kind I am going to plant now." "And may we help?" asked Mab. "Yes, come on to the garden." Daddy Blake had asked Uncle Pennywait, that day, to smooth off a plowed and harrowed place ready for the cabbage plants to be put in that evening, and the long rows, dug in the brown soil, were now waiting. "Where did you get the cabbage plants?" Mab wanted to know. "Did you grow them in a little box down at your office, Daddy, as we did the tomatoes here?" "No, Mab, not quite that way, though I might have done that if I had had room. I bought these cabbage plants in the market on my way home. Some farmers, with lots of ground, plant the cabbage seed early in the spring in what are called 'hot-frames.' That is they are like our tomato boxes only larger, and they are kept out of doors. But over the top are glass windows, so the cold air can not get in. But the warm sun shines through the glass as it did through our tomato box, and soon the cabbage seeds begin to sprout. "Then the plants grow larger and larger, until they are strong enough to be set out, as the tomatoes were. In this way you can grow the vegetables better than if you waited until it was warm enough to put the seed right out in the garden, and let the plants grow up there from the beginning. Putting the seeds in the hot frame gives them a good start. Now we'll set out the cabbage plants, and you may both help." Daddy Blake gave Hal and Mab each a small handful of the little cabbage plants, some of which had two and others three light green leaves on. There were also small roofs, with a little wet dirt clinging to them, from where they had been pulled out of their early home in which they first grew. "Oh, Hal! That isn't the way to do it!" cried Daddy Blake, when he had watched his little boy walking along the cabbage row for a while, dropping the plants, the roots of which were afterward to be covered with the brown earth. "Why not?" Hal asked. "Because you must only drop ONE plant in a place. You are letting two and three fall at once. You mustn't make a bouquet of them," and his father laughed. "Only one cabbage plant in a spot." "Am I doing it right?" asked Mab, who was on the other side of the cabbage plot. "Well, not exactly. Hal dropped his too close together and yours are too far apart. The cabbage plants ought to be about two and a half feet apart, in rows and the rows should be separate one from the other by about twenty inches. Here, I'll cut you each a little stick for a measure. You don't need to worry about the rows, as Uncle Pennywait marked them just the right distance apart as he made them." So after that Hal and Mab measured, with sticks Daddy Blake gave them to get one cabbage plant just as far from the one next to it in the row as Daddy Blake wanted. Then, with a hoe, the children's father covered the roots with dirt and the cabbages were planted, or "set out," as the gardener calls it. "Now let me take a look at your corn and beans," said Mr. Blake to the two children, when the cabbages had been left to grow. "I want to see who has the best chance of winning that ten dollar gold prize." "Hal's corn is very nice," said Mab. "And so are her beans," added Mab's brother kindly. "I guess maybe she'll get the prize." "Well, it will be quite a little while before we can tell," spoke Daddy Blake. "Corn and beans will not be gathered until Fall, though we may eat some of Hal's corn earlier, for he has some rows of the sweet variety which can be boiled and gnawed off the ears." Daddy Blake found a few places in Mab's bean patch where the useless weeds needed hoeing away, so they would not steal from the brown earth the food which the good plants needed. "And one or two of your corn hills could be made a little higher, Hal," said his father. "If you look at the corn stalks you will see, down near where they are in the ground, some little extra roots coming out above the earth. In order that these roots may reach the soil, and take hold, the dirt must be hoed up to them." Mr. Blake showed the children what he meant, and Mab cried: "Those roots are just like the ropes we had on our tent when we went camping." "That's it," said Daddy Blake. "These roots keep the tall corn stalks from blowing over just as the ropes keep the tent from falling down." "Oh, look!" cried Mab, as she passed one stalk of corn that was larger than any of the others. "There's something growing on this that's just like my doll's hair. I'm going to pull it off." "No, you mustn't do that," her father said. "That is corn silk." "Oh, I know what it is," said Hal. "It's brown stuff and sometimes when you're eating corn it gets in your mouth and tickles you." "Corn silk isn't brown until it gets old and dried," said his father. "At first it is a light green, like this. And the silk is really part of the corn blossom." "I didn't know corn had a blossom," said Mab. "Yes," said her father, "it has. Part of the blossom is up top here, on these things that look like long fingers sticking out," and he pointed to the upper part of the stalk. "On these fingers grows a sort of fine dust, called pollen, and unless this falls down from the top of the corn stalk, and rests on the silk which grows out from the ear, there would be no more corn seed. Or, if corn seed, or kernels, did form on the ear, they would be lifeless, and when planted next year no corn would grow from them. The pollen dust and the silk must mingle together to make perfect ears of corn, so don't pull off the silk, even if you do want to make it into hair for your doll." Mab promised she would not, though she loved the feel of the soft corn silk. Then she and Hal noticed where some of the light yellow pollen had already been blown by the wind down on the silk to help make the perfect ear of corn. As the children walked along through the garden with Daddy Blake they heard voices over the fence where Mr. Porter lived. Then they heard Sammie calling: "Oh, Daddy! Look what I got! It's a big green bug, an' Roly-Poly is barkin' at him! Come quick!" "I hope Roly-Poly isn't making any more trouble as he did with the fly paper," said Mr. Blake as he walked toward the fence. CHAPTER VII EARLY TOMATOES "What's the matter, Mr. Porter?" asked Mr. Blake, looking over the fence where Sammie's father was working in his garden. "Has our little poodle dog been scratching up your plants?" "Oh, no. Roly is very good. He seems to know we want the thing's in our gardens to grow, and he only walks carefully between the rows, and doesn't scratch a bit," answered the neighbor. "What is he barking at now?" asked Mab, for the little poodle dog had crawled under the fence and had gone next door, as he often did. He was standing near red-haired Sammie now. "He's barkin' at a big, green bug," said the little boy. "A green bug; eh?" spoke Mr. Porter. "Maybe we'd better see what it is," he added, speaking to Daddy Blake. "I rather think we had. There are so many bugs, worms and other things trying to spoil our gardens, that we must not let any of them get away." "He's a awful big bug, almost as long as Roly's tail," called Sammie from where he stood near a tomato plant. "Well, Roly's tail isn't very big," laughed Daddy Blake. "But a bug or worm of that size could eat a lot of plant leaves." "Don't touch it--Daddy will kill it!" called Mr. Porter to his little boy. But Sammie had no idea of touching the queer bug he had seen, and at which the poodle dog was barking. "Oh, it's one of the big green tomato worms!" exclaimed Mr. Blake when he saw it. "They can do a lot of damage. I hope they don't get in my garden. We must kill as many as we can," and he knocked the worm to the ground and stepped on it. Roly-Poly barked harder than ever at this, thinking, perhaps, that he had helped get rid of the unpleasant, crawling thing. "We'll look over your tomato patch and see if there are any more worms," suggested Mr. Blake to his neighbor. "Yes, and then I'll come and help you clear your plants of the pests," said Mr. Porter. "We want to have our gardens good this year, so we won't have to spend so many of our pennies for food next Winter." A few more of the green worms were found on the tomato vines, and there were more on Daddy Blake's. So many were found that he could not be sure he had knocked them all off. "I think I will have to spray the plants with Paris Green as I did the potatoes," he said. "The tomatoes will not be ready to pick--even the earliest--for some weeks and by that time the poison will have been washed off by the rain." "Making a garden is lots of work" said Hal, next day, when he and Mab had helped their father spray the tomato plants. "Yes, indeed," agreed Mr. Blake. "But, like everything else in this world, you can't have anything without working for it." "I thought all you had to do in a garden," said Mab, "was to plant the seed and it would grow into cabbage, radishes, corn, beans or whatever you wanted." "You are beginning to learn otherwise," spoke her father, "and it is a good thing. Mother Nature is wise and good, but she does not make it too easy for us. She will grow beautiful flowers, and useful fruits and vegetables from tiny seeds, but she also grows bad weeds and sends eating-bugs that we must fight against, if we want things to grow on our farms and gardens. So we still have much work before us to make our gardens a success." "We haven't had much to eat from them yet," said Mother Blake, who had been hoeing among her carrots. "I hope we can pick something soon." "We had radishes," said Hal. "And well soon have tomatoes," added his father. "Now that I have driven away the eating worms the vines will grow better and the tomatoes will ripen faster." A week later on some of the vines there were quite large green tomatoes. Hal and Mab watched them eagerly, noting how they grew and swelled larger, until, one day, Mab came running in, crying: "Oh, one tomato has a red cheek!" "That's where it got sunburned," said her father with a smile. "That shows they are getting ripe. Soon we will have some for the table." In a few days more tomatoes on the vines had red, rosy cheeks, some being red all over. These Daddy Blake let Hal and Mab pick, and they brought them in the house. "Oh, we shall have some of our own tomatoes for lunch!" cried Mother Blake when she saw them. "How fine! Our garden is beginning to give us back something to pay us for all the work we put on it." "But these are Daddy's tomatoes," said Hal. "He had the first thing, after the radishes, for the table from his garden, and Mab and I haven't anything. Daddy'll get his own prize." "No, I promise you I will not take the prize for these tomatoes, even if I did raise them in my part of the garden," said Daddy Blake with a smile. "And I won't count the radishes we had before the tomatoes were ripe, either. Those belonged to all of us. "The prize isn't going to be given away until all the crops are harvested, or brought in, and then we'll see who has the most and the best of things that will keep over Winter." "Can you keep tomatoes all Winter?" asked Mab of her father. "Well, no, not exactly. But Mother can put them into cans, after they have been cooked, and she can make ketchup and spices of them--chili sauce and the like--as well as pickles, so, after all, you might say my tomatoes will last all Winter. "Sometimes you can keep tomatoes fresh for quite a while down in a cool, dry cellar, if you pull the vines up by the roots, with the tomatoes still on them, and cover the roots with dirt. But they will not keep quite all Winter, I believe. At any rate I'm not going to keep ours that way. We'll can them." Mother Blake sliced the garden tomatoes for supper. She also made a dressing for them, with oil, vinegar and spices, though Hal and Mab liked their tomatoes best with just salt on. "Tomatoes are not only good to eat--I mean they taste good--but they are healthful for one," said Daddy Blake. "It is not so many years ago that no one ate tomatoes. They feared they were poison, and in some parts of the country they were called Ladies' or Love Apples. But now many, many thousands of cans of tomatoes are put up every year, so that we may have them in Winter as well as in Summer, though of course the canned ones are not as nice tasting as the ones fresh from the garden, such as we have now." It was not long before there was lettuce from the Blake garden, and Mother Blake said it was the best she had ever eaten. Lettuce, too, Daddy Blake explained, would not keep over Winter, though it is sold in many stores when there is snow on the ground. But it comes from down South, where there is no Winter, being sent up on fast express trains. "Lettuce is also as good to eat as are tomatoes," remarked Daddy Blake. "It is said to be good for persons who have too many nerves, or, rather, for those whose nerves are not in good condition." One day, when Hal and Mab came home from school, they hurried out, after leaving their books in the house, for they wanted to play some games." "Aren't you going to work in your gardens a little while?" asked their mother. "Daddy is out there." "Is he?" cried Hal. "Did he come home early?" "Yes, on purpose to hoe among his tomatoes, I think he is cutting down the weeds which grew very fast since the last rain we had." "Our parts of the garden are all right," said Hal. "My corn doesn't need hoeing." "Nor my beans," said Mab. "But let's go out and see Daddy, Hal. Maybe he'll tell us something new about the garden." "Well, where are your hoes, toodlekins?" called Daddy Blake, when he saw the two children coming toward him. "There aren't any weeds in my corn," said Hal. "Nor in my beans," added Mab. "Not very many, it is true," said Daddy Blake. "But still there are some, and if you cut down the weeds when they are small, and when there are not many of them, you will find it easier to keep your garden looking neat, and, at the same time, make sure your crops will grow better, than if you wait and only hoe when the weeds are big. "Gardens should be made to look nice, as well as be made free from weeds just because it is a good thing for the plants," went on Daddy Blake. "A good gardener takes pride in his garden. He wants to see every weed cut down. Besides, hoeing around your corn and beans makes the dirt nice and finely pulverized--like the pulverized sugar with which Mother makes icing for the cakes. And the finer the dirt is around the roots of a plant the more moisture it will hold and the better it will be for whatever is growing, as I have told you before." "Well, we'll hoe a little bit," said Hal. He and his sister got their hoes and soon they were so interested in cutting down the weeds in between the rows that they forgot about going off to play. Hal noticed that the ears of corn on his stalks were getting larger inside the green husk that kept the soft and tender kernels from being broken, as might have happened if they were out in the air, as tomatoes grow. And so the gardens grew, just as did that of "Mistress Mary, quite contrary," about whom you may read in Mother Goose, or some book like that. Sometimes it rained and again it was quite dry, with a hot sun beating down out of the blue sky. "If we don't get rain pretty soon we shall have to water the gardens," said Daddy Blake one night after about a week of very dry weather. Around the roots of the many plants the earth was caked and hard, so that very little air could get down to nourish the growing things. "What do people do who have gardens where it doesn't rain as often as it does here, Daddy?" asked Mab. "Well in very dry countries, such as some parts of ours near the places called deserts," said Mr. Blake, "men build large dams, and hold the water back in big ponds or lakes so it will last from one rainy season to another. The water is let run from the lake through little ditches, or pipes, so that the thirsty plants may drink. This is called the irrigation method, for to irrigate means to wet, soak or moisten with water. Each farmer or gardener is allowed to buy as much water as he needs, opening little gates at the ends of the main ditches or sluices, and letting the water run over his dry ground, in which he has dug furrows to lead the water where he most needs it. "And sometimes, when there is too little water to use much of it this way, the gardeners do what they call intensive cultivation. Those are big words, but they mean that the man just hoes his ground every day around his plants, instead of perhaps once a week. "You know there is moisture in the air, and at night dew falls. This wets the ground a little, and by digging and turning over the earth around the roots of his plants, the gardener makes it very fine so it holds the moisture longer. In this way a little bit of rain, or dew, lasts a long time. Come out now, and I'll show you something you perhaps have not noticed." Daddy took Hal and Mab to the garden, and with a hoe he pointed to a place around Hal's corn stalks where the dry ground was hard, and baked by the sun. A few strokes of the hoe and Daddy Blake had turned up some of the underlying earth. Hal and Mab saw that it was darker in color than that on top, and when they put their hands down in it the earth felt moist. "What makes it?" asked Mab. "Because the underneath part of the ground held the moisture in it. The top part was baked dry and the moisture had all gone away--evaporated in the sun, if you want to use big words, just as water dries in your hands after you wash them, even if you do not soak it up with a towel." "Does a towel soak up water?" asked Mab. "I thought it just wiped it off our hands." "No, the towel is like a sponge," said Daddy Blake. "The fuzzier the towel the more like a sponge it is. Each little bit of linen or cotton, is really a tiny hollow tube--a capillary tube it is called--and these tubes suck up the water on your hands as the same fuzzy capillary tubes in a piece of blotting paper suck up the ink. A towel is a sponge or a blotter. And the earth is a sort of sponge when it comes to sucking up the rain and dew. It also holds the water near the plant, when the ground is finely pulverized, so the tomato vine, the corn stalk or the bean bush can drink when it gets thirsty." "My! There's a lot to know about a garden; isn't there?" said Mab with a sigh. "Yes, there is," agreed Hal. "I don't s'pose we'll ever know it all." "No," said his father, "you will not. There will always be something better to learn, not only for you but for everyone. But learn all you can, and learn, first of all, that plants must have sunshine, air and water to make them grow. Now we'll water the garden." There were no signs of rain, and though the ground was a little moist in some parts of the garden Daddy Blake thought all the growing things would be better for a wetting from the hose. So he attached it to the faucet and let Hal and Mab take turns sprinkling. As the drops fell on the thirsty ground there floated up a most delicious smell, like the early spring rain, which helps Mother Nature to awaken the sleeping grass and flowers. "I guess my corn is wet enough," said Hal, after a bit. He had only been sprinkling a little while when he heard one of his boy friends calling him from the street in front. "Oh, your corn isn't half wet enough," laughed Daddy Blake. "It is almost better not to water the garden at all than not to give it enough, for it only hardens the dirt on top. Give the corn a good soaking, just as if it had rained hard. A good watering for the garden means about two quarts of water to every square foot in your plots. Don't be afraid of the water. Your plants will do so much better for it. But don't spray them too heavily, so the dirt is washed away. Let the hose point up in the air, and then the drops will fall like rain." Hal kept the hose longer, giving his corn a good wetting, and he could almost see the green stalks stand up straighter when he had finished. They were refreshed, just as a tired horse is made to feel, better, after a hot day in the streets, when he has a cool drink and is sprinkled with the hose. "Roly, get out the way or you'll be all wet!" cried Mab, as the little poodle dog ran around her beans when she was watering them. "Bow-wow!" barked Roly, just as if he said he didn't care. "Well, if you want to get wet--all right!" laughed Mab. "Here it comes!" She pointed the hose straight at Roly and in a second he was wet through. "Ki-yi! Ki-yi! Ki-yi!" he yelped as he ran out of the garden. "Bow-wow! Ki-yi!" "Well, it will cool him off, and I guess he wanted it after all," said Daddy Blake. "But Roly is a good little dog. He only dug once in the garden since he came back, but I tapped him on the end of his nose with my finger, and scolded him, and he hasn't done it since." The next day Daddy Blake took Hal and Mab to the garden again, and showed them how he was building little wooden frames under his tomatoes to keep the red vegetables off the ground where they might lie in the mud and sand and get dirty. "The frames help to hold up the vines so they will not break when the tomatoes get too heavy for them," said Mr. Blake. "Plants have lots of trouble," said Hal. "You have to put their seeds in the ground, keep the weeds away from them, hoe them, water them, and keep the bugs and worms away. Is there anything else that can happen to things in a garden, Daddy?" "Yes, sometimes heavy hail storms come and beat down the plants, or tear the leaves to ribbons so the plants die, and bear nothing. This often happens to corn, which has broad leaves easily torn by hail." "What is hail?" asked Hal. "Well, it's a sort of frozen rain," said Daddy Blake. "Often in a thunder shower the wind plays strange tricks. It whirls the rain drops about, first in some cool air, far above the earth and then whips them into some warm air. The cool air freezes the rain, and when it falls it is not in the shape of beautiful crystals, as is the snow, but is in hard, round balls, sometimes as large as marbles. Often the hail will break windows." "I hope it doesn't hail in our nice garden," said Hal. "It will hurt your corn worse than it would my beans," said Mab. "I hope it doesn't hail, too, Hal." But two or three days after that, one evening when the Blakes were sitting on the steps after having worked in the garden, there came from the West low mutterings of thunder. Then the lightning began to flash and Daddy Blake said: "We are going to have a shower, I think. Well, it will be good for the garden." And soon the big drops began splashing down, followed by another sound. "Oh, it's hailing!" cried Aunt Lolly. "Hear the hail stones!" "I love to see it!" exclaimed Mab. "But I hope it doesn't hail very big stones." However the stones from the sky--stones of ice that did not melt for some time after they rattled down--were rather large. They bounced up from the sidewalk and on the path around the Blake house. "Where's Hal?" suddenly asked his father. "I want to show him and Mab how the inside of hail stones look. I'll run out and get some as soon as the shower slackens a little." It was raining and hailing hard now, and the lightning was flashing brightly, while the thunder was rumbling like big cannon. "Hal was here a minute ago," said his mother. "I wonder if he could have run out in the storm?" Just then, from his porch, Mr. Porter called something to Daddy Blake. All Mab and her mother could hear was: "Hal--hail--umbrella!" "Oh, I hope nothing has happened to him!" said Mrs. Blake. "You had better go look for him, Daddy!" CHAPTER VIII THE CHILDREN'S MARKET Daddy Blake caught up an umbrella from the hallway and ran out into the storm, going around the side path toward the back yard and lot where the children had made their gardens. "Where is he going?" asked Mab. "To look for Hal," answered her mother. "Where is Hal?" "He must have gone out in the storm to see what made it hail, I suppose." "Oh, if one of the big hail stones hits him on the end of his nose he'll cry!" exclaimed Aunt Lolly. "Well, he'll know better than to do it again," said Uncle Pennywait "Listen to Roly-Poly howling!" The little poodle dog was afraid of thunder and lightning, and every time there was a storm he used to get in the darkest corner of the house and howl. He was doing this now as Daddy Blake ran to the garden to find where Hal was. "He's back there--out where his corn is planted!" called Mr. Porter to Hal's father as Daddy Blake ran around the house. "I saw him from our kitchen window, and I thought I'd tell you." "I'm glad you did!" shouted Mr. Blake. Both he and Mr. Porter had to shout to be heard above the noise of the storm; for the thunder was very loud, and the patter of the rain drops, and the rattle of the hail made a very great racket indeed. [Illustration] When Daddy Blake turned around the corner of the house and started down the main path that led through the vegetable garden, he saw a strange sight. There stood Hal, in the midst of his little corn field, out in the pelting rain and hail, holding the biggest umbrella over as many of the stalks of corn as he could shelter. And Hal himself was dripping wet for the rain blew under the umbrella. "What are you doing?" cried Mr. Blake. "Keeping the hail off my corn," answered Hal. "You said the hail stones would tear the green leaves all to pieces and I don't want it to. Can't Mab come out and hold an umbrella, too? You've got one, Daddy, so you can help." Mr. Blake wanted to laugh but he did not like to hurt Hal's feelings. Besides he was a little worried lest Hal take cold in the pelting storm. So he said: "You must come in, Hal. Holding an umbrella over your corn would only save one hill from the hail and saving that one hill would not make up for you getting ill. We shall have to let the storm do its worst, and trust that not all the corn will be spoiled." "Is that what the farmers do?" asked Hal, making his way between the rows of corn toward his father. "Yes. They can't stop the hail and they can't cover the corn. Sometimes it doesn't do a great deal of damage, even though it tears many of the green leaves. This storm is beginning to stop now, so you had better come in." "I didn't want my corn to be spoiled, so I couldn't win the prize," spoke Hal, as he went back to the house with his father, walking under the umbrella. "That's why I came out to keep off the frozen rain. It came down awful hard." "Yes, it was a heavy storm for a few minutes," said Mr. Blake. "But it will soon be over, and the rain will do the gardens good, though the hail may hurt them some." By the time Hal and his father reached the porch the hail had stopped and it was only raining. Mrs. Blake, Aunt Lolly and the others were anxiously waiting. "I thought maybe he had been struck by lightning," said Mab. "Pooh! I wasn't afraid!" boasted Hal. "I guess you were thinking too much about your corn," said his father with a laugh. "It was very good of you, but you mustn't do such a thing again. Now you'll have to get dry clothes on. But wait until I show you how a hail stone looks inside." Daddy Blake ran out into the storm and came back with a handful of the queer, frozen stones. He let Hal and Mab look at them, and then, taking a large one, he held it on top of the warm stove for a second, until the chunk of ice had melted in half. "See the queer rings inside it," Daddy Blake said to the children and, looking, they noticed that the hail stone was made up of different layers of ice, just as some kinds of candy are made in sections. "What makes it that way--like an onion," asked Hal, for the hail stone did look a bit like an onion that has been sliced through the centre. "It is because the hail is made up of different layers of ice," answered Daddy Blake. "It is supposed that a hail stone is a frozen rain drop. In the tipper air it gets whirled about, first going into a cold part that freezes it. Then the frozen rain drop is tossed down into some warm air, or a cloud where there is water. This water clings to the frozen centre and then is whirled upward again. There is another freeze, and so it goes on, first getting wet and then freezing until, after having been built up of many layers of ice and frozen rain, the hail stone falls to the ground." "My!" exclaimed Mab. "I didn't know hail stones were so wonderful." "Neither did I," added Hal. When Hal had changed his clothes he told how it was he happened to run out into the garden during the heavy hail storm. He had seen the big frozen chunks of rain coming down, and he remembered what his father had said about it spoiling garden and farm crops. So Hal, when no one was looking, got a big umbrella from the rack and went out to hold it over his corn. Mr. Porter happened to see him and told Mr. Blake. The shower did not last very long, and when it was over Daddy Blake took Hal and Mab into the garden to see what damage had been done. The ground was so muddy they had to wear rubbers. "Oh, a lot of my beans are beaten down!" cried Mab, as she looked at her bushes. "They'll straighten up again when the sun comes out," said her father. "If they don't you can hold them up with your hand and hoe more dirt around their roots. That's what I shall have to do with my tomatoes, too. The fruit is getting too heavy for the vines. However no great harm will be done." "A lot of my corn is torn," said Hal. "It's too bad!" "Not enough is torn to spoil the ears," said Daddy Blake. "A gardener must expect to have a little damage done to his crops by the storms. Of course it isn't nice, but it is part of the garden game. Sometimes whole orchards, big green houses and large fields of grain are ruined by hail storms. We were lucky." "What does a farmer do when his whole crop is spoiled by a big storm?" asked Hal. "Well, generally a farmer raises many crops, so that if one fails he can make money on the others. That is what makes it hard to be a farmer, or, rather, one of the things that make it hard. He never can tell whether or not he is going to have a good crop of anything. Sometimes it may be storms that spoil his wheat or hay, and again it may be dry weather, with not enough rain, or bugs and worms may eat up many of his growing things. So you see a farmer, or a man who has a larger garden, must grow many crops so that if he loses one he may have others to keep him through the Winter, either by selling the things he raises, or by eating them himself." The next day there was no school, and Hal and Mab spent much time in their garden. The sun came out bright and warm, and the children said they could almost SEE the things growing. Mab declared that her bean vines grew almost an inch that one day, and it may be that they did. Beans grow very fast. If you have ever watched them going up a pole you would know this to be true. With their hoes the children piled more dirt around the roots of the garden plants where the rain had washed the soil away, and thus the bushes and stalks were helped to stand up straighter. Some straightened up of themselves when they had dried in the sun. "Well, I think we are going to have some good crops," said Daddy Blake when he went to the garden with Hal and Mab a few days after the storm. "In fact we are going to have more of some things than we can use." "Will we have to throw them away?" asked Hal. "No indeed!" laughed his father. "That would be wrong at a time when we must save all the food we can. But we will do as the farmer does who raises a large crop of anything. We will start a little store and sell what we do not need." "A REAL store?" cried Mab, with shining eyes. "And sell things for REAL money?" asked Hal. "Of course!" laughed their father, "though you may give your friends anything from your garden that you wish to." "Where will we keep the store?" asked Hal. "And who will we sell the things to?" "And what will we sell?" asked Mab. "What have we too much of, Daddy?" "My! You children certainly can ask questions!" exclaimed Mr. Blake. "Now let me see! In the first place I think if you keep the store out on the front lawn, near the street, it will be the best place, I'll put an old door across two boxes and that will be your store counter. And you can sell things to persons that pass along the street. Some in automobiles may stop and buy, and others, on their way to the big stores, may stop to get your vegetables because they will be so fresh. The fresher a vegetable is the better. That is it should be eaten as soon as possible after it is taken from the garden, else it loses much of its flavor." "But will people give us real money for our garden truck?" asked Hal. He had heard his father and Uncle Pennywait speak of garden "truck" so he knew it must be the right word. "Indeed they'll be glad to pay you real money," said Mr. Blake with a smile. "Persons who have no garden of their own are very glad to buy fresh vegetables. You'll soon see." "But what are we going to sell?" asked Mab. "Oh, yes, I forgot your question," said her father. "Well, there are more tomatoes than your mother has time to can, or make into ketchup just now. She will have plenty more later on. And I think there will be more of your beans, Mab, than you will care to keep over Winter, or use green. So you can sell some of my tomatoes and some of your beans." "My corn isn't ripe yet," said Hal. "The ears are awful little." "No, you must wait a while about your corn. But Mother's carrots are ready to pull, and she has more than we will need over Winter. You may sell some of those, Hal." "Oh, won't it be fun--having a real store!" cried the little boy. "Come on, Mab, we'll get ready! I'm going to pull the carrots." "And I'll pull the beans!" cried Mab. "Will you get the tomatoes, Daddy?" "Yes, but you had better let me show you a little bit about getting the things ready for your market store. The nicer your vegetables look, and the more tastefully you set them out, the more quickly will people stop to look at them and buy them. Wise gardeners and store-keepers know this and it is a good thing to learn." So Daddy Blake first showed Mab how to pick her string beans, taking off only those of full size, leaving the small to grow larger, when there would be more to eat in each pod. The beans were kept up off the ground with strings running to sticks at the of each row. "If the beans touch the ground they not only get dirty," Mr. Blake, "but they often are covered with brown, rusty spots and they soon rot. Persons like to buy nice, clean beans, free from dirt. So have yours that way, Mab." Mab put the beans site picked into clean strawberry boxes, and set them in the shade out of the sun until it was time to open the store on the lawn near the street. Hal's father showed how to pull from the brown earth the yellow carrots from Mother Blake's part of the garden. Only carrots of good size were pulled, the small ones being left to grow larger. The carrots were tied in bunches of six each, and the bright yellow, pointed bottoms, with the green tops, made a pretty picture as they were laid in a pile in the shade. "Now I'll pick some tomatoes and your garden store will be ready for customers," said Daddy Blake. His vines were laden with ripe, red tomatoes and these were carefully picked and placed in strawberry boxes also, a few being set aside for lunch, as was done with Mab's beans and Mother Blake's carrots. A little later Hal and Mab took their places behind a broad wooden counter, placed on two boxes out in front of their house. On the board were set the boxes of red tomatoes, those of the green and yellow string beans and the pile of yellow carrots. "Now you are all ready for your customers," said Daddy Blake, as he helped the children put the last touches to their vegetable store. "Oh, I wonder if we'll sell anything?" spoke Mab, eagerly. "I hope so," answered Hal. "Oh, Look! Here comes a big automobile with two ladies in it, and they're steering right toward us!" "I hope they don't upset our counter," said Mab slowly, as she watched the big auto approach. CHAPTER IX SAMMIE PLANTS TOMATOES "Look at the lovely vegetables!" exclaimed one of the ladies in the automobile, as she glanced at what Hal and Mab had spread out on their store counter--the old barn door set on the two boxes. "Are they nice and fresh, children?" asked the second lady, as she put a funny pair of spectacles, on a stick, up to her nose, and looked at the string beans through the shiny glass. "Oh, yes'm, they're very fresh!" answered Hal. "Daddy and us just picked 'em from our garden." "We have more than we can eat, and mother hasn't time to can the tomatoes," explained Mab, for their father had left them alone, to say and do as they thought best. "They certainly look nice," went on the first lady, "And how well the children have arranged them." "Like a picture," added the other. "See how pretty the red, green and yellow colors show. I must have some tomatoes and beans." "And I want some of those carrots. They say carrots make your eyes bright." Hal and Mab thought the ladies eyes were bright enough, especially when the sun shone and glittered on the funny stick-spectacles. The automobile had stopped and the chauffeur got down off the front seat behind the steering wheel and walked toward the children's new vegetable store. "How much are your tomatoes?" asked the lady who had first spoken. "Eight cents a quart," answered Hal, his father telling him to ask that price, which was what they were selling for at the store. "And they're just picked," added the little boy. "I can see they are," spoke the lady. "I'll take three quarts, and you may keep the extra penny for yourselves," she added as she handed Hal a bright twenty-five-cent piece. Hal and his sister were so excited by this, their first sale, and at getting real money, that they could hardly put the three quarts of red tomatoes in the paper bags Daddy Blake had brought for them from the store. They did spill some, but as the tomatoes fell on the soft grass they were not broken. "I want some beans and carrots," said the other lady, and the chauffeur helped Hal and Mab put them in bags, and brought the money back to the children. The beans and carrots were sold for thirty cents, so that Hal and Mab now have fifty-five cents for their garden stuff. "Isn't it a lot of money!" cried Hal, when the auto had rolled away down the street, and he and his sister looked at the shining coins. "Well get rich," exclaimed Mab, gleefully. A little later a lady in a carriage stopped to buy some beans, and after that a man, walking along the street, bought a quart of tomatoes. Later on a little girl and her mother stopped and looked at the carrots, buying one bunch. "I want my little girl to eat them as they are good for her," said the lady, "but she says she doesn't like them, though I boil them in milk for her." "But they don't taste like anything," complained the little girl. "Our carrots are nice and sweet," said Mab. "You'll like these. My brother and I eat them." "They look nice and yellow," said the little girl. "Maybe I will like these." Hal and Mab had sold several boxes of beans and tomatoes and about half a dozen bunches of carrots, in an hour, and now they began putting their store counter in order again, for it was rather untidy. Daddy Blake had told them to do this. Once or twice the children could not make the right change when customers stopped to buy things, but Aunt Lolly was near at hand, on the porch, and she came to their aid, so there was no trouble. It was rather early in the morning when Hal and Mab started their store, and by noon they had sold everything, and had taken in over two dollars in "real" money. "Isn't it a lot!" cried Hal, as he saw the pile of copper, nickle and silver coins in the little box they used for a cash drawer. "A big pile," answered Mab. "We'll sell more things to-morrow." "No, I think not," spoke Daddy Blake, coming along just then. "We must not take too much from our garden to sell. But you have done better than I thought you would. Over two dollars!" "What shall we do with it?" asked Hal. "Well, you may have some to spend, but we'll save most of it," his father answered. "This is the first money you ever earned from your garden, and I want you to think about it. Just think what Mother Nature did for you, with your help, of course. "In the ground you planted some tiny seeds and now they have turned into money. No magician's trick could be more wonderful than that. This money will pay for almost all the seed I bought for the garden. Of course our work counts for something, but then we have to work anyhow." Hal and Mab began to understand what a wonderful earth this of ours is, and how much comes out of the brown soil which, with the help of the air, the rain and sunlight, can take a tiny seed, no larger than the head of a pin, and make from it a great, big green tomato vine, that blossoms and then has on it red tomatoes, which may be eaten or sold for money. And the beans and carrots did the same, each one coming from a small seed. Sammie Porter came out two or three times and watched Hal and Mab selling things at their vegetable store. The little boy seemed to be wondering what was going on, and Hal and Mab told him as well as they could. "Sammie goin' to have a 'mato store," he said when the two Blake children had sold all their things, and were moving their empty boxes and door into the barn. "Me goin' to sell 'matoes." "I wonder what he will do?" said Mab. "Maybe he'll take a lot of things from his father's garden," suggested Hal. "We better tell him not to." "Well, Mr. Porter is working among his potatoes so I guess Sammie can't do much harm," Mab said. A little later she and Hal happened to look out in front and they saw a queer sight. Sammie was drawing along the sidewalk his little express wagon, in which he had piled some tomatoes. They were large, ripe ones, and he must have picked them from his father's vines, since he could not get through the fence into the Blake gardens. "Oh, Sammie!" cried Mab, running out to him, "What are you doing with those tomatoes?" "Sammie goin' have a 'mato store an' sell 'em like you an' Hal. You want come my 'mato store?" he asked, looking up and smiling. "No, I guess we have all the tomatoes we want," laughed Hal. Sammie did not seem to worry about this. Maybe he thought some one else would buy his vegetables. He wheeled his cart up near his own front fence, on the grass and sat down beside it. "'Mato store all ready," he said. "People come an' buy now." But though several persons passed they did not ask Sammie how much his tomatoes were. They may have thought he was only playing, and that his tomatoes were not good ones, though they really were nice and fresh. "We'd better go tell his father or mother," suggested Mab to her brother. "I don't believe they know he's here." "Guess they don't," Hal agreed. "Come on; he might get hurt out there all alone." Brother and sister started into the Porter yard. They did not see Sammie's mother, but his father was down in the back end of his lot, weeding an onion bed. "Hello, children!" called Mr. Porter. "Did you come over to see how my garden is growing?" "We came to tell you about Sammie," said Mab. "He's out--" "Hello! Where IS that little tyke?" cried Mr. Porter suddenly. "He was here a little while ago, making believe hoe the weeds out of the potatoes. I don't see him," he added, straightening up and looking among the rows of vegetables. "He's out in front trying to sell tomatoes," said Hal. "Oh my!" cried Sammie's father. "I told him not to pick anything, but you simply can't watch him all the while." He ran out toward the front of the house, Hal and Mab following. They saw Sammie seated on the ground near his express wagon, and he was squeezing a big red tomato, the juice and seeds running all over him. "Sammie boy! What in the world are doing?" cried his father. "Sammie plantin' 'mato," was the answer. "Nobody come to my store like Hal's an' Mab's, so plant my 'matos." Then they saw where he had dug a hole in the ground with a stick, into this he was letting some of the tomato juice and seeds run, as he squeezed them between his chubby fingers. "Oh, but you are a sight!" said Mr. Porter with a shake of his head. "What your mother will say I don't dare guess! Here! Drop that tomato, Sammie! You've got more all over you than you have in the hole. What are you trying to do?" "Make a 'mato garden," was Sammie's answer as his father picked him up. "I put seeds in ground and make more 'matoes grow." "But you musn't do it out here," said Mr. Porter, trying not to laugh, though Sammie was a queer sight. "Besides, I told you not to pick my tomatoes. You have wasted nearly a quart. Now come in and your mother will wash you." Into the house he carried the tomato-besmirched little boy, while Hal and Mab pulled in the express wagon with what were left of the vegetables. Sammie had squeezed three of the big, ripe tomatoes into a soft pulp letting the juice and seeds run all over. "And a tomato has lots of juice and seeds," said Mab as she and Hal told Daddy and Mother Blake, afterward, what had happened. "Yes, nearly all vegetables have plenty of seeds," said their father. "Mother Nature provides them so there may never be any lack. If each tomato, squash or pumpkin or if each bean or pea pod only had one seed in, that one might not be a good one. That is it might not have inside it that strange germ of life, which starts it growing after it is planted. "So, instead of one seed there are hundreds, as in a watermelon or muskmelon. And nearly all of them are fertile, or good, so that other melons may be raised from them. "You see I only bought a small package of tomato seeds, and yet from them we will have hundreds of tomatoes, and each tomato may have a hundred seeds or more, and each of those seeds may be grown into a vine that will have hundreds of tomatoes on, each with a hundred seeds in it and each of these seeds--" "Oh, Daddy! Please stop!" begged Mab with a laugh. "It's like the story of the rats and the grains of corn!" "Yes, there is no end to the increase that Mother Nature gives to us," said Daddy Blake. "The earth is a wonderful place. It is like a big arithmetic table--it multiplies one seed into many." The long Summer vacation was now at hand. Hal and Mab did not have to go to school, and they could spend more time in the garden with their mother, with Uncle Pennywait or Aunt Lolly, while Daddy Blake, every chance he had, used the hoe often to keep down the weeds. "There is nothing like hoeing to make your garden, a success," he told the children. "Do they hoe on big farms?" asked Hal. "Well, on some, yes. I'll take you children to a farm, perhaps before the Summer is over, and you can see how they do it. Instead of hoeing, though, where there is a big field of corn or potatoes, the farmer runs a cultivator through the rows. The cultivator is like a lot of hoes joined together, and it loosens the dirt, cuts down the weeds and piles the soft, brown soil around the roots of the plants just where it is most needed. But our garden is too small for a horse cultivator--that is one drawn by a horse. The one I shove along by hand is enough for me." Of course Hal and Mab did not spend all their time in the garden. They sometimes wanted to play with their boy and girl chums. For though it was fun to watch the things growing, to help them by hoeing, by keeping away the weeds and the bugs and worms, yet there was work in all this. And Daddy Blake believed, as do many fathers, that "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." So Hal and Mab had their play times. One day Mrs. Blake asked Hal and Mab to pick as many of the ripe tomatoes they could find on the vines. "Are we going to have another store and sell them?" asked Hal. "No, I am going to can some, and make chili sauce of the others," answered his mother. "In that way we will have tomatoes to eat next Winter." It was more fun for Hal and Mab to pick the ripe tomatoes than it was to hoe in the garden, and soon, with the help of Uncle Pennywait, they had gathered several baskets full of the red vegetables. Then Aunt Lolly and Mother Blake made themselves busy in the kitchen. They boiled and stewed and cooked on the stove and there floated out of the door and windows a sweet, spicy smell. "Oh, isn't that good!" cried Mab. "It will taste good next Winter!" laughed their uncle. "And to think it comes out of our garden--the tomato part, I mean," spoke Mab. "Come on!" called Hal, after a while, when they had picked all the tomatoes Mother Blake needed. "Where you going?" asked Mab. "Over to Charlie Simpson's and have some fun. He's got a new dog." "Wait a minute and I'll give you each a penny!" called their uncle, and Hal and Mab were very glad to wait, for they were hungry after having picked the tomatoes. Very early the next morning the Blake family was awakened by the loud ringing of their door bell. "Oh, my goodness! I hope the house isn't on fire!" cried Aunt Lolly, quickly getting out of bed. "It's Mr. Porter. He's at our front door," reported Hal, who had looked from the window of his room, from which the front steps could be seen. "What's the matter? What is it; a message--a telegram?" asked Mr. Blake, as he, too, looked from Hal's window. "What has happened?" Mrs. Blake and the children waited anxiously to hear what the answer would be. CHAPTER X WHITE CELERY "In our garden you say!" cried Daddy Blake, with his head out of the window. What it was Mr. Porter had told their father, to make him exclaim like that, neither Hal nor Mab could guess. For they could not tell what Mr. Porter, who now was calling from down on the sidewalk in front, was saying. "That's too bad!" Daddy Blake went on, as he drew his head in from the window. "I'll come down right away." "Oh, what is it?" anxiously asked his wife as he hurried to his room to change from his bath robe into outdoor clothes. "Has anything happened?" "I'm afraid there has," answered Daddy Blake. "Is anyone ill that Mr. Porter wants you to come out in such a hurry. Is little Sammie hurt in our garden?" "No, but it's something in our garden," replied her husband. "What? Oh, don't tell me the garden is on fire?" cried Aunt Lolly. "How could a green garden burn?" asked Uncle Pennywait, laughing. "It's somebody cows in our garden--in Hal's corn, too, I expect," said Daddy Blake. "Mr. Porter saw them and told me. We ought to have Little Boy Blue here to drive them out with his horn. But I'll have to use a stick, I guess." "Oh!" cried Hal "Cows in my corn! They'll eat it all up!" "That's what they will, and Mab's beans and Aunt Lolly's green peas and other things if I don't get them out," said Daddy Blake from his room where he was quickly dressing. "Where you going, Hal?" asked Mab as she saw her little brother come from his room half dressed. "I'm going with Daddy, to the garden, to drive out the cows!" "No, you'd better stay here," his father said. "The cows might run wild when I drive them out, and step on you. It isn't any fun to be stepped on by a cow." Hal thought this might be true, so he stayed in while Mr. Blake hurried out to the yard in the early morning. Hal and Mab looked from the windows at the back of the house but they could not see much of the garden on account of the thick, leafy trees. They could hear their father and Mr. Porter talking, though. Then while they waited, they heard the mooing of cows, a little later there was a rushing sound at one side of the house, and next several of the big creatures ran out of the side gate into the street. Daddy Blake made sure the gate was fastened, so the cows could not get in again, and then he came into the house. "Is my corn all eaten up?" asked Hal, anxiously as he thought of the prize ten dollar gold piece. "Is it all gone, Daddy?" "No, not very much, though some is trampled down." "Is the whole garden spoiled?" asked Mab. "Well, a little corner of it is. The cows got in among the green peas and they liked them so well they stayed there eating, not going far from where they were planted. So, though we may lose some corn and peas, nothing much else is harmed." "Whose cows were they?" asked Aunt Lolly. "Mr. Porter says they belong to a milkman who lives on the other side of the town. They must have gotten out of their pasture during the night and then then came here to our garden. They broke down part of the fence to get in." "That milkman ought to be made to pay for what his cows ate," said Uncle Pennywait. "Perhaps he will," said Mr. Blake. "Mr. Porter says the man is very good and honest. We won't make a fuss until we see what he will do." Hal and Mab were anxious to see what had happened to their garden, and so, as soon as they were dressed, they went out along the paths that were made among the different plots where the potatoes, beans, peas, lettuce and various vegetables were growing. "Oh, look at my corn!" cried Hal "It's all spoiled!" "No, not all, though you will lose several hills," said his father. "And my beans are all trampled down," wailed Mab. "Never mind," consoled Uncle Pennywait. "They'll still grow, even if the vines are not as nice as before. A wind storm would have made them look the same way." "And as long as both your crops are damaged, and each about the same amount," said Daddy Blake to Hal and Mab, "you will still be even for winning the prize of ten dollars in gold. That is if Uncle Pennywait doesn't get ahead of you," he added with a sly wink at Aunt Lolly's husband. Hal and Mab hurried to look mere closely at their garden plots. Hal found, just as he had after the hail storm, that, fey hoeing dirt higher around his hills of corn he could make some of the stalks that had been trampled down, stand up straight. And Mab's beans could also be improved. "But the cows certainly ate a lot of green peas," said Daddy Blake with a sigh as he looked at the place where they had been growing. "Still I'd rather have them spoiled than the potatoes, as peas are easier to get in Winter than are potatoes--at least for us." The cows wandered up and down the village street until their owner and some of his men came for them. Then, when the milkman heard how his animals had damaged Mr. Blake's garden, an offer of payment was made. Some of Daddy Blake's neighbors told what they thought the milkman should pay, and he did. He said he was very sorry his cows had made so much trouble, and hereafter, he said, he would see that they did not break out of their pasture. "I saw them in your garden, Mr. Blake, as soon as I got up," said Mr. Porter. "I arose earlier than I usually do as I wanted to hoe my lima beans before I went to work. I thought I'd call you before the cows ate everything." "I'm glad you did," spoke Hal's father. "We saved most of the garden, anyhow." It took two or three days of hard work in the Blake garden until it looked as nicely as it had done before the cows broke in. Even then the pea vines were only about half as many in number as at first, and they had been delicious, sweet peas, that Mother Blake had counted on serving at many meals. "But I guess the cows enjoyed them as much as we did," she said. "Anyhow there is no use in worrying over what can't be helped." "Did the cows hurt the egg plants?" asked Aunt Lolly. "No, they didn't get in that part of the garden," answered Mrs. Blake. "I think well have some for dinner." "What--Cows or _egg_ plant?" asked Uncle Pennywait, winking his left eye at Mab as he made this joke. "Egg plant, of course!" laughed Mrs. Blake. "Suppose you go bring one in for me, Uncle Pennywait." "We'll come, too!" cried Hal and Mab, while the little girl, as she took hold of her uncle's hand, asked: "Is there really an egg plant? I thought hens laid eggs, and we haven't any hens in our garden." "There is a plant named egg," Uncle Pennywait said. "I'll show you some. It's down in the far end of the garden." Hal and Mab had been so busy with their own part of the garden, hoeing and weeding their corn and beans, that they really did not know all the things Daddy Blake had planted. But when Uncle Pennywait showed them where, growing in a long row, were some big purple-colored things, that looked like small footballs amid the green leaves, Hal cried: "Are those egg plants?" "They are," said his uncle. "And do we eat them?" asked Mab. "Surely; and very good they are, too!" "What makes them call 'em egg plants?" Hal wanted to know. "Do they taste like eggs just like oyster plant tastes like stewed oysters?" "And how do they cook 'em?" asked Mab. "Well, you children certainly haven't forgotten to ask questions since your Daddy began telling you things about the woods, fields, flowers and birds," laughed Uncle Pennywait. "Let me see, now. Well, to begin with, these are called egg plants because they are shaped like an egg you see, only much larger, of course," and Uncle Pennywait held up one he had cut off the stem where it had been growing. "They taste a little like eggs because, when they are fried, some persons dip them in egg batter. But first they cut them in slices, after they are peeled, and soak them in salt water." "What for?" asked Hal. "Oh, maybe to make them nice and crisp, or maybe to draw out a strong flavor they have; I really don't know about that part of it. At any rate we're going to have some fried egg plant for lunch, and I like it." So did Hal and Mab, when they had tasted it. They were beginning to find out that many things good to eat grew in their garden. About a week after this some of Hal's corn ears were large enough to pick and very delicious they were boiled, and eaten from the cob with salt and butter on. Mother Blake also cooked some of the lima beans Mab had planted when she made her garden, and the corn and beans, cooked together, made a dish called "succotash," which name the Indians gave it many years ago. "What does the name mean?" asked Hal. "I can't answer that, for I don't know," replied Daddy Blake. "I know what it means," said Uncle Pennywait. "What?" asked Mab. "It means fine, good, very good," replied her uncle. "Or, if it doesn't, it ought to. Those Indians knew what was good, all right! I'll have some more, Mother Blake," and he passed his dish the second time. One day, when Hal and Mab had finished cutting down some weeds in their garden plots they saw their father carrying some long boards down to the lower end of the lot next door. "Are you going to build a bridge, Daddy?" asked Hal, for there was a little brook not far away. "No, I am going to make my celery grow white?" he answered. "Make celery grow white?" exclaimed Mab. "I thought it grew white, or light green, all of itself." "No," replied her father, "it doesn't. If celery were left to grow as it comes up from seed the stalks would be green, or at least only the hearts, or the most inside part, would be white. "To make celery white all over we have to keep the sun from shining on it. For it is the rays of the sun, together with the juices, or sap, inside leaves and plants, that makes them green. Celery has to be bleached, and one way of doing it is to set long boards on each side of the row of celery plants, fastening them close up, and covering them with straw and dirt to keep out all the light. "Some farmers bank up the dirt on both sides of their plants, not using any boards, but I like the boards because they are clean, and keep the soil from getting inside the celery stalks. Another way is to put a small wooden tube, or barrel around each plant so that no sunlight can get to the sides of the stalk to make them green." "Isn't it queer," said Mab. "I thought celery always grew white, like we get it at the table. And so it has to be bleached. If you keep the light from anything green will it turn white, Daddy?" "Well, almost anything, like plants. Children turn pale if they do not get enough sunlight and so does celery. Only we like pale celery but it is not healthful for children to be too white. Just try a little experiment yourself. Take a flat stone and put it over some grass. In a week or so lift up the stone and see what has happened." Hal and Mab did this, after they had helped their father put the boards on the celery. Then, a week later, they lifted up the stone which they had laid over a spot on the lawn. "Why, the green grass has all turned white!" cried Hal. And so it had. "That's how my celery will turn," said his father. "The grass grew pale from being in the dark so long. It did not like it, and if you left the stone there too long the grass would die. Now take it away and in a day or so the grass will be green again." And that's exactly what happened. The sun had tanned the grass green as it tans children brown at the seashore. One day, when Mab and Hal had started out with their father who was going to show them how to dig potatoes, which is not as easy as it sounds, the children suddenly heard a yelping and barking sound in Mr. Porter's garden. "There's Roly-Poly in trouble again!" called Mr. Blake. "Yes, and he's hurt, too!" added Hal, for the little poodle was yelping as if in pain. "Oh, what has happened to him?" cried Mab. "Hurry, Daddy, please, and see!" CHAPTER XI GATHERING CROPS Hal, Mab and their father ran to the gate in the fence that was between their yard and the garden of Mr. Porter. Down where their neighbor's lima beans were planted, and where they were climbing up the poles, they heard the barking and yelping of Roly-Poly sounding loudly. "He's there!" cried Mab. "Here, Roly! Come here! Come on, little doggie!" called Hal, thinking, for a moment, that perhaps his pet was barking at a cat, as sometimes Roly did, though he really would not have hurt pussy. "Why doesn't he come?" asked Mab, coming to a stop, while her father looked around, trying to see the poodle among the growing things in the garden. "Maybe he's caught and can't come," suggested Hal. "Caught how?" asked Mab. "Well, maybe he's all tangled up in the bean vines like he was in the morning glories the day he sat down in the fly paper," Hal answered. "Oh, Roly! Are you hurt?" cried Mab. "Bow-wow! Ki-yi!" was all the answer the little poodle dog gave, and, though it might have meant a great deal in dog language Mab and Hal could not understand it. But Roly-Poly was trying to make his friends know that something had happened to him. "I'll find him," said Mr. Blake. "You children had better stay back there," and he motioned to them not to come any farther. Hal and Mab stood still. "What is it? What's the matter?" Mr. Porter, coming from another part of the garden where he had been pulling up some turnips. "Has anything happened?" "Something has happened to Roly-Poly," replied Hal. "Hear him howl?" inquired Mab. "I should say I did!" cried Mr. Porter. "And I guess I know what's the matter to. He's in the trap." "In the trap?" cried Hal in surprise. "What trap?" Mr. Porter did not answer. He ran down to where Daddy Blake was poking among the green vines and bushes, trying to find Roly. "Come on!" exclaimed Hal. "Let's go see what it is." "Daddy told us to stay here," said Mab. "We can't go." Hal knew that, and, much as he wanted to see what was going on, he would not disobey his father. Mab, too, would have liked to run down where Daddy Blake and Mr. Porter were. "Bow-wow! Ki-yi!" barked and howled Roly again, and then the children heard their father and his friend, the man next door, laughing. "I guess Roly can't be hurt very much or Daddy wouldn't laugh," said Mab. "I guess not," agreed Hal. "I wish we could go see what it is." Just then their father came out from among the tall lima beans. He had Roly in his arms, and the little poodle dog was cuddled up as though he did not want to leave them. "Is he hurt?" asked Mab. "A little," her father answered. "Where?" Hal wanted to know. "On his tail. It was pinched a little in the mole trap, where he was caught fast. But we got you out; didn't we Roly-Poly?" "Bow-wow; Ki-yi!" yelped the poodle. "Was he in the mole trap?" asked Hal. "And what is a mole trap?" asked Mab. "Well, I see I'll have to tell you more about the garden," answered Daddy Blake with a laugh, as he gave Roly over to his little girl and boy, who eagerly petted him. "For the mole is one of the garden pests, and the trap, Mr. Porter set to catch some who were spoiling his things, caught Roly-Poly instead." "Is a mole a worm?" Hal wanted to know. "Or is it like a potato bug?" "It's a little animal like a mouse," said his father, "only it is blind. It lives underground, in the dark all the while, so really it has no use for eyes, any more than have the blind fish in the big Kentucky cave. "But, though a mole is blind, it does not stop him from turning up the ground and uprooting many plants. He really doesn't mean to do it, but we have to catch him just the same." "Oh, I'd like to see a blind mole," said Mab. "I can't show you one just now," spoke Mr. Porter, "but I can show you how they dig underground, and the damage they do to lawns and gardens. Maybe, if your dog Roly will keep out of my mole trap, I can catch one of the creatures and show you how it looks. Come down here." Mr. Porter led the way to that part of the garden where Roly had been caught by his little tail. On the ground, among the rows of beans, sometimes going right under them and spoiling the roots, was a long ridge of dirt, in a sort of wavy line. With his fingers Daddy Blake tore up some of the earth, and opened a regular little tunnel under ground. "The mole," said Daddy Blake, "tunnels, or digs, his way in the dark, underground, to find grubs and worms which he eats. He had two front claws, very strong, just purposely made for digging, and you would be surprised to see how soon a mole can dig himself underground, even if you put him on top of a hard, dirt road. "It is when the blind mole tunnels along, smelling here and there for grubs and worms, that he uproots the plants and for that reason we have to catch him. There are some traps that have sharp points which go down through the ground with a strong spring to push them, whenever a digging mole gets too near. But the trap Mr. Porter set was a spring trap without any sharp points to it, which he thought might catch a mole alive. Instead it caught Roly, who was digging away to find a buried bone, maybe." "Is he all right now?" asked Mab. "Yes, his tail was only pinched a little but Roly's tail is very tender I guess, for he howled very loudly." "I wish I could see a mole," said Hal. "So do I," echoed his sister. But all they could see was the place where the mole had dug. And perhaps you may see, in your garden or on your lawn, a little raised ridge, or long, low hill of dirt, some morning. If you poke your finger, or a stick, down in it you will find that underneath it is hollow. This is a place where a mole has dug his tunnel in the night to get things to eat. Moles dig deep down, too, under the surface where no one can see them, and when they do not uproot the grass or the garden plants, they do little harm. It is only when they come near the top that you can see the ridge they make. Sometimes cats catch moles when they come out on top of the ground, thinking them a sort of mouse. The mole's fur is very fine and soft, and would make a fine cloak, only it would take many skins to make one large enough to wear. "Well, I'm glad Roly-Poly is all right," said Mab, as she took the little dog from Hal, who was holding hint, and petted him on his head. "Yes, you may put him down now," spoke her father. "And we'll go dig the potatoes. Mother wants some for dinner, and I want to show you children how to get them out of the ground. For we will soon be digging them to put away for winter." When Hal and Mab reached the potato part of the garden, which was the largest of all the plots, the children saw that many of the green vines were getting brown and withered. "Why, the vines are dying!" exclaimed Mab. "Did a mole spoil them, Daddy?" "No, but the potatoes have grown as large as they ever will be, and, there being no more need of the vine, it is drying up. It has gone to seed, just as a dandelion goes to seed, in a way, though we call the potatoes 'tubers' instead of seed. There may be potato seeds, that come when the potato blossom dries up, for all I know, but I have always planted the eyes of the tubers and so does everyone else. Now to show you how to dig." [Illustration] Mr. Blake had planted two kinds of potatoes, early and late, and it was the vines of the early ones that had dried up. Later on the others would dry, and then it would be time to dig their tubers to put down cellar for the long Winter. "First you pull up the vine," said Daddy Blake, and he tore one from the earth, many of the potatoes clinging to it. These he picked off and put in the basket. Then, with a potato hook, which is something like a spading fork, only with the prongs curved downward like a rake, Daddy Blake began scraping away the dirt from the side of the hill of potatoes. "When a farmer has a big field of potatoes," said the children's father, "he may use a machine potato-digger. This is drawn by horses, who walk between the rows, drawing the machine right over where the potato vines are growing. The machine has iron prongs which dig under the dirt like giant fingers, turning out the potatoes which are tossed between the rows of dirt so men, who follow, may pick them up. But we'll dig ours by hand. And in digging potatoes you must be careful not to stick your fork, spade or whatever you use, into the potato tubers, and so cutting them." "Why can't we do that?" asked Hal. "Because a potato that is cut, pierced or bruised badly will not keep as well as one that is sound and good. It rots more quickly, and one rotten potato in a bin of good ones will cause many others to spoil, just as one rotten apple in a barrel of sound ones will spoil a great many. So be careful when you dig your potatoes." Hal and Mab watched Daddy Blake, and then he let them pull a vine and dig in the hill after the brown tubers. Out they came tumbling and rolling, as if glad to get into the light and sunshine. For they had been down under the dark earth ever since the eyes were planted in the Spring, growing from tiny potatoes Into large ones. When Mab dug up her hill of potatoes, after she had picked up all there were in it, her father saw her carefully looking among the clods of brown soil. "What have you lost, Mab?" he asked. "I was looking for the eye pieces you planted when you made your potato garden," she answered. "Oh, they have turned into these many potatoes," laughed Mr. Blake. "That is the magical trick Mother Nature does for us. We plant a piece of potato, with 'eyes' in it, or we plant a seed, and up springs a plant on the roots of which are more potatoes, or, if it is a bean, it turns into a vine with many more beans on it. And the seed--that is the eye potato or the bean--disappears completely, just as a magician on the stage pretends to make your handkerchief disappear and change into a lemon. Mother Nature is very wonderful." Hal and Mab thought so too. The Summer was passing away. The days that had been long and full of sunshine until late in the evening were getting shorter. No longer was it light at five o'clock in the morning, and the golden ball did not stay up until after seven at night. "The days are getting shorter and the nights longer," said Daddy Blake. "That means Winter is not far off, though we still have Autumn or Fall before us. And that will bring us the harvest days. We will soon begin to harvest, or bring in our crops." "And then will we know who gets the prize?" asked Hal. "Yes," his father answered. "I'll have to award the ten dollar gold prize then, but it will be some little time yet. Things are not all done growing, though they have done their best. From now on we will not have to worry so much about weeds, bugs and worms." "Do they die, too, like the potato vines?" asked Mab. "Yes, though many weeds will not be killed until a hard frost nips them. But the garden plants have gotten their full growth, and are not babies any more, so the weeds can not do them so much harm. Most of the bugs and worms, too, have died or been eaten by the birds. The birds are the gardener's best friend, for they eat many worms and bugs that could not be killed in any other way. So the more insect-eating birds you have around your garden the better. Even though the robins may take a few cherries they don't get paid half enough that way for the good work they do." "How am I going to harvest my beans?" asked Mab. "There aren't many more green ones left to boil, for Mother canned a lot of them." "What are left of your beans we will save dried, to make into baked beans this Winter," said her father. "And what about my corn?" Hal wanted to know. "Well, your mother canned some of that," answered his father, "that is the sweet kind. The yellow ears I will show you how to save for the chickens this winter, and there is another kind--well, I'll tell you about that a little later," and he smiled at the children. "Oh, have I got three kinds of corn?" asked Hal, clapping his hands in delight. "We'll see when we come to harvest it," said Daddy Blake. "Maybe I'll win the prize with that!" exclaimed the little boy. "Come on, Mab! Let's go in and look at the ten dollar gold piece. I hope I win it!" "I hope you do, too, Hal," said his sister. "But I'd like it myself, and I've got a awful lot of beans. My vines are covered with them--I mean dried ones, in pods like peas." "I wish we could both have the prize," said Hal. "But if I win I'll give you half, Mab." "So will I to you!" exclaimed the little girl. As they ran toward the house they saw a farmer, from whom their mother often bought things, standing on the porch. In his hand he held what looked to be a big whip. There was a long wooden handle and fast to it was a shorter stick of wood. "There's the flail I told Mr. Blake I'd bring him," said the farmer to Aunt Lolly, who had come to the door when he rang the bell. "A flail," she repeated. "What is it for?" "Well, I think Mr. Blake wants to whip some beans with it," and the farmer laughed, while Hal and Mab looked at him curiously. CHAPTER XII PUMPKIN PIE "Oh, Hal!" murmured Mab, as she looked at the queer sticks the farmer had brought. "It does seem like a whip! I wonder if Daddy is going to whip Roly-Poly for getting in the mole trap?" "Of course not!" laughed Hal. "Daddy never whips Roly anyhow, except sometimes to tap him on the nose with his finger when our poodle does something a little bad. Daddy would never use this big wooden whip, anyhow." "The farmer-man said he was bringing it to Daddy to whip my beans," went on Mab. "I wonder what he means?" Just then Daddy Blake himself came on the front stoop. "Ah, so you have brought the flail?" he asked the farmer. "Yes, and your little boy and girl here were afraid it was to use on their pet dog!" laughed the farmer, "I guess they never saw a flail before." "I hardly think they did," said Mr. Blake. "But next year I intend to take them to a farm where they will learn many more things than I could teach them from just a garden." "Daddy, but what is a flail?" asked Mab. "A flail," said Mr. Blake, "is what the farmers used to use before threshing machines were invented. And I had Mr. Henderson bring this one from his farm to thresh out your beans, Mab, as we haven't enough to need a machine, even if we could get one." "What does thresh mean?" asked Hal. "It means to beat, or pound out," his father explained. "You see wheat, oats, barley, rye and other grains, when they grow on the stalks in the field, are shut up in a sort of envelope, or husk, just as a letter is sealed in an envelope. To get out the letter we have to tear or break the envelope. To get at the good part of grain--the part that is good to eat--we have to break the outer husk. It is the same way with peas or beans. "When they are green we break the pods by hand and get out the peas or beans, but when they are dried it is easier to put a pile of pods on a wooden floor and beat them with a stick. This breaks the envelopes, or pods and the dried peas or beans rattle out. They fall to the bottom, and when the husks and vines are lifted off, and the dirt sifted out, there are our beans or peas, ready to eat after being cooked. "The stick with which the beating is done is called a flail. One part is the handle, and the other part, which is fastened to the handle by a leather string, is called a swingle, or swiple, because it swings through the air, and beats down on the bean or pea pods. "In the olden days wheat, rye and oats were threshed this way on a barn floor, and in the Bible you may read how sometimes oxen were driven around on the piles of grain on the threshing floor, so that they might tread out the good kernels from the husks, or envelopes that are not good to eat. But I'll tell you more about that when we get on the farm." "When are we going to beat out my beans?" asked Mab. "In a week or so, as soon as they get dried well, and are ripe enough so that they are hard, we will flail, or thresh them," answered Daddy Blake. "I am going to thresh some peas, too, to have them dried for this Winter." Farmer Henderson left the flail which he had made for Daddy Blake, and Hal and Mab looked at it. They could whirl it around their heads, but their father told them to be careful not to hurt one another. "I'm going to thresh some peas!" cried Hal. "And I'll use it on my beans so I can get the ten dollar gold prize!" cried Mab. There were busy times in the Blake home for the next few weeks, for there was much canning to be done, so that the vegetables raised in the garden during the Summer would keep to be eaten in the Winter. "For that," said Daddy Blake, "is why Uncle Sam, which is another name for our government, wants us to grow things out of the earth. It is so that there may be plenty of food for all." So tomatoes were canned, or made into ketchup and chili sauce, while some were used green in pickles. Aunt Lolly brought into the house the cucumber which had grown inside the glass bottle. It was the exact shape of the glass flask, and when this had been broken the cucumber even had on its side, in white letters, the name of the drug firm that made the bottle. For the name had been painted black by Aunt Lolly and as the rays of the sun could not go through the black paint the cucumber was white in those places and green all over elsewhere. The children's cucumbers also grew to funny shapes in their bottles. Mother Blake, with Mab and Hal to help, pulled up her carrots, of which she had a good crop. The long yellow vegetables, like big ice cream cones, Uncle Pennywait said, were stored in a dark place in the cellar. "You have a fine crop of carrots," said Daddy Blake. "Do you think I'll win the prize?" asked his wife. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised," he answered. "Oh, if she should!" exclaimed Hal to his sister. "Well," spoke Mab, with a long sigh, "of course I'd like to have that ten dollar gold piece MYSELF, but we ought to want MOTHER to have it, too." "Of course," said Hal, and then he went out to look at his corn. It had grown very tall, and there were ears on every stalk. Much had been eaten during the Summer, boiled green, and sweet and good it was. Mother Blake had canned some plain corn, and had also put away more, mixed with lima beans, making succotash as the Indians used to do. Daddy Blake soon began to dig the late potatoes, which would be kept down cellar in the dark to be eaten as they were needed during the long Winter. "And I think we'll have enough to last us until Spring," he said, "and perhaps have some for seed. Our garden has been a great success, even if the hail did spoil some things and bugs and worms part of other crops." The potatoes were really Uncle Pennywait's crop--at least he had planted most of them and called them his, for the tomatoes were Daddy Blake's. And Uncle Pennywait kept careful count of every quart and bushel of the potatoes that were eaten, or put away for Winter. "Because I want that ten dollar prize," he said. Hal and Mab looked at one another anxiously. "Who would win it?" they wondered. Finally there were some cold, sharp frosts, so that the tomato and other vines were all shriveled up when Hal and Mab went out to the garden to look at them. "Oh, Daddy! Will they straighten up again?" they asked. "No. Their work is done. We shall have to plant new seeds to make new vines, but we shall have to wait until Spring comes again. The earth is soon going to sleep for the Winter, when nothing will grow in it. But it is time to get in your corn and beans, children. You must cut your yellow corn, Hal, and the other kind, too, and let the ears get dry, ready for husking." "What other kind of corn, Daddy?" Hal asked. "Come and I'll show you," his father said. Mr. Blake led the way down to the corn patch of the garden. At the end he plucked an ear of corn, stripped away the half dried husk, and showed Hal and Mab some sharp-pointed kernels. "That's the kind of corn that pops," said the children's father. "I sowed a few hills for you without saying anything. I wanted it as a surprise." "And will it really pop?" asked Hal, his eyes shining. "Try some and see," advised Daddy Blake. And later, when the ears of popcorn had dried, and the kernels were shelled into the popper and shaken over the fire, they burst out into big, white bunches like snow flakes. "What makes pop-corn?" asked Hal. "Well the heat of the fire turns into steam the water that is inside the kernel of corn," said Mr. Blake. "Though you can not see it, there is water in corn, beans and all vegetables, even when they are dry." "And, as I have told you before, when water gets too hot it turns into steam, and the gas or vapor, for that is what steam is, grows very big, as if you blew up a balloon, so that the steam bursts whatever it is inside of, unless the thing that holds it is very strong. Steam can even burst cannon balls, so you see it can easily burst, or pop the corn. "Then, as the kernel bursts it puffs out and quickly dries into queer shapes by the heat of the fire. It is white because the inside of corn is really white, though the outside husk looks rather yellow sometimes." So part of Hal's pop corn crop made something nice to eat during the long Winter evenings. But before those evenings came Hal and Mab had harvested all the things in the garden, with the help of their father and mother, Uncle Pennywait and Aunt Lolly. "We must get in the pea and bean vines," said Daddy Blake when he saw what a hard frost there had been. "Then we'll thresh them on the barn floor and it will be time soon, Hal, to husk your corn and bring in Aunt Lolly's pumpkins." For about a dozen big yellow pumpkins were growing amid the stalks of corn, and very pretty they looked in the cool, crisp mornings, when the corn had turned brown from the frost. Hal's father showed him how the farmers cut off a hill of the corn stalks, close to the ground, stacking them up in a little pile called a "shock." They were allowed to stand there until the wind and sun had dried the husks on the corn. "Now we'll husk the corn," said Daddy Blake, after the peas and beans had been stored in the barn to dry until they were ready to be threshed or flailed. He showed Hal and Mab how to strip back the dried husk, and break it off, together with the part of the stalk to which the ear of corn is fastened when it is growing. It was hard work, and the two children did not do much of this, leaving it for the older folk. But they took turns using the flail, and thought this great fun. On a big cloth, on the floor of the barn, were spread the dried bean vines that had been pulled from Mab's part of the garden. Then the swinging end of the flail was whacked down on the dried vines and pods. Out popped the white beans as the pods were broken, and when the flail had been used long enough Daddy Blake lifted up the vines and crushed, dried pods, and there was left a pile of white beans. "Oh, what a lot of them!" cried Mab, when they had been sifted, cleaned and put away. There were about two bushels of the dried, white beans, enough to last all Winter, baked or made into soup. Some dried peas were threshed out also, but not so many of them, and they could be cooked soft again, after they were soaked in water. Then Hal's yellow corn was piled into two bushel baskets, and there were some of the ears left over. As for Uncle Pennywait's potatoes, there were nearly ten bushels of them stored away down cellar, and Aunt Lolly had more than a dozen yellow pumpkins, one very big. Mother Blake's carrots measured over a barrel and there were many, many cans filled with Daddy Blake's tomatoes. "Now who won the prize?" asked Mab, as she looked at her bushels of beans and then at Hal's corn. "Did Hal or did I?" "Well," slowly said her father, "I think you both did so well, and you raised, each one, such fine crops, nearly the same in amount, that I'll have to give two prizes!" "Two prizes!" cried Hal. "Yes," went on his father. "Instead of dividing this one I'll make another. I brought another ten dollar gold piece from the bank to-day, and here is the first one," and he held up the two, shining, yellow pieces of money. "Here is one for you, Hal," went on Daddy Blake, "and one for you, Mab," and he handed the children their prizes. "And how did you like being taken to the garden, instead of after flowers or to the woods?" "It was fine!" cried Hal, looking eagerly at his golden prize. "And we learned so much," added Mab. "I never knew, before, how many things can grow in the ground." "Oh, you are just beginning to learn them," said her father. "Wait until you go to the farm." "What about my prize?" asked Aunt Lolly with a laugh. "I'm sure my pumpkins will more than fill two bushel baskets." "Perhaps they will," said Daddy Blake. "Well, I'll give you a prize for the first pumpkin pie you bake, Aunt Lolly. And Uncle Pennywait shall have a prize for his potatoes, while as for Mother--well we'll each give her a prize for the many good meals she got for us while we were working in the garden, and she'll get a special prize for her carrots, which will give you children red cheeks this Winter." "Hurray!" cried Mab. "Hurray!" echoed Hal. "It's better than Fourth of July." A few days after this, when all the vegetables had been gathered in from the garden, which was now sear and brown because of heavy frosts, Mab and Hal heard their aunt calling them. "Maybe she has some lollypops," said Hal. "Let's go see," cried Mab. "Here is something you may have for Hallowe'en which comes to-morrow night," said Aunt Lolly, and she pointed to a large pumpkin. "There'll be enough without this," she went on, "and I promised you one for a Jack-O'Lantern." "Oh, won't it be fun to make one!" cried Hal. Aunt Lolly showed them how to cut the top off the big pumpkin, leaving part of the vine for a handle, so that it could be lifted off and put on like a lid. Then the pumpkin was scooped out from the inside, so that eyes, a nose and mouth could be cut through the shell. "To-morrow night you can put a lighted candle inside, and set it on the front porch for Hallowe'en," said Aunt Lolly, when the pumpkin lantern was finished. The afternoon of Hallowe'en Hal and Mab, who were helping Daddy Blake rake up some of the dead vines in the garden, heard Sammie Porter crying on their front stoop. "What's the matter?" asked Hal, running around the corner of the house. "Oh-o-o-o-o!" cried Sammie. "Look at the pumpkin face!" and he pointed to the Jack-O'lantern into which the candle had not yet been put. "It's alive!" cried Sammie. "Look, it's rollin'!" And so the scooped-out pumpkin was moving! It was rolling to and fro on the porch and, for a moment, Hal and Mab did not know what to think. Then, all of a sudden, they heard a noise like: "Bow-wow! Ki-yi!" "Oh, it's Roly-Poly!" exclaimed Mab. "He's in the pumpkin," shouted Hal. And so the little poodle dog was. He had crawled inside the big, hollowed lantern, while the lid was off, and had gone to sleep inside. Then Aunt Lolly, as she said afterward, came out, and, seeing the top off the pumpkin-face, had put it on, for fear it might get lost. Thus, not knowing it, she had shut Roly-Poly up inside the Jack-O'lantern and he had slept there until he felt hungry and awakened. Then he wiggled about, making the pumpkin move and roll over the stoop as if it were alive. "Oh, what a funny little dog!" cried Mab, as she cuddled him up in her arms, when she took him from the pumpkin. "He's a regular Hallowe'en dog!" laughed Hal. That night Mr. Jack-of-the-lantern looked very funny as he grinned at Hal, Mab and the other Hallowe'en frolic-makers who passed the Blake stoop. The candle inside him blazed brightly, shining through his eyes, nose and through his mouth with the pumpkin-teeth. "A garden makes fun, and it makes good things to eat," said Hal. "I wonder what we'll see when Daddy takes us to the farm?" spoke Mab. "It will be fun, anyhow," went on Hal. "We always have fun when we go anywhere with Daddy!" And now, as the children's garden is finished, and all the vegetables are safely put away for the Winter, this book comes to an end. But there will be another soon, which I hope you will like. And, for a time, I'll say "good-bye!" THE END The next volume in this series will be called: "Daddy Takes Us To The Farm." =Boy Inventors' Series= The author knows these subjects from a practical standpoint. Each book is printed from new plates on a good quality of paper and bound in cloth. Each book wrapped in a jacket printed in colors. _Price 60c each_ 1 Boy Inventors' Wireless Triumph 2 Boy Inventors' and the Vanishing Sun 3 Boy Inventors' Diving Torpedo Set 4 Boy Inventors' Flying Ship 5 Boy Inventors' Electric Ship 6 Boy Inventors' Radio Telephone * * * * * =The "How-to-do-it" Books= These books teach the use of tools; how to sharpen them; to design and layout work. Printed from new plates and bound in cloth. Profusely illustrated. Each book is wrapped in a printed jacket. _Price $1.00 each_ 1 Carpentry for Boys 2 Electricity for Boys 3 Practical Mechanics for Boys _For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of the above price._ M·A·DONOHUE·&·COMPANY 711·SOUTH·DEARBORN·STREET··CHICAGO =UNCLE WIGGILY SERIES= By HOWARD R. GARIS Four titles of these famous books, fifty-two stories in each. Printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper. Numerous illustrations and jacket printed in full colors. Bound in cloth. _Price each $1.00 Postpaid_ _Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose Uncle Wiggily Longears Uncle Wiggily's Arabian Nights_ =THOSE SMITH BOYS= By HOWARD R. GARIS New and complete editions printed from new plates on a superior quality paper. Each book is wrapped in a special jacket printed in colors. Appropriately stamped and handsomely bound in cloth. _Price each 60c Postpaid_ _Those Smith Boys Those Smith Boys on the Diamond_ =THE DADDY SERIES= By HOWARD R. GARIS Mr. Garis has won the hearts of little folks with his stories. Each is founded on animal lore and is told in simple language. Large, clear text. Special jacket printed in colors. 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34885	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. [Illustration: Book Cover] GARDEN ORNAMENTS [Illustration: TALL POPLARS LEND DIGNITY TO A GARDEN SETTING] GARDEN ORNAMENTS BY MARY H. NORTHEND ILLUSTRATED [Illustration] NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1916 Copyright, 1916, by DUFFIELD & CO. _I Dedicate This Garden Book to My Friend_ EKIN WALLICK CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE FOREWORD I. THE GARDEN PATH AND BORDER 3 II. THE PERGOLA AND ARCH 21 III. THE TEA HOUSE IN THE GARDEN 37 IV. THE GARDEN STEPS 53 V. ENTRANCES 71 VI. BIRD BATHS 89 VII. GARDEN SEATS 107 VIII. GARDEN POOLS 125 IX. THE SUN-DIAL IN THE GARDEN 143 X. THE FOUNTAIN 163 ILLUSTRATIONS TALL POPLARS LEND DIGNITY TO A GARDEN SETTING _Frontispiece_ LET GUTTERS OF COBBLESTONES LINE YOUR PATH _Facing p._ 3 A SUCCESSFUL GRASS PATH 6 A BRICK-PAVED PATH FLANKED BY MANY-HUED IRIS 12 THE SUNLIGHT SIFTS THROUGH THE SHELTERING VINES OF THE PERGOLA 21 BUILD YOUR PERGOLA WITH COBBLESTONE SUPPORTS AND RUSTIC TOP 24 THE MOSS GROWS BETWEEN THE STONE WALK 28 A TEA-HOUSE 37 STEPPING-STONES IN A GRASS PATH 42 LILY PONDS IN A FORMAL GARDEN 46 STONE STEPS ATTRACTIVELY PLANNED 53 A FOUNTAIN THAT SERVES AS A BACKGROUND FOR A LILY POND 58 MARBLE STEPS LEADING TO THE WATER IN A FORMAL GARDEN 64 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IS OFTEN ENTERED UNDER AN ARCH OF LATTICEWORK 71 A FINE DECORATIVE IRON GATEWAY 76 A SUCCESSFUL ENTRANCE TO A FORMAL GARDEN 82 THE CENTRAL FEATURE OF THE GARDEN MAY BE A BIRD-BATH 89 A WELL-PLACED BIRD-BATH 94 AN ORNAMENT DELIGHTFULLY USED TO MARK THE OPENING OF PATHS THROUGH WOODS 98 A FORMAL GARDEN SEAT 107 A SIMPLE AND ATTRACTIVE GARDEN SEAT 112 STATELY LILIES ADD CHARM AND DIGNITY TO A GRAVELLED WALK 118 A POND-LILY POOL OF A VERY ATTRACTIVE SHAPE 125 A LILY POND THAT FILLS CHARMINGLY A CORNER OF A GARDEN 130 THERE IS AN EVER-CHANGING BEAUTY TO A GARDEN WHOSE PATHS ARE BROKEN HERE AND THERE BY POOLS 136 GRASSY PATHS LEAD PLEASANTLY TO THE SUN-DIAL 143 THE SUN-DIAL IS A FEATURE IN ITSELF 148 AN OLD WELL USED EFFECTIVELY AS A DECORATIVE FEATURE 154 NARCISSUS STANDS IN THE HEART OF THE FOUNTAIN 163 A ROMAN FOUNTAIN PLACED AGAINST A VERY APPROPRIATE BACKGROUND 166 AN ARTISTIC FOUNTAIN PARTICULARLY WELL PLACED 170 THIS WALL FOUNTAIN WITH ITS SHELL BACKGROUND AND BASIN IS MOST FITTINGLY PLACED 174 FOREWORD Doubtless we have all realized the allurement of the garden, as we walk between the beds, drinking in the sweet perfume of the many flowers, or as we watch the birds perched on the branches or lazily swinging on the flowers, twittering to their mates as they sip the nectar or prune their plumage, after bathing in the sparkling water of the pool. There is more than enjoyment that comes to the garden lover through his life among the plants. He grows broader and becomes forgetful of the trivial cares and prejudices of every-day life as he watches their development. He comes to the garden for inspiration and finds it among the flowers. We are by nature garden lovers, and though with some the feeling has not as yet been developed, yet deep in the depths of their soul is a yearning for intercourse with Nature and her lessons--taught through the cultivation of flowers. It spells Contentment, Happiness and Love. It is a delight to visit gardens, and study the character of the designer. It is no hard matter to read through varied planting likes and dislikes in the owner. It brings us closer together, this mutual love of floriculture, and it is in discussion of this theme that we forget the sordid phases of life. Visit the gardens with me, listen to the anthem of the birds sung at morn and eventide. Learn their habits, and make them friends, so that they will nestle into your often lonely life, bringing with them a gladness that is not only delightful but alluring. Many a love story has been told among the flowers, many a real story has been developed as one sat gazing at some flower-laden field. Joy and sadness has been our varied lot since we began our garden work, but as the years go on, gladness predominates. We grow to look forward with a tender longing for the coming spring. We hang lovingly over the opening buds of the early flowers. We are glad that we, too, have grown to know the flowers, that we have learned through their poetic language solace for the wounded soul, and how to live better lives, through intercourse with them. To my many friends who have made it possible for me to visit their gardens, and to reproduce their carefully thought out schemes in pictures, I extend my hearty thanks. It has done much to make not only my life but other lives happier. It is with the hope that others may find the same enjoyment in this work that I have that I send it forth to perform its mission and with the hope that it may encourage others to start gardens of their own and to give to them a happiness they have never known before. If I have accomplished this I have met the desire of my heart. THE GARDEN PATH AND BORDER [Illustration: LET GUTTERS OF COBBLESTONES LINE YOUR PATH] CHAPTER I THE GARDEN PATH AND BORDER "All the world's a garden and we are garden lovers in it." This is not a new theme, for it has been in existence ever since the planting of the early flower plots, those that were in evidence in our grand-dames' time. There is a distinct atmosphere connected with those simple one-path gardens that is most delightful. It lies not only in the gravel paths and the stiff box-borders, but in the fragrant old-fashioned flowers that were grown promiscuously inside the trim line of box. Perchance some dainty line of cinnamon pinks whose delicate blossoms when we find them in the twentieth-century gardens, carry us back vividly to the Colonial days when they so often formed a part of the garden scheme. Great changes have taken place in the evolution of the posy beds, for, with the passage of time, they have developed into wide expanses of floral landscape, subtly moulded into charming pictures and fascinating vistas. In the planting and the planning of the flower beds of the present day many of the general motives of the older gardens have been retained. They have, however, been enlarged upon and developed until they are perfected in every detail. The landscape architect of to-day realizes that the achievements of yesterday can be interwoven with the possibilities of to-morrow. As we saunter leisurely through the twentieth-century garden, we come occasionally upon a simple box-border, much more scientifically treated than those of long ago. This special feature of garden culture should be planted in the early spring that it may obtain deep rooting, so as to resist the ravages of the winter season. The plants should not overcrowd but be set three inches apart in narrow, shallow trenches, with plenty of mulching to insure the best results. Unlike those found in the gardens of Colonial days, they should be carefully clipped, sometimes for topiary effects. Here and there, we come unexpectedly upon old-time flower plots, showing a box-border, not like those of the present day, carefully trimmed, but scraggly and unkempt, preserved for sentiment's sake. They still line the central walk, much as they did long years ago. In those days there was no laying-out of gardens or creating odd designs, but, instead, there was a simple, narrow, dividing line, worked out by the removal of turf and filling in with earth. Few realize that garden culture can be divided into periods, each one of which is well defined, so that it is possible to determine where the old-fashioned ideas left off and the new-fashioned ones began. The earliest period has a straight, simple path, about six feet in width. These gardens came into existence when our shipping was greater on the sea and the merchant princes demanded large and more elegant houses with gardens laid out in the rear. Many of these were planned by the mistresses of the stately homes, while some were designed by English or German gardeners, who in their planting reproduced the gardens across the seas. There are a few only that deviate from the general plan of the single walk dividing the beds and ending in a summer house, vine-clad, where the Colonial dames during the summer months held afternoon teas. These garden houses were the nucleus of the garden furniture that has come into fashion with the passing of time. One of the distinctive features connected with these gardens is the border. This varies in width with the size of the plot and the flowers enclosed. It must be borne in mind that the gardeners of those days knew little of the theory of color schemes, yet the results were pleasing to the eye, so much so that to-day the old-fashioned garden stands in a class by itself. With the evolution of gardens, new ideas sprang into existence. All landscape architects realize the importance of giving particular attention to the laying-out of the path. Here the bit of garden demands a straight path, yonder to bring gardens into unity a grass path should be laid, while level stretches demand charming floral treatment, wrought out through proper use of flowers in the borders. [Illustration: A SUCCESSFUL GRASS PATH] Every ambitious gardener realizes that during the summer months, his particular garden will be on dress parade, and must be always at its best. Therefore, he gives special attention to the trimming of the borders, the smoothing of the path and the right coloring in beds, so that no discordant note be found. Every part must be kept in good condition, for there are no closed doors for untidiness to skulk behind. This he knows means constant and unremitting care and that he may avoid sameness, he changes the flower scheme every year, to give a fresh note to the planting of his own particular plot. The greatest care must be taken that borders are properly balanced, for any deviation from this rule results in lop-sided effects that spell failure. No walk in any part of the garden but should be planned to serve a definite purpose, either to connect other paths or at its end to bring out some carefully laid plan that will lend a picturesque effect to the finished design. Let us take as an instance a curved path. First of all, we must realize that it is not following any haphazard plan but has a definite aim. Perchance it has been most carefully laid out to avoid the felling of a tree that is needed for picturesque effect, but whatever the object may be, it is fulfilled by the design of this particular path. There are to be found, quite frequently on large, extensive grounds, grass paths that cut the lawn, connecting separated gardens. In any case like this, how much better to introduce English stepping stones. There is a picturesque coloring in their soft, gray hue, contrasting pleasingly with a line of grass between. They also break the monotony given by a solid mass of green and lend to this particular part of the ground an old-world aspect. Have you ever stopped to think when planning for your next year's garden that designs can be easily varied to bring out some new thought and make a change that is alluring? It is the careful introduction of these novel ideas that gives zest to garden culture. Every person has a different idea of what is right in garden culture and unconsciously treats the old plan in an individual manner. A little touch here and there goes a great way in producing odd effects. Among the many materials that can be used for this feature of the garden is brick, and of this there are many kinds. For the old-fashioned garden the second-hand brick gives a Colonial atmosphere. For the gardens of to-day it is generally better to use the hard, burned brick--these can be laid in straight lines or herring-bone fashion as fancy dictates, and should show a line of straight brick or headers as they approach the border. This feature should be used generally in formal types of garden landscape. Great care should be taken, however, that the brick be laid perfectly dry and cemented in mortar. If you are looking for novelty, why not try cobblestones? They are very inexpensive, particularly if you live in a seaport town where the beaches are strewn with them. Be sure to pick out those that are nearest the same size and shape, for this gives a better effect. There is nothing that gives a better backing for earth beds, especially as they are easily kept weeded. If the cobblestones prove too conspicuous for the scheme of the garden, it is a comparatively easy matter to plant as a background a flowering plant that will in time fall over them and hide them from view. A turf walk is, properly speaking, the most effective path. It also has many advantages, chief among them the fact that it is not hard to keep up and can be replaced with very little trouble, save the cutting of new sod. Be very careful not to make the mistake of laying old sods that have been piled for a considerable length of time and have thus lost much of their vigor. In order to have them at their best they should be freshly cut and laid carefully in a rich foundation, the pieces joined as closely as possible together and the crevices filled in with either grass seed or dirt. Plenty of watering means success; still one should not be impatient, for it is not until a second season that grass comes to its own. One difficulty in a border like this, which can, however, be easily remedied, is that it needs constant cutting to keep the grass from overrunning the beds. If you are planning a garden of the English type, it is well to carry out the idea of introducing irregular stones for the walk. It is desirable that the stones should not all be of the same size, otherwise there will be no chance for grass and moss to grow between them and give them the old-world aspect. In gardens of this type such a path is really imperative, for the flowers crowd against the dividing line and would be much less interesting if stones were not introduced. Bear in mind, in dealing with this particular subject that the width of the walk depends in a great measure on the size of the garden. Here a narrow path is all that is necessary to carry out the scheme; there, a wide one seems to fit appropriately into the plan. It is not always possible to have gardens large enough to allow a wide path, yet the effect of one can be produced by a little contriving; for instance, if you use grass for the central feature with an earth border on either side. If you desire a successful garden you should seek for variety, not only in the cutting of the walk, but in the planting of the borders. To-day everybody is striving for originality and to work out odd ideas that still are practical. One should remember, too, that no two gardens are exactly alike, any more than two faces bear an exact resemblance. In describing the border, one might liken it to the setting of a gem. Doubtless, it might be said to be artificial but so is the planting of the flower plot. It is not nature's work, but designed by the hand of man and in it harmony should be developed in the highest degree. Let us take as an example the damp garden. This is usually laid out in one corner of the estate. If we should treat it with a gravel walk, what would be the result--dampness and disappointment. Now, let us change the whole plan and place stringers on which boards are laid, so nailed that they can be lifted during the winter season and stored away in a friendly barn or cellar. Watch the result and you will find it is always dry and practical for usage. Better still, if wearing properties do not have to be taken into consideration, use cedar boughs that resemble in contour miniature logs. They fit into place as if put there by nature, all the more if they are bordered by ferns. If you build at the further end a rustic summer house, it gives a refreshing touch. Many garden lovers delight in collecting wild flowers, digging them up in the neighboring woods to blossom in their cultivated garden. Why not give them a home by themselves in a rough rockery? This can easily be built from stones found on the estate. Here we deviate from the stilted idea of paths and introduce stone steps. These should be large and rough enough to fit in with our plan. Hardy ferns should be planted on either side and rock plants between the steps. You will then see the wisdom of creating a path like this which is in sympathy with the general idea of the garden. [Illustration: A BRICK-PAVED PATH FLANKED BY MANY-HUED IRIS] Landscape gardeners are at the present day endeavoring to work out results that are in harmony with any period that they are called upon to reproduce. Occasionally they come upon a subject that is very difficult to treat, such as the concrete walk. This is an absolute necessity in some locations. Yet, when finished, it presents a bare appearance and demands special treatment. Very successful results are produced by bright borders of flowering plants, and if in addition to this an arch of wire or rustic boughs is made for the entrance and covered with rambler roses, of which to-day there are many varieties, a happy solution will be found to the perplexing problem of a colorless path. During the time of blossoming, the touch of brightness adds to the effect while later on the bright green of the leaves relieves the cold gray of the concrete. The late Joseph Jefferson, in speaking of gardens and their borders, once said, "They are all expectation." And so they are from the early spring when the first bulbs come into bloom until the falling of the late chrysanthemum. As we con the seedman's list to prepare for the spring gardening, we go through the procession of the seasons noting the colors and finding a joy in anticipation that is exhilarating. In order to give correct handling to your paths, the color scheme of the borders should be taken into consideration. Different kinds of gardens demand varied treatment, and for this, the situation on the grounds and the type of the walk, should be carefully thought out. For earliest bloom, one should use bulbs. To have them at their best they should be planted in the fall, about six weeks before the hard frost sets in. Trenches are first dug, from twelve to eighteen inches deep, enriched and topped with a layer of sand, to insure the bulbs touching nothing else. Each bulb should be planted six inches deep and the same number of inches apart. They should be covered with from four to six inches of straw, dead leaves--hardwood ones being best for this purpose--or pine branches. Great care should be taken that these are not removed too early in the spring. Years of careful experiment have developed better colors and more strength in bulbs and have succeeded in producing a greater variety, both single to double. This evolution in bulbs makes it possible to choose suitable varieties for any border work. Snow drops are the first to poke their tiny heads up through the cold, hard earth. They rise above the snow, bringing gladness in their train. Then comes a procession of dainty bulbs including the hyacinth with its many hues, and the tulips, that stay by us until late in May, clothed in Dolly Varden gowns, or simple Quaker garb. It is a good plan to plant pansies among the bulbs, so that they will show their painted faces before the last bloom has disappeared. Many people in such borders use sweet alyssum for the outer row, but this, while it is decorative, is not always satisfactory for it grows so high that it is apt to shadow the major scheme. Bulbs can be left in the ground for a second year's blossoming or if new varieties are desired they can be carefully lifted and replaced by potted plants, such as the scarlet geranium or the dusty miller, whose soft gray sheen makes an interesting note of color as a foreground for the bed that stretches down to touch it, a solid mass of one-toned flowers. Within the last few years iris has become a popular accessory for border use. One reason for this is that it stays in bloom from the time of its first opening until the hot blast of the August sun touches its closed head. Well may this be termed the "fairy's favorite flower," it is so dainty in its hues. The rose moss or portulaca is a valuable border plant. It grows luxuriantly in sandy soil, where no moisture is retained, and seems to draw sufficient sustenance from the dews that fall at night, rather than from the unkindly sand which touches its tiny roots. One advantage in its use is that it grows quickly from seed, that is, if it is planted in a dry spot. The needle-shaped foliage is inconspicuous, while the blossoms are as brilliant as poppies and are produced in large numbers. A serious fault, however, is that it closes during the afternoon. If one decides to use portulaca, choose solid colors rather than to mix a mass of varied ones. For a shady bit of garden, why not try out delphiniums? They are not expensive, the roots costing about a dollar and a quarter a dozen, but they are so graceful that they are effective for use of this sort. The plants chosen must be in harmonious contrast to those that fill the beds, otherwise one shudders as they view the completed scheme and wonders how it is that the gardener is so color-blind. Hardy borders or annuals are used very often. Each of them having a distinctive charm, some gardens demanding one, and others another, so that one cannot dictate to the owner of a garden which kind is best for his use, it lies with his own whims and fancies, to develop beautiful combinations, and to work out variations of the last year's scheme, so that the gardens of yesterday may differ essentially from those of to-day. It may be that long borders of bright-eyed verbenas greet our eyes as we gaze upon the vari-colored beds, or perchance gorgeous Sweet Williams, vieing in hue are shown. Tall rosy spikes of lythrum lift their heads, while stately hollyhocks uncurl their silky petals, shaking out the tucks and wrinkles of the bud like newly awakened butterflies stretching their wings. There is a busy hum of bees as we saunter down the garden path, stopping now and again to watch their flight as they light on flowers to sip their nectar, furry with golden pollen dust. So we stand wondering what our grand-dames would say could they view, with us to-day, the transformation of the old-fashioned garden, into a magnificent show of rare plants in a well-developed design. THE PERGOLA AND ARCH [Illustration: THE SUNLIGHT SIFTS THROUGH THE SHELTERING VINES OF THE PERGOLA] CHAPTER II THE PERGOLA AND ARCH "I have made me a garden and orchard, and have planted trees and all kinds of fruit." Thus spake the wise Solomon who in all his glory found time to enjoy his flowers. Nowadays, blossoming plants are intermixed with marble fragments, and the garden contains many interesting features that were then unknown. Sir William Temple, on his return from a visit to Holland, where he went for garden study, tells us that he found that four things were absolutely necessary in order to complete a perfect garden. "Flowers, Fruit, Shade, and Water." Originality is to-day the key-note in every garden design. Gardens have been developed with the passing of time so that instead of one type we find an infinite variety of styles, each one of them so distinctive that one need have little fear of repetition in results. Here we find the formal, the Italian garden while over yonder is the wild, and the rambling one. They are carefully designed to bring out some individual scheme. Unlike the little posy plots of long ago with their unobtrusive green arbors, now we come upon a large space which has been laid out for picture effects. This is the work of the landscape architect, who takes as much pride in his garden structures, as does the architect in the design of his house. He vies with his rivals in producing odd effects with marble fragments and artistic combinations in his color scheme. Each one of the many types, that are shown at the present day, shows distinctive features. These appear and disappear in endless variety, and among them are the pergola and the arch, the latter a grandchild of the green arbor that was in evidence in our grand-dames' time. Unlike those seen in the old-fashioned gardens, it is not always built of wood. Sometimes it is so placed as to define the terraces, leading with its shadowy treatment to delightful glimpses of vistas beyond, well laid out for this very purpose. Again we find it shadowing the garden at one side, where it makes a covered walk, under which one can pass, and view the garden pleasantly. Simple and unostentatious were the early gardens, for not until 1750, was there found any trace of garden architecture in the North. It was about that year that one Theodore Hardingbrook, came to this country bringing with him a fund of information to strengthen and enlarge this line of work. He gathered around him a faithful, interested little band of students, and taught them new ideas, and awakened an ambition for new designs in Colonial flower plots. Then was evolved the little summer house with its cap of green, which stood generally at the foot of the garden path ending the central walk and it was then that the green arbor came into existence, spanning the centre of the little plot. Covered with vines it made a pleasant break in the otherwise straight lines of the old-fashioned garden, and it also gave a touch of old-world gardens to the new-world plan. This was not the commencement of pergola construction, which had its origin in the vineyards of sunny Italy. They were not like those of to-day, wonderfully beautiful in design but rude and rustic, roughly put together as a support for the vines. Through the intersecting crevices fell glorious clusters of pale green and royal purple grapes, to ripen in the glimmering shade. These rough arbors, shadowed by hardy vines, graced the Italian hillsides, when Columbus as a wool comber's son frolicked the summer days away long years before he discovered the new country that lay across the sea. The birth of this feature was not romantic but plebeian, for it was built for practical use only. The hardy Italian grape growers had come to a realizing sense that their fruit throve better if held aloft, and so they conceived the idea of a supporting arbor. As the bright sun filtered through the vines, the picturesqueness caught the attention of gardeners on large estates and from this was evolved the long pillared pathways over which cultivated vines were twined, casting their long shadows far over the path beyond in Roman gardens. When larger and better gardens were demanded to meet the architecture of the large, square, Colonial homes, green arbors were popular. They were crudely put together, often the work of the village carpenter, simple and unconventional in their treatment yet prettily draped with vines. During the summer months they were especially picturesque and inviting, with their little wooden seats placed on either side. To the garden came the gallant, dressed in knee breeches and wearing powdered wig, there to meet his lady love, bending low he plucked from the branches of the trailing vine a flower to deck his fair beloved's hair. [Illustration: BUILD YOUR PERGOLA WITH COBBLESTONE SUPPORTS AND RUSTIC TOP] These green arbors gave a distinct individuality to the old-time garden. Over them were carefully twined the Dutchman's pipe. It showed nestled away beneath its leaves, tiny, almost invisible little green pipes that were coveted by the little ones for "Let's pretend smoke." Invariably, the yellow and white Baltimore Belle rose sometimes known as the Seven Sisters, lent their charm, boldly peering out from under the vine to watch the lovers seated on the simple seats. They gave them a welcoming nod as they swayed to and fro in the passing breeze, mingling their blossoms, with a dainty Scotch rose and the pink moss, that seemingly grew on the same stem. It is the former rose that was the greatest favorite, for it lasted longer, giving dashes of yellow like sunshine to light the dark, autumnal days. Now and again, we come unexpectedly upon a garden such as this. It lies in the heart of a Colonial city, hidden away from passers-by behind a high paling fence. The twentieth century pergola in the modern garden lends itself to a great variety of treatment. It is an important feature and should be properly treated in order to bring out the right effect. Often the amateur, when dabbling with garden culture, neglects this feature on his grounds and gives it a wrong setting. It must be remembered that the mere setting out of a garden does not always bring about the best results. It should be done with some definite aim in view, such as color or suitability to situation. In this way only can one obtain perfection. There should be taken into consideration the formation of the different beds, especially those that are in close proximity. It cannot be a successful experiment unless carefully planned. If you have never tried to form combinations that will intensify the loveliness of the grounds by a happy gathering of right colors, you have missed a delightful experience. This idea does not come quickly to the amateur floriculturist, but once he fully grasps it, he turns as if by instinct to the structural part of the garden plan. It is then that he realizes that while he has not seemed to have progressed during his first year's work, yet he has laid a solid foundation that will stand him in good stead. In the midst of his garden he rears a house of flowers, placing it in a situation where he can watch the growth and maturing of the plants. Each corner of the garden is given separate treatment. In some gardens, where the space is small, it would be impossible to carry out the pergola scheme. Then it can be simplified and condensed into the child of the pergola, the arch, excellent for decorative effects. This means for flower showing can be made of wire, simply fastened to posts, bent into shape, or of wood and painted white; either of these methods is satisfactory and can, if properly used, be most successful. The arch, to fit in with the garden plan, should span the entrance. Over it should be trained either a blossoming vine or many, to work out a succession of bloom. Sometimes it will be the wisteria with its drooping clusters of lavender, or the rambler rose found in such a variety of colors to-day. These two with the clematis, are especially adapted for this purpose, if one is willing to use proper fertilizer and depth of planting. In order to insure better and more prolific growth, the vines should be cut back to about six or eight inches in height when first set out. It must be remembered in dealing with them that they are like little children, each one requiring individual care. We must also be sure that the soil is frequently stirred to avoid caking. Properly placed, the curved trellis is a joy. It gives a decorative setting to the garden proper. As the eye travels down the path, it greets a charming bit of color in the bed of solid green that tops the roof. The arch would not be a proper note of setting for every garden. There are only certain kinds with which it blends. The narrow path demands it, for it needs a break to show it at its best. A judicious fashioning of a series of arches, extending here and there along the entire depth of the walk is sometimes attractive. They serve to break the monotony and add a flower note that is delightful. In the planning of these, great care should be taken that they are set at proper intervals. They should be on the same level and correspond in width, otherwise the result would be a wavy line that is most distressing. [Illustration: THE MOSS GROWS BETWEEN THE STONE WALK] The color scheme depends on garden planting. If lavender is chosen it should be reproduced all through the line. Do not be so foolish as to choose one vine only but plant them in order to make a succession of bloom. One does not wish to view a spot of color now and a mass of green later on. There are so many different kinds of vines that can be planted for this use, each one of which is admirable, that it is hard to choose. Commencing with the earliest why not take the American or the loose-cluster wisteria. It has many advantages over other vines, in that it is a strong grower and bears an abundant cluster of flowers resembling the sweet pea in formation. One can reasonably assert, that the wisteria is the leading flower for the pergola or arbor. It dons a rich and graceful foliage and unlike other vines, has two distinct seasons of bloom. It is especially good if one wishes to carry out a one-tone color scheme, making lavender the key-note, and using this particular vine for the early bloom in May, at which time the luxuriant clusters of drooping flowers show their wonderful shading as they peer through the arches dropping down below the leafy growth and making a note of exquisite beauty. In August, when they show their second season of bloom, the flowers are less abundant. They should be followed by the Clematis Jackman. This vine, if it reaches maturity, is most effective, but it has the distinct disadvantage that though it starts right, and sends out shoots, they are apt to blight early and disappoint the gardener by dying before putting forth its wonderfully beautiful flowers. June, the month of roses, is a suitable time for one to watch for the blossoming of this vine. Many people avoid the Coboea Scandens on account of the large, conspicuous flowers it produces. They make a decided mistake when they shun this particular vine, for it has good qualifications for pergola covering. No vine grows more rapidly, as it reaches often from twenty-five to thirty feet in a single season. It bursts into blossom in July, in rich, purple, trumpet-shaped flowers. For the successful growth of vines many things have to be considered but principally the soil. The amateur makes a mistake in starving the ground, and thus losing half the quality it would otherwise have had. In order to obtain the best results, put plenty of barn-yard manure, or bone meal, at the foot of the trellis, and this should be plentifully renewed at the commencement of each year. Rambler roses are one of the most effective treatments for arbor or pergola growth, and the most popular of these are the white, yellow, crimson and pink. Each year new varieties are put upon the market and if one wishes to follow the new ideas they will be forced to constantly change the plants. In some cases, the pergola is used to form a trellised pavilion or summer house to shelter a marble statue and again with carved setting to outline a bed, as the central feature around which the flowers are arranged. Thus the simple vineyard trellis has been transformed into a gem of graceful construction, and we find it to-day, with its slender marble columns, supporting a delicately carved marble roof of slabs, over and through which the green of the vine, and the glint of the flower hover, dipping down between the intervening sections, in festoons of green and color. It can well be called a distinctive summer structure, for with the sun streaming through its mass of vines, it shadows the walks from May until late October. In the long winter months boxed in it stands like a sentinel guarding the long, bare paths, and showing a leafless network of interlacing vines. The pergola of to-day is not like that of yesterday. When first introduced into our gardens it was taken up on many small estates, and so badly designed that it combined badly with the garden. It was then it fell into disfavor and was pronounced a failure for use in our garden plan. But landscape gardeners, with an eye to the unique, felt that it was a necessary rounding-out of the garden design, and rescued from ignominy, it took its place in right surroundings, in the heart of the garden with a border of elaborate flower designs. Garden seats were placed inside and when it fronted on an Italian garden, a fountain was often introduced, the musical tinkle of the spouting water giving a special charm. Among the many designs the simplest is a simple rustic frame structure, appropriate for small or wild gardens. It is formed of cedar posts driven four feet into the ground, and reaching to the height of eight feet. This is covered with a beam or a slab roof structure over which is trained the morning glory, the California creeper, or the grape. This latter is much used, the picturesqueness of the ripening fruit adding to its attractiveness. These pergolas are generally eight feet wide and have for a flooring irregular flags through which peer grass or moss. This type of garden furniture is perfectly well adapted to Italian, English, or Colonial types of architecture, and is constructed often of marble. It is not merely an ornament but a useful adjunct to a garden, and can be made of concrete, or cobblestone, if one does not wish to go to the expense of using marble. There is a modern form of this feature that is a development from century-old customs, the porch-pergola which is fast supplanting the old covered porches of yesterday. This is designed with an open, vine-covered roof. It gives an added charm to the exterior of the house and furnishes a shady nook for sunny days, without the drawback of the old porch whose roof darkened the house in winter by withholding the sun. No one, no matter how small their grounds, need deny themselves a pergola. It is such an important feature and so decorative that it is almost a necessity. For the little backyard it may be simply a rustic porch planted in the middle of the garden. Properly laid out, it can be used as an out-of-doors living room. Across the end a hammock can be swung, while table and chairs can be fitted in at one side. THE TEA HOUSE IN THE GARDEN [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE] CHAPTER III THE TEA HOUSE IN THE GARDEN There is a delightful imaginary intimacy that seemingly exists between we garden lovers who live in the twentieth century and those of early days. So closely are we connected by a common band of sympathy that we eagerly scan their books to glean here and there some important bit of garden lore that can be introduced into our work of to-day. It is this pleasant mingling of old and new-world gardens that gives to present-day designs such a delightful atmosphere. One of the old-time floriculturists, John Lyle, tells us in his old-fashioned way, about the flowers that bloomed ages before our grand-dames were born. "Gentlemen," he says, "what floure like you best in all this border? Here be fine roses, sweete violets, fragrant primroses, gille floures, carnations, sops of wine, sweete John, and what may please you at sight." Surely we see in retrospect, the gardens of that early day, and we come more and more to realize that all through the ages, the hand of Man has fashioned nothing more beautiful than a garden of flowers. The most famous poets have not found any more ideal trysting spot in which to place their lovers. Each individual part of the flower garden has its own distinctive charm. It lies not solely with the flowers that bloom so profusely in the beds nor with the marble fragments, for the romance of it all is centered in the little summer house, as it was quaintly named by our ancestors in the long ago. In these little tea houses, built in a retired part of the garden, the mistress loved to spend a pleasant summer afternoon, seated inside knitting flower thoughts into a shapely bag or reading some delightful book, which dropped from her hand, as she sat dreamily watching the unfolding of some favorite flower. Let us enter one of these gardens, rich in its summer garb, walk slowly down the path, stopping now and again to view some bud slowly unfold its petals one by one, disclosing a new specimen to be added to the ever-increasing number that are comprised in the floral scheme, and waving a welcome as it is tossed to and fro by every passing breeze. Over there against the white paling fence stands the stiff hollyhock nodding his satiny head to greet the dainty heliotrope who glances coquettishly up to meet his eye. Nearby is a dialetrea or bleeding heart, the pet of the little ones, who pluck them to form tiny boats with snow white sails to float down the lily pond. Bursting into bloom behind the stiff box border is the old-time "piny," sending bits of color into the sober green. None of the old Colonial gardens were considered complete without an ever varying assortment of bloom. There were the Sweet Williams, Bouncing Bet, and perky little Johnny-jump-up, sending greetings to his comrades nearby. Flowers are everywhere, they peer out at us from hidden corners, swing their heads in very ecstasy of enjoyment of their being. Simplicity was the key-note in the construction of those summer houses that came into existence during the latter part of the seventeenth century. They stand for the first type of garden furniture made in our country, coming into vogue after the close of the grim struggle for existence made by our Puritan forbears. Then when the tide turned, and money flowed into the colonies, houseowners had more time to devote to garden culture. Behind the large Colonial houses sprang into existence gardens devoted to flowers, the owners doing the best they could with the material at hand. These delightful little plots secluded from the world outside by high paling fences were the homes of the old-fashioned flowers, many of them descendants of the originals, brought over in the ships that first touched our shores. They were not like the twentieth-century ones constructed of marble or concrete clothed with vines and standing in a wealth of up-to-date blooms, showing slender marble columns and carved capitals supporting the marble roof. Rather are they covered with plain, every-day vines, such as the Dutchman's Pipe with its heavy leaving, clambering roses and the Bitter Sweet or Roxbury Waxwork, whose drooping bunches of yellow and red poke their heads through the lattice work, making a bit of bright color all through the winter months. This when the ground is covered with snow livens up the surroundings. On either side are planted a wealth of timely flowers, these include the Sweet William, the Hooded Larkspur, and the many-colored Phlox. Many of these little garden houses show such a variety of form that they are interesting, fitting into their surroundings as if they had always been there. Some are square, formed like a large box, depending for their picturesqueness on their coverings of vines. Others are round, and still again we find oblong summer houses, each one fitted up with seats and sometimes a rustic table. Occasionally, we come upon a more pretentious one that is two stories in height. They were planned in the early nineteenth century, some of these are still standing and among them we find that of Elias Haskett Derby, designed by Samuel McIntyre, Salem's noted architect and wood-carver. For years it stood on the grounds of the summer home of Mr. Derby and to-day is so well preserved that it seems as if it had been recently built. Exquisite carving is a feature of this particular tea house, where rural images top the roof. It is only in the gardens of the rich, that elaborate tea houses are found, simple designs grace the little gardens and are in harmony with their surroundings. The rustic summer house has its own mission to fulfill. Its cost can be determined by conditions. Some are finished in elaborately decorative designs while others show plain treatment. The best kind of wood to be used for this purpose is the red cedar which has wonderful lasting qualities. It is more expensive than the locust but out-wears any wood on the market. Great care should be taken that the supports be placed deep enough to avoid throwing by the heavy winter frost. Holes should be dug at least four feet deep, and squares of stone or cement pounded into the bottom to prevent its coming in contact with the earth and rotting. This makes a solid foundation, and durable. Do not have the roof made flat, so that water can stand upon it and rot it, but raise it slightly and either shingle or thatch it. This last is an old-time handicraft that has recently been revived. Following the old English rule, reeds are more endurable, while straw is admissible. An advantage of its use is that it grows handsomer with age. In its second year it has collected moss, weeds and plants, and these, matted down and weather-beaten, give it the hue of a gray lichen. If properly treated it will last for years. [Illustration: STEPPING-STONES IN A GRASS PATH] One should, if possible, when planning the garden, include a summer house. There is no more enjoyable feature that can be constructed on the grounds. Its design, size, situation and type, must correspond with the period of the garden. A formal lay-out should, in order to be correct, receive entirely different treatment in its setting from the Italian, while the rambling depends upon simpler characteristics to produce correct results. Rustic tea houses fit into this project appropriately. They would be entirely incongruous if placed in Italian gardens elaborate in their plan and full of wonderful bits of marble fragments transplanted from foreign lands. Fortunately for us, there are so many different types of gardens that one is not continually finding a repetition. Garden houses, covered with bark, fit into simple plans, such as the rambling and the wild gardens, their rustic effect being in harmony with the flowers and beds. It is one thing to plan a summer house but quite another to pick out a suitable situation. It should not be placed in the heart of the flowers more especially where there are tall blossoms. Let the beds in the foreground be low and show quiet colors, shading the height and brightness as they go farther afield, the most conspicuous being used for the extreme edge. Here, like a beautiful picture, they fit into the landscape and produce correct effects. Level stretches do not always bring about right results. If your ground slopes to the garden edge why not design a rustic tea house to fit into the hillside? Should you visit it of a clear afternoon, seat yourself on the wooden settle and glance around you, you will be delighted with the view obtained. Below is the garden rolled out like a carpet brightly patterned at your feet, smooth stretches of lawn between rest the eyes as they gaze off to the horizon when the blue of the sky seems to melt into the masses of waving bloom. Do not start this feature of the garden unless you have first planned situation, size and cost, otherwise you will be disappointed, and may feel it is more expensive than you wished. If you do not care to bed it underneath, you will be sorry. Every house of this sort should have a hard ashes or cement foundation in order to keep out the dampness. This is a serious fault which if not carefully watched results in quick rotting of the wood and constant expense. It is better to start right and in the end it will cost less. Posts used for supports should be made of cedar or locust, driven four feet into the ground and resting on stone supports, used as preservatives. They can be elaborately designed or simple in finish and if plenty of air and light are wished for, trellis supports can be used, but if it demands shade, shingles or canvas painted, are advisable, the former better for rounded effects and the latter when a flat surface is used. Marble is used prominently in Italian gardens, whose elaborate setting demands striking effects. Give the tea house a cover of soft green vines, dotted here and there with a bit of color and it will be a joy forever, taking on a dignity that is in keeping with its surroundings. Cement, no matter where it is used, is always effective. In coloring and lines it seemingly fits into the elaborate landscape scheme and it improves with age. There is an advantage in the use of cement, in that it costs nothing for repairs, is fireproof, does not collect vermin, and is never shabby. With its clinging vine cover, it is a desirable material for use in the construction of tea houses when wood and marble are not suitable. There is a romantic charm in vine-clad tea houses. The clinging vine lends a picturesqueness to the slender columns and the slanting roof emphasizes the beauty of it all. There are so many decorative vines that are suitable for its use that it would be impossible to name them all. For marble, delicate, tender climbers are the best. For concrete a larger leaf can be used to give more stable effects, while for rustic tea houses, the large, hardy vines and stronger climbers are more suitable. Each one has its own use, and appears at its best in congenial environment. The tiny canary-bird vine would make little show if allowed to clamber over rustic supports, while the Boston or Japanese ivy are especially adapted for this treatment. This is on account of the small, flat leaf that clings to the side, helping out the design without a deep massing of leaves. [Illustration: LILY PONDS IN A FORMAL GARDEN] Some summer houses depend upon hardy vines for their cover and others on tender climbers whose delicate tendrils wind in and out clouding but not hiding the exterior coloring. It is the wise man who is able to provide a suitable over-spread for houses of this description. It must be remembered that it is not the cover alone but the planting that surrounds it that aids in the picturesque effect. There is as much need of careful thought here as there would be in any part of the scheme. For right coloring, height, and time of blossoming help or mar the plan. There is as much difference in the growth of vines as there is in children. Some to be at their best require a very rich soil, while others will do equally well if it is poorer. The important thing, if you wish successful results, is to give them plenty of food, plenty of water and look out for a proper insecticide, in order not to retard their growth. A general rule that is permissible for almost any grounds is to dig a ditch from three to four feet deep and put in the bottom a foot of rotted manure. This can better be attended to in the fall, leaving time for it to get well soaked into the ground and ripen before planting. Fill in alternate layers of soil and manure until the trench is even with the ground. In clay soil, it is better in order to lighten it to mix in a little sand. For a rustic summer house, where heavy planting is needed, a honeysuckle is effective. The scarlet or Sempervirens is a very decorative variety and this differs greatly from the Japanese one, bearing tubular scarlet flowers that continue in blossom all summer. Of the many varieties this is the freest and the best. Its leaves are a blueish green which make a pleasing contrast with the coral color of the flower. The Clematis is always effective and is the best vine of medium growth in existence. Its small, white, star-shaped flowers, deliciously fragrant, cover the vine completely in August. The Japanese Clematis or Paniculata is most attractive. It prefers a sunny position, the foliage is handsome and at the end of August it bursts into a wonderful mass of fragrant, pure white, star-like flowers that last nearly a month. For shady places, the Helix or English ivy is advisable. This well-known, small-leafed ivy is perfectly hardy in this section and is much used for covering the ground in shady places where grass refuses to grow. Young growth sometimes gets winter killed, but this is due to sunburn rather than frost. For tea houses painted white and for concrete, wisteria takes a prominent place. It grows equally well in city and country, being able to withstand the smoke of cities. Of these the Multijuga loose cluster is advisable. It is not so strong a grower as the Chinese varieties but distinguished from them by long, loose clusters of purple flowers sometimes obtaining a length of two feet. The Crimson Glory Grape Vine, Coignetiae, is a strong grower, showing large, heart-shaped leaves, ten inches long, deep rich green on top and bright yellow beneath, which assume a brilliant scarlet in autumn. The grapes are black and form a pleasing contrast to the bright colors of the leaves. The Canary Bird Vine is suitable for either this kind of a tea house or a marble one. It is a beautiful, rapid, annual grower and when in blossom, the charming little canary-colored blooms bear a fancied resemblance to a bird with wings half expanded. Do not forget the Cardinal Climber which is a cross between the Cyprus Vine and the Star Glory. It attains a height of thirty feet or more with a beautiful form like laciniated foliage and is literally covered with a blaze of circular fiery cardinal red flowers from midsummer until frost. The flowers are about one and one-half inch in diameter and are borne in clusters from five to seven blossoms each. Wherever it has been grown it has attracted favorable comments. It delights in a warm sunshiny situation and good soil. The Kudzu Vine or Peuraria Thunbergiana is very popular. It came from Japan and is still rare. Its flowers are large clusters similar to a white Hydrangea and when in flower during July and August make a wonderful display. It is one of the best of the flowering vines to plant against a wall as it clings naturally to any rough surface. The plants selected for either side of the tea house need as much care in choosing right colors as do the vines. THE GARDEN STEPS [Illustration: STONE STEPS ATTRACTIVELY PLANNED] CHAPTER IV THE GARDEN STEPS The air was laden with the sweet fragrance of flowers. They wafted a delightful welcome to the hardy explorers, who, worn with the long voyage, viewed for the first time the rocky shores of New England. Their soothing influence brought heart to the wearied men, as they revelled in the spicy odors that brought in their train pleasant thoughts of the wonderful gardens they had left behind them. From the sandy coast of Florida to the bleak New England shores they felt its enticing power. So pungent was the perfume, that it touched the heart of Barlow, one of the commanders of Raleigh's expedition who wrote on landing on the newly discovered shore, "We smelt so sweet and strong a smell, as if we had been in the midst of some delicate garden. The woods were not such as we find in Europe, barren and fruitless, but the highest and reddest cedars, pines, cypresses, and many others of excellent quality. Of grapes we found a plenty climbing over every shrub and tree down to the waters very edge. I think in all the world there is not the like in abundance." Among the earliest settlers, came a colony of Spaniards choosing for their home the sunny shores of Florida. Here in the heart of the woodland they made clearings, laying out extensive grounds that followed no set plan, but with semblance of the old-world garden. Here they planted for coolness and shade, vines and trees, laid out their grounds with walks, paved like mosaic with vari-colored stones. In these gardens no semi-tropical plants, such as abounded on every side, were planted. It has always been man's way when warring with the wilderness that lay beyond his door, to gather into the enclosure flowers and plants that had been dear to his heart in his far-away native land, to re-establish the atmosphere of his old home in new surroundings. The colonists who settled on the southern shores of Virginia, were men of rank, wealthy men, who had left stately homes to settle in this unknown land. In the lay-out of their gardens they introduced the Elizabethean style of floriculture, following the fashion of the English gardens of that day. These old gardens showed terraces, steps, leading from walk to walk, paths laid at right angles, through which one walked to view the spaces intricately designed with "knotted" beds and mazes, each one of which conformed to details in the buildings of their stately homes. There were the first steps laid out in gardens in America, a novel feature that has been evolved into elaborate designs with the passing of the years. To-day no garden is complete that does not show some form of steps or terrace. Rockeries have come into vogue not only in large, elaborate garden plots but in simple little home grounds. They are approached by steps of stone that correspond with the rough, rural aspect of this feature of garden culture. Shy wild flowers peep timidly out from their homes between the crevices of the rock. Here in the early spring we find the cup-shaped crocus with its yellow tongue nestled contentedly in among the brown furred fern fronds, that soon will unfurl in dainty loveliness. Leading from the steps are grass banks and low walks, surrounding the rockery and affording pleasant promenades, from which to view the garden in its entirety. Like every other plan contrived by man, the garden step should be fashioned to fit into its proper place, adding and not detracting from the general picturesqueness. It depends upon the personality of the creator as to its success, for steps while seemingly a minor detail, can add or detract from a garden's beauty materially. One should never swerve from the thought that practicability should be the motive in planning stepping stones to connect different levels of your garden. They should not be added just for appearance sake, any more than one should wear a showy gown to attract attention. They should carry out some well-thought-out plan. It would be bad taste to introduce rustic steps into a formal garden, as much so as it would to place delicately wrought slabs of marble in the heart of a thicket. One should, that is if they wish to excel other creators in the introduction of original ideas, think out each individual part of the ground assigned for garden purposes and determine where each feature can make the best showing. It is then and then only that we come to a realizing sense not only of the kind of material that should be used but the shape and the setting. There should be a definite purpose in the use of this particular feature and the most important one is that it should be so arranged that one can reach different levels easily. There should be no precipitous pitch that makes one feel while ascending that they are performing tiresome gymnastic feats. This necessitates that they should be constructed on a gradual incline, thus making the ascent so easy that one is hardly conscious they are walking always upward until they have reached the top, and stand on level ground. This is often not enough considered and yet is most important. In laying the stepping stones, there should be definite proportions thought out between the risers, breadth of the treads and the height between. Any variation would produce awkward results. Great care should be taken in choosing slabs either of stone or marble that are of the same size. If the steps connect different parts of the garden scheme or lead to a rock garden, they should be cunningly introduced into the side of the ascent, placed so that they will add to the picturesqueness of the effect. They should break the hillside pleasingly, so that when completed they will form a pleasant picture, delightful for the eye to gaze upon. More than this, there should be planting, not only between the risers but on either side, and this requires careful thought, for a stately hollyhock rearing its gorgeous stock of rich coloring would be entirely out of place while delicate ferns or humble rock plants emphasize the desired effect. If the height of your step should be low, then risers, six inches in height would be in good form, and the treads in order to correspond must be twelve and a half inches in width. Should, however, five inches be the height needed, then an additional inch and a half should be added to the treads. This point is such an important one that garden owners and landscape architects should see that it is properly carried out, if they wish to get the right results. [Illustration: A FOUNTAIN THAT SERVES AS A BACKGROUND FOR A LILY POND] Ramping steps, if successfully developed, brings about an additional ease in mounting. This can be accomplished by placing the tread so that it shall imperceptibly slope downward. This is not an easy matter to accomplish successfully. It requires much care, so that the steps shall not slope too noticeably and yet enough to add to the comfort of the garden lover who walks from path to path using the steps to aid him in reaching the upper level of the ground. This idea of ramping is not original, for it has been carried out in the old Italian gardens for centuries, but it is only within recent years that it has been successfully developed by landscape gardeners in our country. Two important things connected with these stairways are ease and comfort. There is no doubt but within the last few years, marvels have been accomplished by introducing them into steep hillsides. In this way they connect the lower level and the terrace, making it practical to develop unused land for flower purposes. The placing of steps cannot be determined by cast-iron rules, rather should good taste predominate. Nothing can give such an awkward look to your garden or terrace as a series of narrow, cramped stairs. If, however, you should in the same place introduce a flight ample in proportion, then even if it is a small space there will be imparted to it an agreeable air of breadth. Be sure that each step should extend farther to the side than the one above it. They should be rectangular so that the outline of the stair mass is pyramidal or circular in formation. If stone is used, a very good result is brought about through the use of carefully selected field stone or cobble. There are sheltering crevices in which to plant tiny roots which when grown add much to the general appearance of the whole. If the garden is a formal one, a design in which architectural features play an important part, one should take great care in the arrangement of this flight. There is nothing that gives such a delightful atmosphere as a well-planned stairway. It conveys a much better picture than does a vista of successive flights of steps that ascend to higher grounds. The principal use for a feature such as this, is found to be in informal or unpretentious lay-outs, yet, fashioned in marble it is shown in the most elaborate Italian gardens found in this country. It takes on such a variety of forms and is available for so many purposes that it is fascinating to study where it will give best effects. Sometimes it helps out in the making of a garden pool. Here it is specially alluring, forming as it does, a step from one little world into another. If you wish originality in your work, do not attempt to copy from the plans of others. Surely there is no lack of material from which to draw and there is no reason why steps cannot be placed in any sort of a garden nook. The material depends on the style of garden, but wooden steps are not generally advisable on account of their rotting, which makes them need constant repair. It is far better to use stone, slabs of granite, concrete or marble, for each one of these has the lasting qualities that make them durable. Measure the space carefully before the work is commenced. You should make allowances for crevices between each step so that suitable planting may be carried out. It is a very good idea to have the wide spreading plants placed near the bottom, graduating to those of more moderate growth at the top. Careful consideration should also be given to the right planting on either side. Low plants should border the step with a background of taller ones. They may, if you like, be used to express the idea of balusters on either side and are much more picturesque than real ones. Do not forget that rich soil should be employed, for the plants need it to grow successfully. They require sustenance just as we need meat to feed our bodies. In many cases it can be rich loam taken from the woods, in other instances rotted manure can be used for a foundation with a heavy soil covering. Great care should be taken to make proper planting, for delicate growth near hardy is disastrous, the stronger plants absorbing the strength of the weaker ones and doing permanent harm. Do not flatter yourself that once planted nature will do the rest. This part of the ground demands continual care, for weeds--plants' enemies--will intrude and must be carefully removed lest they feed upon the soil, taking away the richness and starving the plants. Water is a necessity, for plants like human beings grow thirsty all the more when exposed to the dry heat of the summer season. For best effects a sprinkler should be used and it should be borne in mind that the plants should be thoroughly soaked and not given merely a surface treatment. The importance of this cannot be over-estimated, or through lack of proper drink the plants will be in no condition to put out their full strength during their season of blossoming. Better results will be obtained if each fall before the winter sets in, they should be given a heavy top dressing of grit. There is nothing that plants enjoy as much as this and it provides them with strength during the next year's growth. Concrete may not find favor with many garden lovers. It covers the surface so thoroughly that there is no place to introduce growth, but a little ingenuity and common sense removes this difficulty. Holes can be bored through the cement, and these should be large enough to allow the plants full scope to grow. Many people for step planting prefer a succession of blossoming plants while others care for growth only. If the former plan is worked out, a charming early bloomer is the Alpine Anemone. Of these the Pulsatilla, or "Pasque Flower," is effective. It shows rich purple blossoms, which rising above the green leaves with their downy, feathery collarette of green, develop into handsome seed heads, which are decorative. They nestle into the crevices of the rocks, sending forth their exquisite blossoms nine inches in diameter during the months of April and May. Variety is always delightful. For this decorative purpose why not use crocuses, "The Heralds of Spring." They thrive in any soil or situation, but in order to obtain the best growth, they should be planted in rich, deep, sandy loam. One of the choicest kinds is the Baron von Brunow. It is free flowering, putting forth large blossoms, dark blue in coloring. These can be mingled with a stripe variety such as La Majestueuse, which shows large, violet markings, exquisite in shading. The Giants, of which the Mont Blanc is a favorite, put out large, snow-white blossoms, forming an effective foil for the dark blue flowers of the other assortments. In planting your steps do not forget to have plenty of bulbs introduced among the other plants. The graceful dwarf anemone seemingly fit into this early scheme, their delicate blossoms giving a touch of daintiness. For the best results these should be planted in the fall six inches apart and three inches in depth. Few bulbs exceed in loveliness the Blanda-Blue, Winter Wind Flower. This is matchless in coloring, originating in the hills of Greece, and has been naturalized in this country, where it takes kindly to the soil and produces flowers of charming hue. A feature of this special plant is that it blossoms during the winter months as well as the early spring. You make no mistake if you place it in every development of steps in your garden. It naturalizes best in grassy places in warm soil, and it can be distinguished by its round, bulb-like roots. Should you, however, wish to have more than one variety, why not try the Bride, that puts forth a single white flower, or the single Fugens, "Irish Anemone," which is semi-double, found in shades of scarlet, blue and purple. [Illustration: MARBLE STEPS LEADING TO THE WATER IN A FORMAL GARDEN] Anyone can carry out their own idea as there are so many plants to draw from, each one of which is permissible for decorative effects. In our choosing let us not forget the Lily of the Valley. It is surely one of the most useful of our many spring flowers, pure white in coloring and delicately scented. For best development it should be planted in open ground, where it quickly spreads so that unless you wish masses of it, it will have to be separated almost every year. The Dutch Valley is an excellent kind to choose, as it sends forth so many flowering pits. This dainty little plant is a general favorite with everyone. Its sprays of drooping, white, wax-like, fragrant bells give a bit of color that is picturesque. If you are looking for evening bloom there is the �nothera or evening Primrose; this has the advantage of blooming all through the summer months. There are so many kinds, each one so beautiful that it is a difficult matter to pick out the most decorative. Of these the Arendsii is very popular, showing, as it does, a profusion of lovely rose-colored flowers, and it is to be preferred to the Speciosa. Then there is the Pilgrimi with its glorious golden clusters that seem to light the garden during the twilight hour. In your planting do not forget the Acre, or golden moss. This is a creeping variety and especially suitable for rock work. Its delicate growth makes it particularly appropriate for this use. The Vinca Minor can be mixed with this. This is evergreen, and excellent for covering or rockery, and can be combined with the Moss Pink, sometimes known as creeping phlox. This latter is in bloom in May or June. It shows broad sheets of rosy pink, white or lavender flowers, and an evergreen foliage. As it grows either in sun or shade, it is a very decorative plant to be used for step treatment. For the border can be used as a setting low, old-fashioned, hardy perennials, which are particularly adapted for grouping. In their planting use good soil, let them be placed where there is a reasonable amount of sunshine, keep them free from weeds and give them an occasional surface cultivation. It is better to set these out in the fall, so that some of them will blossom during April and May. The late blossomers, however, can be saved until early spring, like Asters, and Heleniums. In making the selection, consideration should be given to those that grow in certain settings, as while some will flourish luxuriantly in ordinary garden loam, others are not dependable unless very rich soil is given to them. For the outer border why not use hardy Candytuft (Iberis Sempervirens), which sends forth a profusion of white flowers in April or May, showing a spreading foliage that is evergreen and very attractive. With this can be grown the Rock Cress or Arabis Albida, which from April to June sends out sheets of pure white, fragrant flowers. Back of this one can plant the Fleur-de-lis. They should be given a sunny position in any kind of soil. As they come in all sorts of colors, there is no trouble in getting them to carry out the scheme that you have in hand. The Silver King, which is a silvery white with lavender shading, can be placed with the Florantina, which is light lavender, and the Pallida Dalmatica, which is lavender bloom. If you wish to carry out this color scheme further, why not try the Purpurea, which with its rich, royal purple, will make during the season one of the handsomest displays possible for a setting to the low growth decoratively used in steps. ENTRANCES [Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IS OFTEN ENTERED UNDER AN ARCH OF LATTICEWORK] CHAPTER V ENTRANCES We view our flower-plots at their best, gazing at them through the vine-clad entrance, as we glance down the gravel walk bordered on either side by masses of brilliant flowers. Involuntarily, our eyes wander along farther afield till we meet the background of trees clad in verdant foliage, a fitting setting for the picture laid out in patches of color, fitting into the canvas with a well-defined plan. We can but feel as we stand looking down on this paradise of flowers that we are thankful for the thought that first created gardens. When they came into existence it is hard to determine, for mention is found of flowers and the traditions of wonderful gardens, laid out long before man had chiseled the hieroglyphics depicted on Egyptian tombs. The love of flowers is a heritage handed down from generation to generation. Homer, when speaking of Laertes, trying in vain to find consolation in his flowers, while mourning the departure of Telemachus, goes on to show us that great men turn to gardens to heal sorrow. Philosophy was taught by Epicurus surrounded by his beloved pupils among the flowers. From the early Greeks the Romans took their first lesson in floriculture. It was after their invasion of Brittany that they introduced certain flowers and fruits, like grapes, roses and violets, into English gardens. The art of gardening advanced steadily, reaching its zenith in good Queen Elizabeth's time, when there were in England many pleasing gardens, formal and stiff, to be sure, but a fit setting for the architecture of that day. While the garden designs abounded in beautiful walks and flowers, yet the entrance to the grounds formed as it were the key-note to it all. Has it ever occurred to you, as you stood hesitating at the portals of the gardens, that these were suggestive of some well-thought-out plan, as like grim sentinels they stand guarding the flower treasures? There is as much contrast in this part of the plan as there is in the design itself. Here we find a narrow, forbidding entrance, giving no glimpse of the flowers within; again we come to a wide, welcoming one, beckoning, as it were, for us to pass through the portals and gaze with delight on the beauties hinted at beforehand and now disclosed to the eye. For Colonial treatment there is nothing more dignified or stately than the square wooden posts, inclosing a locust inner one. They are built of white pine, one of the most lasting woods to be found in our country, and are Colonial or Georgian in design. Many of them are ornamental, topped with balls, urns, or torch devices and with elaborate hand-carving, so wonderful in its design that architects copy them in their modified Colonial houses of to-day. This was the work of one of the most noted wood-carvers in our country, Samuel McIntyre, whose name is a household word to architects and landscape designers all over the country. There are two ways of treating the entrance. One of them is by adding an ornamental gate, corresponding in type with that of the posts. The other is to leave the posts gateless; while both are correct, yet the former way is more often used as it lends an air of privacy to the ground. It also helps out the effect planned by giving a touch of picturesqueness that would be otherwise lacking. A much too common mistake is the introduction of Southern architecture into Northern gateways; the lines and details do not always conform with the type of the house. Most of these gates are hung by iron or brass hinges, but the earliest ones use the strap hinge, which carries out the Colonial idea. The difficulty with the strap hinge is that it is not always strong enough to hold the gates without sagging, and the wider the entrance the heavier the strain. While the design varies, yet rarely do we find one constructed in the seventeenth century that is not simple and with picket effects. The pickets have pointed tops and are sometimes irregularly spaced, while the brace often shows an artistic curve. Occasionally, we find the posts yoked, through a connecting arch. This is often latticed and if rightly designed adds to the ornamental effect. An old lantern is sometimes an attractive feature. The arch should be painted to match the color of the posts, a very good combination for this use is pure white lead, or zinc, combined with linseed oil. If you do not care to mix it yourself it can be bought ready for use. For the best effects, a thin coat should be used at first and it depends upon how easily it is covered as to how many coats to apply. If you wish to give a better finish, have an excess of turpentine over linseed oil in the last coat. There is more economy in covering it properly at first, as otherwise it will have to be re-painted each year. With the evolution of garden culture has come a similar change in the design and material used to form our entrances. On the large estates of to-day, rarely if ever, do we find the ornamental Colonial. It would be as much out of place as if the mistress of the house affected silken brocades with wig and patches. The white paling fence, unless for simple cottages, has entirely gone out of style and in its place we find cement walls. Often these are topped with a coping of limestone. The gate-posts, being formed over strong locust posts that have been driven firmly into the ground, are supported by brick or cement foundation. Where the mansion shows in exterior brick, often with trimmings of limestone, the same idea is worked out in the wall. In cases like this an ornamental iron gate, hung on staples, supercedes the simple Colonial ones of former days. Occasionally, the name of the estate is interwoven in the ornamentation, or sometimes it is carved on the stone entrance posts. Natural material is coming more and more to be used and we find a rubble wall, constructed from stone and boulders picked up on the grounds, left often rough, and again filled in with red cement to make it more stable. The rubble wall is generally topped with cement laid perfectly flat. The entrance posts follow this same line of treatment and while they are often left hollow for several inches down, these are packed solidly inside with small rocks to keep them in place. The excavation is filled in with rich soil and bright blossoming plants introduced. This gives a bit of color scheme that is very effective as a foil for the cold gray of the stone. Vines are often planted at the foot of the posts, the turf being dug away for several inches, and rich loam introduced to better insure their growth. It depends entirely upon how heavy one wishes the covering to be as to the kind of vine planted. If it is the idea to hide it effectively from sight and produce massing of green, an entirely different planting should be made than if it was intended to have a delicate coloring of green that would only enhance the color of the background. [Illustration: A FINE DECORATIVE IRON GATEWAY] Right combinations are very important in this line of work. It would be foolish to use woodwork combined with heavy stone or iron. It is sometimes in better form to have wide slabs of granite or cement defining several layers of brick. The height and width naturally depend upon what it intends to imply. Low piers of masonry capped with a pointed effect should stand by themselves without any planting, as the latter often disfigures architectural effects. It is not always necessary that this feature of the exterior should be conspicuous, more particularly if the posts are constructed of wood. Treat them to a light creosote stain, thus giving a picturesque background for the overlapping vines. Sometimes combinations work out well in producing artistic results. With a rough stone pillar, it is sometimes in good taste to introduce gateways of oak, which while effective under certain conditions, are very bad under others. These are much more attractive the second year, when they have weathered to a picturesque pearly gray. This color harmonizes delightfully, not only with the walls but with the flowers and their foliage. An important thing that should not be forgotten is the use of wooden pegs and copper nails, neither of which are injured by rain. If you choose to use a wire fence, let the gate-post and gates correspond for it is far better than to combine materials inharmoniously. They are not only practical but light and in their construction there is a chance to work into the scheme ornamental designs. Do not finish this with a square box top, rather give it a bit of ornamentation such as a ball or a lantern. There can be had to-day so many ornamental lanterns, constructed of wrought iron, that they can be purchased in almost any type desired. It is far better not to cover the posts with vines and thus conceal the beauty of the work. The most effective way would be to build up wire arches and plant rambler roses back of the posts for them to run on. The Sweet Briar, if one is looking for perfume, is desirable. They can be purchased in single and semi-double flowers, created through the developing and crossing of the old-fashioned variety. Rambler roses are always in good taste. It is better to plant three or four kinds that show harmonious coloring. There is the Lord Penzance, a soft fawn, turning to lemon yellow in the center. This is particularly adaptable for covering arches as it is a strong grower and abundant blossomer. The Meg Merrilies fits into this color scheme, putting forth gorgeous crimson flowers during the six weeks of its flowering. Combine with these the Brenda, and you will find that this mixture lends a brightness that is very effective. Many people object to roses on account of their many enemies. One of the most common is the powdery mildew. This is easily distinguished by a powdery growth of white that is found on both leaves and shoots. Use sulphur very freely, and you will find it disappear. The stem cancer is a serious disease, and it is found on both the cane and the branches. In dealing with this the grower must not be afraid to use the pruning knife vigorously, so that the diseased parts can be thoroughly removed, in this way preventing spreading and the ruin of the vine. From the time of its planting the rambler needs constant attention, but it brings its own reward, in that there is no vine that can equal it in beauty. The advantage of having a variety of colors instead of one is readily seen, for it prevents a large mass of one individual color. There is a pleasure indescribable felt by lovers of plants when designing any feature of their grounds. This is particularly true with the gate and the planting. They must bear in mind, however, the true purpose of gates and their proper use on country estates. It is designed as a means of ingress, and as such, should be suited to the type of mansion. Therefore, into its plan should be worked the atmosphere of the residence as well as the characteristics of the surrounding country. For instance, a wooden fence and gate-post would be entirely inappropriate if one were dealing with a beautiful summer estate where the house was to be built of brick. Compositions should not be carelessly used and it should be remembered that there is great danger in our zeal for producing something unique, of going to the other extreme and giving an over-ornamental creation. One cannot be too particular in making the entrance and the adjoining fence accord with the idea one is trying to bring out in the whole plan. The driveway is of fully as much importance as the entrance. It should be kept scrupulously neat and free from weeds. To have it at its best it should be thoroughly under-drained, and for this the open-joint drain tile is advisable. It should be laid under ground and connected, if possible, with the sewer. Properly attended to, this keeps the road-bed dry and in good condition. The bed itself should be dug down for several feet, a foundation of earth from six to ten inches should be laid, over which can be thrown a layer six inches thick of either broken limestone or chopped trap rock. Cover the whole with a screening of limestone and finish it with gravel. Have it rolled hard and you realize the advantage as the season ends. The drive should be sufficiently wide for carriages to pass through without besmearing your gate-posts with mud and dust. One should realize that the driveway is in reality a foot-path enlarged, and should always be kept immaculate. The gate, if you wish to prevent its sagging, should open in the center. A two-part gate gives often a better effect than one long one. Nothing equals iron, which can be treated in so many different ways that there is little danger of repetition in design. The capping is as important as the post itself. Simple square box treatment is advisable in some cases. Balls fit into the scheme on some estates, while Colonial urns are in keeping with wooden posts and lantern effects belong to iron gateways. The latter, of course, are effective for lighting at night. Gas pipes can be laid under the roadway, connected with the ornamentation in such a way that they can be turned on from the house. In many entrances, side gates, similar to the main ones have been inserted, which relieve the main entrance from use by pedestrians. They can be so laid out as not to interfere with the use of the motor cars. They should be separated from the main driveway by a turf border and covered with gravel. Planting is very effective for this feature of the ground, and trees, that is if the right sort are chosen, are admirable, used in this connection. White birches lend a picturesqueness that cannot be equaled, but they are short-lived. The elm with its graceful branches seems to fit into every landscape scheme. Do not plant them too near the posts. If you do, their roots will reach out often causing upheaval and creating havoc. For best effects the trees should be used outside rather than inside the entrance. In the latter case they are too apt to cut off the view. [Illustration: A SUCCESSFUL ENTRANCE TO A FORMAL GARDEN] Many people prefer a hedge and this can be planted either with or without a fence. Arbor-vitae is practical for such use as is the Buckthorn and the Berberis Thunbergii (Thunberg's Japanese Barberry). This is a Japanese hedge with round, drooping habit. It leaves out in a fine brilliant green during the summer months and from autumn until December takes on a wonderful showing of color. During the winter months the branches, loaded with scarlet crimson berries, make an effective contrast with the white of the snow. Its value as a hedge is because it is impenetrable and thickly set with spines, never growing bare. The most popular shrub for hedge treatment is Privet-Ligustrum. It is very ornamental with a rich dark green foliage that is nearly evergreen and remains on the plant until late winter. It is a good grower under the most adverse circumstances. In order to form the most effective hedge it should be planted from ten to twelve inches apart and pruned back during the first two seasons. The Ampelopsis Arborea woodbine is useful for entrances. It is a distinct variation from the other forms, making a spreading bush rather than a strong climber. Its leaves are dark green and comparatively coarse, and its autumn coloring is superb. The Boston Ivy clings even to wood, its fine shoots cover walls and while it requires some covering during the first two or three winters of its life, yet it pays. In the fall, nothing can be so gorgeous as the varied colored tints of its foliage. The Clematis Paniculata should never be forgotten. It is a rapid and vigorous climber and can be depended upon to clothe large spaces quickly. Originally, it was introduced from Japan and is allied to our native Virgin's Bower. The flowers are effective, borne in long panicles which are white and their fragrance is perceptible a long distance away. They open the latter part of August, staying in bloom for nearly a month. Combined with this should be the Clematis Coccinea (Scarlet Clematis), whose showy bell-shape, brilliant scarlet flowers are produced in great profusion. The Wisteria is adapted to almost any purpose and can be used picturesquely on many types of entrances. The Wisteria Magnifica is admirable and resembles Frutescens, but it varies from it in that the clusters are larger and denser while the yellow lilac colored flowers have yellow spots. Among the other vines it is well to plant some that will give a touch of color during the dark, cold days of winter when the vines lie barren and bare, their leafless branches swaying in the wind. Why not use for that the Celastrus Scandens (Bitter Sweet or Wax Work). It is one of our native climbing plants and can be found in almost any part of the New England woods, a rapid grower, with attractive, light green foliage and yellow flowers, followed by bright orange red berries that are cheering in the fall and lead us to forget the shedding of the foliage by the other vines. In order to hide the base of the vine, ferns can be planted. It is better to use the hardy varieties rather than the more tender ones, although a combination of the two is always attractive. Take, for instance, the Adiantum Croweanum, which is one of the hardiest of the maiden hair species. This, like every other of its kind, should be well watered and fertilized, grown in a rich, open soil, with plenty of leaf mould. There is nothing difficult in their culture and they need absolutely no attention after planting. The Polypodium Vulgare, which is evergreen, showing smooth, shiny fronds resembling the Boston fern, is another that is adapted for this purpose. With these can be combined the Comptonia, or Sweet Fern, a native plant with fern-like, dark green scented foliage, very useful for foliage massing on rocky, barren places, and thriving best in dry, sterile soil. There are many more varieties and it would be impossible to mention them all. They are, each and every one, suitable for adding to the beauty of private gardens and estates. BIRD BATHS [Illustration: THE CENTRAL FEATURE OF THE GARDEN MAY BE A BIRD-BATH] CHAPTER VI BIRD BATHS John Burroughs, in his description of a garden, has told us that "To love the birds, to appreciate their place in the landscape," is one of the most important things. It does much to bring happiness into our lives. In the forming of a perfect garden, many things are requisite and among them are birds, flowers, bees, and the flashing butterfly who darts joyously from flower to flower, a thing of beauty and perishable as the day. Should anyone doubt the truth of these assertions, let him seat himself in some retired spot during a beautiful day in the month of roses. He can then listen to the song of the birds, caroling as they sway on the branches of the trees above our heads, nestling at our feet, or hidden away deep down in the heart of the flower beds. Birds are everywhere, they flit in and out of the garden, sipping sweet nectar from the blossoming plants, and flaunting their bright colors when catching the sunshine as they swing by. God made nothing more interesting than birds and man should care for them, giving them a distinctive place in his garden, realizing that through their industry they free the plants from harmful insects and slugs. The birds can be coaxed into anyone's garden, that is, if care is taken in proper planting, giving to the plots trees and plants that they love. Under the rose bushes place a bath, where they can come and preen their plumage, but if possible have it placed beyond the reach of intruding cats. When the custom of providing drinking cups to quench the thirst of our native birds first came into fashion, it is hard to determine. Perchance, it was in the early days when in 1621, the colonists built rail fences, to enclose their separate lots. Over these they trained the wild morning glory and sweet-scented honeysuckle, the perfume of which doubtless carried them back to the beautiful English gardens that still existed in their native land. Doubtless, during the life of William Penn, when he encouraged the laying out of old English gardens, he included in the design a planting to attract bird life. This was still further encouraged when the first botanical garden came into existence in 1728 through the thought of Bertram Bartran, of Philadelphia. He was a man who had traveled much and was thoroughly versed in the art of floriculture. In his garden he planted rare and practical seeds partly for the mere joy of carrying out his own whims. This garden, like many others, was individual in its planting, a quality that lent to it an additional charm. During the early seventeenth century there were imported into seaport towns principally at Salem, Massachusetts, unique bird baths. They came packed in among the cargo that was stowed away in the holds of the slow sailing ships that plied continuously between Singapore and the New England shores. Many of these were the result of orders given by the ship owners who wanted to set them in their posy beds, laid out at the rear of their stately homes. Rare were these shells with their fluted framework, and hard to find, yet so spacious that a whole colony of feathered songsters could hold concourse within their pearly depths. Underneath the shade of the drooping lilac, they peered out at us from the time the melting of the snow released the snow drops from their icy cover, thus allowing them to lift up their pure white heads as if in rejoicing to be free, to be followed later on by the gay little crocuses, clad in their gowns of many hues. Few of these baths are still in existence. We come across them occasionally, however, in old-fashioned gardens where they are treasured for sentiment's sake. Just as the rustic bird houses, constructed of weathered boards, and with floor covering of powdered sawdust or ground cork, have become a necessity in the twentieth-century garden, tempting the summer sojourners to rest their weary wings; so we must strive to create a homelike atmosphere so attractive to the little songsters that they will delight in revelling among the many flowers that are planted here. A barren waste of land has no pleasure for them, neither has a garden shorn of their favorite plants. There is no need of being deterred from using a feature such as this. A bird bath need not be expensive, just a simple box, zinc-lined and painted to correspond with the surroundings. The birds are not fussy as to the exterior of their outdoor bathroom; all they wish is comfort and a cooling drink during the hot summer days, when the dew has faded from the grass, and the sun hangs high in the heavens. It is then that all nature is panting from excessive heat. A simple zinc pan, large and wide enough, filled with fresh water daily, is as satisfactory to them, as a marble pool standing in the heart of the garden and surrounded by a bed of brilliant flowers. Place this pan in the heart of a grassy knoll, at the edge of the garden proper and watch results. You will not have long to wait before softly tripping through the grass or dropping from their leafy covert, one by one, they show their gratitude by revelling in the bath thus placed for their use. The most common type, if you wish to buy a bird bath, is the cement one. It can be modeled in any shape and to follow any line of treatment that you prefer. The simple, plain, low-lying ones are suitable for placing under the shadowy bush or tree. Hand carving would be as much out of place on a bath such as this, as if one used an expensive silver bowl for their benefit. To be sure a little ornamentation, simply worked out, makes them more artistic. This can be accomplished through proper planting. A delicate fern unfolding its fronds and drooping until it almost touches the water is appropriate, as is a low-lying pine that adds a bit of shade which is truly appreciated by your little visitors who perch on the curb, after shaking off the dust from their wings in the water below, and pour out their gratitude in a melody of song. For ornament why not use a cement bath that is shaped like a large vase. It makes an interesting feature in your twentieth-century garden, and gives a chance to depict a favorite flower from which the garden takes its name. Rising stately and dignified from their floral bed, showing wonderful and delicate carving, are marble baths exquisitely shaped and resting on a shaft of the same material. These are fitting for an Italian or a formal garden. They seem to blend in with an elaborate architectural scheme such as we find in the planning for the decoration of a large area. There is no particular place where they seemingly do not fit in. They are effective used as a central figure and surrounded with a circle of well-chosen blossoming plants and they harmonize in the landscape scheme even if used apart from the main gardens or designed to occupy a niche in the wall. Here they are just as enjoyable as if they stood prominently forth, the main axis around which the rest of the garden revolves. [Illustration: A WELL-PLACED BIRD-BATH] They can be made much more picturesque if one trains over their side a delicate vine whose tendrils cling to the foundation and bring out the color effectively. Plant for the birds' enjoyment and combine with this feature decorative beds, using not the strong colors, but the delicate, dainty, pink, blue, white and lavender, of the many varieties that are suitable for this purpose. Do not let the base of your expensive bird bath rest on the earth, rather place under it a pedestal of marble, granite, or cement. It need not be conspicuous, a growth of turf, the planting of an ivy or some other vine, will add much to its attractiveness, making an artistic foundation for it. Whoever lays out his garden plot with a thought of thorough enjoyment, he who looks forward to sitting under the vine, will take special thought of the birds. He will endeavor even if he is an amateur not to make an ugly muddle in his planting, but aim for picturesque garden vistas, and have his flowers properly balanced so they will show harmonious massing of colors. One should be as careful not to give sun-loving plants a shady place, as to put the shy little flowers in the glaring sunlight. It is a necessity if you are a bird lover, or if you wish to rid your plants of insects and your grounds of worms, to attract the birds. This can be accomplished by giving them not only proper planting but the right place where they may enjoy their daily bath. If you wish the best results, seek shade rather than sunshine. Our little friends prefer shelter to warmth, so cater to their taste in the placing of their drinking pool. It is rather important that you seek a spot, just near enough to the grounds to be companionable, there to place a mulberry tree. There is no fruit that is more to their mind than this and it will be a source of delight to watch the shyest birds reward you by flaunting their colors before you as they flit in and out, feeding off the berries so temptingly displayed for their exclusive use. It is a mistake to look upon the robin as common and a pest. This fact has been firmly fixed in our minds through his thieving qualities. When you consider that he has been known to devour as many as seventy worms a day, and multiply that by the voracity of his mate and his children, you will then commence to realize what a benefit he is to your garden. Try and cajole him into being a friend, and entice him to nest in the heart of your flower patch. Listen to his song; there is a mellow quality to his voice and he can put more expression into his music than any other bird. There is a flash of color and a burst of sweet melody, listen--there is a scarlet tanager, singing love songs to his mate. He is a veritable bird of Paradise and once sported fearlessly among our trees, but has now grown shy through being used as a target for the sportsman's gun. Cultivate him by all means. Toll him into your garden. Darting in and out of the garden one finds the humming bird, so tiny that he measures only from three and a half to three and three-quarters inches, the smallest bird in our country. There is a glint of color as he dashes fearlessly from flower to flower, his brilliant metallic throat and breast sparkling in the sunlight like a precious gem. The trumpet flowers with their deep cup-shape blossoms are his special delight, although he never scorns the sweet-scented flowers that he finds on every side. For a moment he poises in the air motionless, sighting his flower, then winging his flight, he drains the nectar, uttering a shrill little squeak of delight, as he spies some especially fat aphides on the garden foliage. These he shoots off like a streak of lightning rapidly searching for more food. How to attract the birds is a question that all bird lovers are seeking to answer. It is such a simple matter that you do not have to look far afield to obtain what you wish. There are many fruit-growing shrubs each one of which is suitable for his majesty's needs. These should be planted somewhere in the garden. If you prefer them surrounding the bird bath, you will have more chance for bird study, but they will come without that if you give them a chance and plenty of edible berries all the year round. The red berried elder is one of their favorites, as is the Canadensis or common elder, which flowers in June, and shows reddish purple berries during the autumn; then there is the Arbutifolia or red chokeberry. This is a native dwarf shrub, which is particularly tempting to the feathered tribe. When planning for this feature, one should remember that these bird-attracting shrubs should not be planted with only one idea in view. They should be made to form a part of the decorative plan, and the situation chosen should be among flowers that would bring out its artistic value, far more than if they were grouped in a mass. One is apt, in their enthusiasm in arranging their garden for the birds' benefit, to forget that attractive color schemes must be worked out, otherwise it will be a heterogeneous mass that will be an eye-sore rather than a pleasure. [Illustration: AN ORNAMENT DELIGHTFULLY USED TO MARK THE OPENING OF PATHS THROUGH WOODS] There is very little choice as to what kind of flowers to mix with the shrubs. Take it all in all, the perennials stand first. The reason for this is that they are more suitable for this purpose than annuals, which have to be re-planted every year. Like the shrubs the perennials die down in the fall and re-appear when the breath of spring sweeps over the land, in greater profusion and showing added vigor through having conserved their strength by resting during the winter months. You are very foolish if you have taken no thought for the future life of your shrub or perennial. Once planted they do not take care of themselves and if neglected it only means the survival of the fittest. Different species require different treatment, and a great many kinds need to be subdivided every two or three years. The scarlet and crimson Phlox, Spirea, and many other varieties should never be left longer than two years, they should then be carefully gone over and an experienced hand should determine how much should be left and what removed. If you have planting of Iris, Shaster daisies, and Veronicas, they can readily wait until the third year. The ground is of just as much importance as the planting. Just because you wish to grow flowers and shrubs, you must remember that they must have food to live on, that this food must be properly prepared and contain plenty of nourishment, otherwise you will have spent money and time for naught. First of all comes fertilizing. Doubtless, in some part of the ground you can find a corner that will be the proper place for the compost heap. In its selection, it is better that it should be concealed by shrubs or trellis, vine covered. It would be a blot in the landscape if you treated it otherwise. Every time you rake over the lawn or weed the garden, throw into a large basket the refuse and let it form part of the compost heap. The foundation for this should be plenty of manure and this, to be at its best, must be well rotted and mixed in with other material to lighten and bring about better results. You will be surprised, that is if you have never tried it, to see how quickly it grows. Almost before you know it you have enough to use in the garden next year. No matter how rich it is, a liberal amount of coarse bone meal added will pay in the end. Your fertilizer ready, as early as possible in the spring dig your ground to the depth of eighteen or more inches. It is better if the earth is pulverized; some people go so far as to sift it. Next put in your fertilizer, mixing it with the earth previously removed. Give it time to settle before planting and you will never be dissatisfied with results. Opinions vary as to proper time for planting perennials. Many people feel that the spring is the safest. It is foolish to follow this plan unless it can be accomplished as soon as the frost is well out of the ground. Many of them are likely to die. Therefore, if you pot them in the fall, and winter them under glass, the result will be much more satisfactory. It is simply the working out of the garden lover's idea as to what is correct and what incorrect as to the time of planting. Many kinds are better massed. This applies to the Sweet William, the Hollyhock, Delphinium, and other varieties, that seemingly belong to the same family. The hardy Asters, which are late flowering, are invaluable for massing. They burst into blossom at a period when the early frosts have lolled the more tender plants, making their bright hues a dominant feature in the garden. It is better to shade colors than to plant one variety. For September and October blossoming why not use the Abendrote or Evening Glow? It has a bright rosy red flower and is a very free bloomer. Mix with that the Glory of Colwall, which is ageratum blue, showing double flowers, grown on stout, erect stems. The pink of the blossom contrasts admirably with the rosy red. The White Queen will mix with these two colors very effectively. This is a pure, splendid white and comes into blossom at the same season of the year. A very interesting way of treating the defining line of the garden proper is by a low hedge. Many of these are berry bearing, thus working into the bird scheme. The Hawthorn Oxyacantha is well suited for this purpose. It is used in England for hedges and during the time of its blossoming shows a pure white, sweet-scented flower followed by a scarlet fruit. The Berberis is excellent for hedging. It blooms in the summer and is succeeded by a bright colored fruit that lasts into the winter. Once interested in this feature of garden culture, by careful study one will realize what an inexhaustible theme it becomes. Color shades in berries often help out landscape effects in winter, therefore it is best not to plant promiscuously. GARDEN SEATS [Illustration: A FORMAL GARDEN SEAT] CHAPTER VII GARDEN SEATS The ever-changing tide of fashion brings in its wake a constant development of new and original ideas in the furnishing of our garden plots. Flowers have been with us ever since the first settlement of our country and so has a love for life in the open. This is an inheritance that has deepened with the passing years. So rapidly has this developed that to-day it demands our gardens as living rooms. It is this aspect of garden life that develops new and unusual features in equipment. While we may flatter ourselves that we as garden lovers have originated this idea, yet it is of ancient origin. History relates that in the gardens of the early Romans and Greeks, garden seats were found. With the changing of styles in floral-culture the ornate came into existence, much used during the Italian Renaissance. Reproductions of their ideas are found in replica in many of the formal gardens of the twentieth century. Logs, carelessly thrown on the ground, may have been the first seats used by our garden ancestors. Later on with the development of the one-path posy bed, seats were hollowed out of old trees. They formed a picturesque bit, clothed during the summer months in their garments of green, for trailing vines were encouraged to run rampant over their sides. These with the green arbor or pergola and the vine-clad summer house were the three styles of seats favored by the Colonial dames. Styles and usage of furniture in this special way are as clearly defined as in interior decoration. The modern garden equipped with English, American or Italian furniture, gives a pleasing variety. The principal materials necessary for manufacture are stone, marble, terra cotta or wood. Of these, the latter suggests less expense, while the former can be purchased at any sum you wish. Stone or marble are absolutely necessary in formal or Italian gardens, as they provide a proper medium for expression that nothing else would satisfy. Look at the gleam of the white marble shown up by its background of green trees and see what a charm it has in the furnishing of your garden plot. Take it all in all, it is the only right setting for an elaborate garden, partly on account of its being a descendant of the Italian Renaissance period which makes it desirable in designs that follow out the character of that period. Rarely, if ever, do we find this simple in form, but rather elaborately carved with representations of animals or figures. As an ornamental feature, it cannot be excelled, but as a garden seat it is not practical, being cold and hard to sit upon. Properly speaking, it should be placed at the head of a walk or topping the garden steps. This is on account of its decorative character and the necessity of making it fit into the floral scheme. The price is prohibitive except to the rich, although it varies with the elaboration of the carving. Terra cotta, while not as often used, has its advantages. It can be moulded readily into any form desired. While it is not always suitable, yet its warmth of color, which is either buff or red, makes it admirable when one desires to bring out certain effects in the planting of beds. It is, perhaps, the least used of any of the materials. A seat four feet in length can be purchased for from forty dollars upwards. Concrete seats are the kind that are most commonly used for formal and informal gardens. We should remember, however, that we must not mix formal and informal furniture promiscuously, otherwise the result will be disastrous. One should bear in mind in treating this subject that formal pieces resemble well-bred people. They fit suitably into any place in their surroundings. It is far different, however, with informal pieces which are entirely wrong and out of place in formal settings. This fact applies to concrete which is suitable for almost any occasion for it possesses almost endless possibilities as far as form is concerned. Rightly mixed, it can be moulded into almost any shape that you desire, which accounts for the fact that in its designs many of the elaborate garden seats are copied. This makes it popular and constantly in demand, on account of its less cost. To all intents and purposes, it is quite as durable as stone or marble. It has still another advantage, in that its neutral gray tint harmonizes picturesquely with almost any setting of shrubbery or flowers. The least expensive of any of the materials that is used for this purpose is wood. It has this advantage, that it can be formed in such a great variety of shapes that there is always found some piece that is suitable for every taste and occasion. If you contrast it with marble or stone, you will realize that it has the advantage of being lighter in weight, and capable of being carried around from place to place with little or no trouble. Take it all in all, the best place for it to be at home in is the informal garden. The kind of garden that most of us live in and enjoy intimately is the plot where wooden settles and chairs are used. Care should be taken, however, in the selection of material in order that it may have lasting qualities. One reason for its use is that unlike marble and stone it is not cold to sit upon, and is really comfortable. The best kind of wood, if you can afford it, is teakwood, which lasts for centuries. It is the most expensive, particularly the antique pieces. Those of to-day are shoddily put together and cannot resist weathering as do the century-old ones. Many people prefer pine on account of less cost. This is all right, provided great care is taken to keep it well covered with paint of the glossy kind. The advantage of this over the other is that it can be readily wiped clean before using. Anyone who is a garden lover will appreciate this fact, for no matter how carefully placed, the seats will accumulate a reasonable amount of leaves and dirt. Plain settles and benches which belong to the informal type can be placed anywhere, according to inclination. These need not, of necessity, be made of plain wooden strips, but can be varied by making them rustic in design. Use for this purpose limbs of the same size without removing the bark. They require so little work in putting them together that a village carpenter can accomplish this task, or if you are a genius you can do it yourself. An objection which many people offer is that they need repairing often, or replacing. Considering the cost, this is not a serious objection. For a simple Colonial cottage, such pieces as these would be appropriate for use in your garden and you can add a tea table and a few chairs suggestive of afternoon tea, the position being determined by views, for the placing is of as much importance as the piece itself. If possible, have low-growing trees droop over it to give the required shade. [Illustration: A SIMPLE AND ATTRACTIVE GARDEN SEAT] For the elegant mansion, the home of the wealthy, more elaborate pieces are a necessity. One thing should not be forgotten in their choice and that is they should be heavy enough to stay on the ground and resist the strong northeast winds that during a heavy rain sweep over your flower-plot. Flagstone sometimes gives a variety as well as limestone, but there are several other materials that give a pleasing color and texture, such as the pink granite and the red, black and green slates. Of these, the red is most effective when streaked with another color. Do not choose the Quincy granite; the texture is cold in appearance and the weather never softens the color. A fault that must not be overlooked is to build your seats too high, thirteen inches being the proper height. The back should always be taken into consideration and made tall enough to support the head so that you will be comfortable when you come to view your garden plot. It is not always possible to have this piece of furniture placed under the shade of a tree or shrubbery. This necessitates the planning of a summer house, arbor or pergola. Over these, vines can be trained, so that in reality it is much more picturesque than if you had used simply the green shade. Chairs can be used for this same purpose, in fact, they are very good as they provide a variation of the general theme. They are particularly advisable if it is a backyard garden where a settle might prove too overpowering. Like the garden seat, they can be made of wood. Cedar and locust are preferable if you wish pretty rustic effects. Cypress also is lasting, and if you prefer to give it a coat of paint, it will do service for many years. For rustic chairs or seats, there is another idea for shelter that is practical. It is to roof it over and shingle the board. It has advantages over anything else in that it affords protection from the summer sun and acts as a windbreak on cold days, besides doing away with the dropping of insects from the leafy tangle of an arbor. No matter how charming a garden may be in its floral arrangement, it requires additions and accessories to display to the best advantage its worth. Just as a house is cozy or barren according to the style of furniture employed, so a garden is beautiful in proportion to the type of ornaments used. Probably the coming into style of the formal Italian type of garden has done much to develop this feature. Until late years, scant heed was paid to fitness, and in consequence much of the old-time charm found in the Colonial garden was lost. When planning for your garden seat or chair, take into consideration the planting. In your choice of colors you should vary the scheme to fit in with the particular seat. A white requires different surroundings from a gray or a rustic type. Wrong coloring brings about inharmonious effects and they should be carefully considered in the making a perfect whole. Another thing should be thought out and that is as to whether there is a shade provided by the over-hanging limbs of a tree or by the trailing of vines. Vines are always interesting. You can use them in a mass, showing one general effect, or you can combine them. Nothing is so pretty in the early spring as the Wisterias, on account of their being not only hardy, but tall growers. Many people claim the best varieties are those grafted on to specially selected stock, thus making them sure bloomers. The soil should also be taken into consideration, for while they thrive in light, sandy conditions, yet deep, rich earth promotes stronger growth. The Magnifica is, perhaps, as vigorous as any. It is such a rapid grower that it shoots up from thirty to forty feet in a season. It blossoms rather later than some varieties which show soft, lavender blue blooms. Why not mix this with the Chinese white, whose pure white flowers show long, drooping clusters. If you are looking for foliage in the early fall, the Vitis Henryana can be used. Its leaves are decorative in effect, being a velvety green with veins of silvery white. It is of Chinese origin and in the fall the foliage turns to a beautiful red. For July and August blossoming, there is the Bignonia Grandiflora or Mammoth-flowered Trumpet creeper. This is a splendid climbing vine, perfectly hardy, giving a growth of from eight to ten feet in a season. Its flowers, which are shown during July and August, are orange red and trumpet-shaped, following as they do after the Wisteria has faded, they bring about an entirely different color scheme. This makes it practical for one to plant a succession of bloom, making each set of flowers correspond with the coloring of the vines. A very pleasing contrast can be brought out by combining the magnolia-scented White Moon Flower, with a beautiful Blue Dawn. The former is a summer climber, growing from fifteen to twenty feet in height. It makes a beautiful shade for trellises and bears in the season a profusion of large trumpet-shape snow-white flowers that are richly scented and very beautiful. There is also a heavenly blue that combines artistically with the white. One feature of this vine is its thick, overlapping, glossy foliage, and its nightly scores of immense silky blooms which are of rare fragrance. By actual count a strong vine will bear from one to three thousand blossoms in a season. There has within the last few years been discovered a new variety that opens early in the morning and remains so nearly all day. The beautiful blue of the Paradise Flower is used when one wishes for this color in decorations. The clusters are large, showing from twenty to thirty at a time and it blossoms continually from the time it becomes established until frost. For a rustic seat, why not try the wild grape or Crimson Glory vine? It is so strong and hardy, notable for its heavy foliage which makes a splendid shade and in the fall is a mass of rich crimson. We have grown to think of morning glories as a pretty, small flower that grew in our grandmother's garden. Many of us have not realized that they have been developed until now they show gigantic bloom as large as the moon flowers. They have wonderful coloring, marking and variations of indescribable beauty. As a flowering vine they cannot be surpassed, the flowers being borne by the hundreds and of enormous size, measuring often five and six inches across. Many show a rich combination of shading blended together in an enchanting way, being spotted, penciled, mottled, and variegated in every conceivable manner. [Illustration: STATELY LILIES ADD CHARM AND DIGNITY TO A GRAVELLED WALK] If your garden seat is low, let your planting follow the same line, but if it is high and conspicuous, it can be accentuated by tall plants. Hollyhocks, with their stately stalks, are charming for this particular use. There is the hardy perennial with the foliage dwarf and compact. This is found in the Heuchera, which is easily grown from seed and reaches a height of eighteen inches. Of this variety, the Sanguinea is admirable, being the finest of all the red varieties, the flowers taking on the shade of coral red. If you wish, instead of a solid color, to make a combination, why not use the Sanguinea, Sutton's Hybrid, which is found in pretty shades of pink, as well as creamy white, rose and crimson. These blossom in July and August, their stately, well-filled cups, giving a distinction to the seat that could not well be missed. Fleur-de-lis, sometimes spoken of as the Fairy Queen's home, is always satisfactory and never fails to bloom. No flower can surpass this in delicacy of texture and coloring, and it rivals even the orchids of the tropics in its beauty. They thrive in almost every soil, being one of the easiest plants to cultivate, although a fairly rich earth will materially increase the number and size of the bloom. In planting them, nearly cover the rhizomes. The earliest flowering ones are the Germans, which come into bloom the latter part of May or early in June. These are followed by the Japan variety which follow closely on the former and stay in blossom for a month. Of the German, the Lohengrin is the most vigorous, deep violet mauve in coloring, and the flowers are nearly five inches deep, showing petals two inches across. In direct contrast is the Princess Victoria Louise, light sulphur yellow or rich violet red, edged with crimson, both of which varieties are very handsome. The double Iris is particularly beautiful for some situations. There is the Antelope with white ground flaked with purple; the Diana, reddish purple flaked with white; the Mount Fell, grayish white, veined with blue and showing yellow center; and the Victor, white veined, violet blue with purple center. Each one of these is well worthy of cultivation. Nothing is so beautiful as roses, be they climbing or dwarf. For the former, why not use the Climbing Jules Graveraux, which is one of the most valuable, ever-blooming climbers ever introduced. The value of this is that the blooms are immense in size, being as large or larger than any other rose. It even exceeds the J. B. Clark. These roses are perfectly double, white, tinged with blush pink, with a yellow base. In freedom of bloom, it is superior to either Mrs. Peary or Climbing Meteor. Then there is the Empress of China or Appleblossom rose, a strong rampant grower, and a very free bloomer. The buds are pointed, being soft red, turning to lighter. It blooms from May to December in the open ground. Tea Roses, distinguished by the delicate tea fragrance, are absolutely ever-blooming. They are carried through the winter even in the northern states with careful protection. The most satisfactory method is the banking up with soil. Of these, the yellow Souvenir de Pierre Notting is the most beautiful. It has been introduced by one of the foremost firms of France and is not exceeded by any rose sent out from that country. The blossoms are large, well filled, and open easily. The buds are beautiful and elongated. When fully bloomed, they show an apricot yellow, tinged with golden and mixed with orange yellow. One charm of these flowers is that the edge of the petal shades to a beautiful carmine rose. The open flower is full and double, it being an extremely free blossomer. One of the latest introductions is the Lady Hillingdon, the color being beyond description. Apricot yellow, shaded to orange on the outer edge of the petal, and becoming deeper and more intense as it reaches the center of the bloom. The buds are produced on long, strong, wiry stems, which are placed well above the foliage, thus giving it a slender and graceful effect. It is valuable in both the amateur and professional growers' gardens. It would be impossible to enumerate the different kinds that are used for this purpose. GARDEN POOLS [Illustration: A POND-LILY POOL OF A VERY ATTRACTIVE SHAPE] CHAPTER VIII GARDEN POOLS With the revival of old-time garden features that has been brought about through interest in floriculture, fascinating specialties have been evolved. This is particularly true of the garden pool which lends itself to almost every kind of setting. It is no new idea, this introduction of pools into even small gardens. The ancient Egyptians had great reverence for pools and we read of their interest in bringing into life the sacred Lotus, giving it a prominent place in their gardens. This may be better known to moderns as "the rose lily." In the early days it was used for religious purposes and was a prominent feature in their festivals. It was also used ornamentally for feasts where the walls were decorated with the beautiful blossoms that were repeated in the centerpiece for the elaborately-spread table. Not content with this use for decorative purposes, it was made in forms of garlands that were thrown over the shoulders of the assembled guests while wreaths of the same flower crowned their brows, great care being taken that a bud or cluster of blossoms was placed in the center of the forehead. Ever since that period, we read of the constant introduction of water into gardens of every clime. While pools were not commonly used during the Colonial period, they have to-day, with the coming in of the formal and Italian gardens, grown to be one of the most interesting features. The form and the immediate surroundings have been carefully thought out and depend upon the type and the shape of the whole plan. When the mercury registers at ninety and the whirling dust rises in clouds, parching one's throat as it settles like a dingy pall on sun-burned grass and drooping foliage, it is a pleasure to come suddenly upon a pond where over-hanging plants cast lengthened shadows far over the surface. They shelter the waxen lily cups that gleam like pearls against a background of dark green pods--a perpetual joy and delight to the eye. There is no doubt but water, be it large or small in area, holds a charm for us all. How much more if it is inhabited and made beautiful through the use of aquatic plants and fish. These scattered apparently carelessly over the surface of the water add much to its picturesqueness. This is particularly true during the season of bloom when we find varied colored cups, resting on saucers of green, lifting their heads above the surface as if in delight with their surroundings. Surely when you view a pond such as this you will find a double delight in watching a flutter of wings, a hopping about on the plants and glad dipping of little bills and uplifting of heads. These are the birds that form a part of garden life and who are attracted here by the flowers and the chance of a bath. Splashing and sparkling in the sunlight, they dive into the water below, drying themselves on the large pads that float artistically on the surface. Over yonder is a large gray cat bird calling to its mate. We can but note the fine proportion, the poise of the black head and the beauty of the satin gray coat which is pruned by the hour. There is the Indigo Bird, a delightful symphony of blue and cinnamon red. He sits swinging on a lily while his musical note comes to our listening ears. The Ruby Throated Humming Bird swings noiselessly over the pond, dipping his long beak here and there to gather honey from the wide-open flowers. It depends upon the size of the pool, the shape and the finish as to the planting. It is a great mistake to have it so thickly over-spread with leaves that no water is visible. A good rule to be observed is two-thirds water and one-third lilies. This gives a chance to watch the gold fish darting in and out for food. For a small beginning of a water garden, why not try a pocket in the rock? It is a very easy matter to arrange for lilies in a case like this. All you have to do is to cement the hollow, put in your loam and plant one or two roots. It is these diminutive water gardens that attract the birds more than the large pools, and they form a charming vista in the garden scheme. Little pockets of earth can be made to surround them, and here we can plant rock-loving plants that will give a touch of picturesqueness to this cunning little scheme. The shape of the garden determines that of the pool. A square garden demands square treatment in the lay-out of your design. A round garden, to be correct, should have a circular formation for the planting of your lilies. Then, too, the treatment of the planting should be determined by the formality or informality of the plan. Great care should be taken that they are not aimlessly placed but form a part of the design. Any attempt to digress from this rule is fatal for correct composition. Great attention should be paid to the margin. It should not be stiff and formal; it should rather be broken here and there, so that there will be open spaces showing between. Copy nature in this treatment and you will not go far astray. In order to make this pool successful, one thing should never be forgotten and that is that you are dealing with sun-loving plants to whom shadow is objectionable. There is another reason why the sunshine should fall unobstructed on the pond and that is that it shows reflections that are effective, and bring cheer to your garden plot. Many people consider that stagnant pools should not exist, as they are mosquito breeders. They do not realize that the stocking of pools with both fish and plants, carefully carried out so that they are properly balanced, results in the water never being putrid but remaining fresh and sweet, making a delightful water garden that is healthful and not malaria breeding. There are two essentials if you wish your idea to be successful; first, that the bottom be water-tight and second, that it be proof against frost. While these two things are easy to accomplish, yet many people fail in them. Cement is the only proper material to be used for foundation. Some people have an idea that puddled clay is cheaper. It may be if properly handled, but great care has to be taken that it is thoroughly puddled or it melts away and your work has been for naught. Cement is the most reliable material if correctly applied. Before putting it on, the pool should be dug out to the proper depth and size. It should then be well packed for several inches with broken stone. Over this should be put Portland cement, using one part of the former to three of sand. Some people cement it for six inches while others prefer to use two coats, each three inches thick. It should never be so high that it will come above the frost line which is two and a half feet in depth. Water lilies, as well as all kinds of aquatics, will grow in any kind of good garden soil; that is, if one-fifth well-rotted manure is added to it. Possibly this is not to be obtained and if so, a quart of ground bone allowed to each bushel of soil will bring about the right results. It should be remembered that the plants should be set out so they will get the greatest exposure to the sunlight. [Illustration: A LILY POND THAT FILLS CHARMINGLY A CORNER OF A GARDEN] We have supposed that you have chosen a spot for your water garden that obtains the greatest amount of sun, also that it is sufficiently sheltered from the winds. It has been dug down from fifteen to twenty-four inches and then carefully cemented. Now you are ready to plant your pool, the soil being taken into consideration. If, by some chance, you are not able to secure the kind recommended, it can be made of three parts rotted sod and one part cow manure. Remember that it should be thoroughly rotted if you do not wish ferment in the water. Too many people take little care on this subject and then wonder at the disappointing results. Possibly there is no place for your garden pool. In that case why not use half barrels or tubs? They have the advantage of taking up very little room, can easily be sunk in the ground and are really well worth the trial. Nothing should be used that has a diameter of less than two feet and the greater the surface space the better will be the result. Tub culture requires two-thirds filling of soil and covering with sand to have it the right depth. If more than one tub is used, why not make a rockery between? It has the advantage of making another feature for your garden, besides adding picturesqueness. There are two ways of planting as well as two kinds of tubers. They can be put directly in the soil, or they can be planted in tubs or boxes that can be sunk, but the latter recommends itself as more practical. The reason for this is that they are easily removed in winter and the water is kept much cleaner when the earth is free from tubers. It must be remembered that each plant requires from eight to nine square feet of surface room so that it would be bad taste to allow too many for an individual pool. If you wish, you can make the boxes yourself, using pieces of board for that purpose. Next come the gold fish. For a tub, only two are necessary, but for a pond one hundred feet in diameter, twenty-five should be used. These fish spawn in June and have been known to breed enough to stock a large pond. There is an old theory,--doubted by many, that the old fish turn cannibals and devour their progeny. These people advise the putting of roots and stock into a tub, this is so the egg may be attached, removed, and hatched separately. In cases like this the small fish are allowed to grow considerably before being returned to the tub. There are two kinds of tubers, the tender and the hardy. The latter require practically no care during the winter months, that is, always provided the water is deep enough to allow no freezing of the crown of the plant. They should be planted about the first of May and both varieties can be given the same treatment, with the exception that the hardy variety do best when planted in soil two feet deep and covered with six inches of water. All pools should have planting in addition to the tubers of submerged plants. This is to aerate the water and keep it pure and sweet. The best kinds to be used for this purpose are Anacharis Canadensis Gigantea, and Canbomba Viridifolia, ten of them being enough for a large pool. The former is a giant water weed with dark green ovate leaves and light stems. It is a quick grower and considered by authorities to be one of the best oxygenators in existence. The latter, sometimes known as Washington grass, is also popular. It has brilliant glossy green leaves, fan-shaped and more beautiful than a delicate fern. In addition to this why not use the Ludwigia Munlerti, which is one of the prettiest submerged plants. It shows small ovate leaves that are green on the upper side and pink on the under. This makes it distinct from any other aquarium plant. A great help in the way of nourishment for these water lilies is the application when first planted or in the early spring of dried blood manure. The proper way of using this is to broad cast it on the surface of the water, using one pound to every ten square feet of surface. Too many people make the mistake of keeping the water too cold. This necessitates the filling of the pool and the leaving it to grow warm through exposure to the sun for several days before planting. When additional water has to be added, it should be some that has stood in the sun for several days, as cold water injures the growth. The condition for growth is the same for both the tender and the hardy Nymphæas with the exception that the former should not be planted until after warm weather sets in. It is well, however, to grow them in pots so that they will be of fair size by June first when the weather has become suitable for their outdoor existence. If the pond is to be large, why not use groups, but if small, single ones will do. For their planting, the hardy variety can be sown in either fall or spring, as one fancies. They should have a small hole cut through the shell of each seed with a sharp knife that they may do better. For the tender kind, do not put them out until they are well started. They should be sown in pots or pans, covering the seeds with one-fourth of an inch of sand, giving them a thorough watering and allowing them to drain for an hour. Then submerge them under two inches of soil at a temperature of seventy degrees. These can be removed into separate pots when they have shown two leaves. This kind is very desirable for cutting, the best for this purpose being the night-blooming varieties. The Pygmæa hybrid type and the Laydekri, as well, are desirable for hardy variety. The former is the smallest water lily in cultivation, a free bloomer showing white flowers, one and a half inches in diameter, while the Pygmæa Helvola, yellow in coloring, is very dainty. A combination of these two colors is always interesting, while if you wish the latter kind, why not try the Laydekria Rosea, which is a French hybrid and one of the earliest in introduction. Only a few specimen plants are found cultivated at the present time. The flowers are of delicate pink with a deep golden center that deepens into a dark shade of rose, presenting a novel feature in that it seemingly is one plant showing different colors. Another variety of this same order is the Laydekri Lilacea, three to five inches across, shading from rosy lilac to bright carmine and sending forth a fragrance like a tea rose. The Sultan is also very valuable on account of its free flowering, the plants showing never less than six flowers open daily. These are of good size Solferina red with white shading and yellow stamens. This is very rare and therefore brings a high price. [Illustration: THERE IS AN EVER-CHANGING BEAUTY TO A GARDEN WHOSE PATHS ARE BROKEN HERE AND THERE BY POOLS] Of the day-blooming varieties, we find the Capensis with flowers of rich sky blue. This planted in contrast with the Ovalifolia, a new variety from East Africa, produces flowers eight to ten inches across of deep creamy white, faintly tinged with blue that deepen until the tips are a light corn flower blue with sulphur yellow stamens. The charm of this flower is its petals which are long and narrow, giving it a pretty star shape. For the night blooming Nymphæas, why not use the Dedoniensis, which throws out large, pure red flowers often showing from twelve to eighteen blooms at a single time, also the Dentata whose white flowers measure from eight to twelve inches in diameter and open out horizontally. Do not forget in your collection to include the Royal Water Lily. Of these, the Victoria Regia is a well-known species. While the plants are expensive, the seeds can be bought for a much more reasonable price and are more interesting as one can watch them from their start until blossoming. The Victoria Trickeri is also desirable. In good condition its leaves are from four and a half to five and a half feet across, a single plant having from twelve to fifteen leaves and producing three or four flowers in a single week. These flowers are picturesque, being white at the time of opening and changing to deep rose pink, admitting a strong fragrance not unlike that of a ripe pineapple. In addition to water lilies one should plant different aquatics, to make a variety. There is the Sagittaria Montevidensis, which attains gigantic proportions, growing four or five feet high with leaves fifteen inches long, the flower towering above, the foliage white with dark blotches at the base of each petal. Then there is the Butterfly Lily, a tender sub-aquatic plant that forms a dense clump three to six feet high bearing masses of pure white fragrant flowers that look like large white butterflies borne in large terminal clusters. The Water Poppy must not be forgotten. It is a very pretty aquatic plant with floating leaves and large yellow poppy-like flowers, and a continual bloomer. The border of the lily pond is of almost as much importance as the flowers themselves. Iris makes a good setting. Of these, the Iris Hexagona, or Blue Flag, is interesting from the fact that it is a hardy Southern kind, showing rich purple and blue with yellow markings three to four inches across and resembling the costliest and rarest orchid flowers. The Dalmatica is one of the finest of the German type. It grows four feet high with exceptionally large flowers of fine lavender, the falls shaded blue. The Japanese Iris is the grandest of all the hardy ones and the best are the double varieties with six petals. Kokinoiro, a rich royal purple with white veining is very satisfactory in growth. Combine it with the Sano-Watashi, which is white with canary yellow center, and the Tokyo, a magnificent large, white flower, and you will find one of the best combinations possible. Ornamental grasses are very effective for this use. Of these, there are so many varieties it would be impossible to name them all. One of the most ornamental kinds is the Zebra grass, which has long, narrow green leaves, striped white and feathery plumed. Mix it with the Pampas grass and you will note the artistic result. This grows very rapidly from seed planted in the spring and is useful for decorative purposes. The Feather grass, growing two feet in height, fits into this scheme as does the Tricholæna Rosea, which is rose tinted, making a color scheme when massed with the other ornamental grasses that is most fascinating. The form and surroundings of the pool, carefully thought out, make it a most desirable feature for both small and large gardens, and everyone, no matter how limited their means, can indulge in one if they wish. THE SUN-DIAL IN THE GARDEN [Illustration: GRASSY PATHS LEAD PLEASANTLY TO THE SUN-DIAL] CHAPTER IX THE SUN-DIAL IN THE GARDEN The life story of the sundial reads like a fascinating page from some old romance of an early century. The first record of its use was in the eighth century before Christ, when it was employed by the Babylonians for the purpose of marking time. Later on, it came into use in England, attached to public buildings. One of the most interesting was shown late in the sixteenth century on the Belton House, Lincolnshire, England. It was a representation of old Father Time and Cupid cutting stone. A passing fad at one time was diminutive sundials, so small that they folded and could be used much as watches are to-day. They soon became very popular and attracted the attention of royalty, when Charles I was seated on the throne. His collection was the largest in existence and represented all sorts of odd shapes and forms. The Stuarts were all interested in sundials, and Charles II had a large one designed and placed in the garden at Holyrood. While the first invented were crude, yet, as time went on, they became more popular, and different materials were used, such as wood, bronze and metal. The hour spaces were computed to comply with the locality in which they were placed. This required a great deal of thought and it was necessary to employ an expert workman. Flowers and hedge plants were occasionally used to represent this idea. One of these stood between the "Shakespeare garden" and the "garden of friendship" at Lady Warwick's summer home. The gnomon being of yew while the dial was worked out by the use of box, the lettering was outside and spelled the following motto--"Les Heures Heureuses ne se comptent pas." This, as far as we know, was the first attempt at the use of floriculture in time pieces. Sundials might be divided into two kinds, the perpendicular and the horizontal. Each one of these has its own special place, the former being used on buildings while the latter was for garden purposes solely. In New York, one of the old perpendicular dials may still be seen on the Dutch Reformed Church. The horizontal was extremely popular in both England and Scotland, so much so that no garden of any pretention was considered complete without one or more of these ornamental time-keepers. The high favor in which the "simple altar-like structure," with its "silent heart language," was held in England was well expressed by Charles Lamb, who said of the sundial, "It stood as the Garden god of Christian gardens." It is the revival of this old-time custom that has given a delightful touch of sentiment to the gardens of to-day, where sundials have become, more especially of late years, a permanent fixture. Many of these have interesting mottoes, some repeating the legends of other days, while later designs bear on their face a modern inscription. "_Let others tell of storm and showers, I'll only count your sunny hours._" "_Time goes you say--ah, no! Time stays, we go._" "_I mark the time, dost thou?_" "_Tyme passeth and speaketh not, Deth cometh and warneth not, Amend to-day and slack not, To-morrow thyself cannot._" By the time the American colonists had leisure to devote to the laying out of beautiful gardens, the day of the sundial was drawing to a close. The introduction of clocks had done away with the necessity of depending upon such fair-weather time pieces, and furthermore, they were no longer popular in other lands. So, despite its charm and value as an ornament, it was not widely adopted in this country. Of late years, however, in the general revival of old-time customs, this interesting feature for gardens has come into favor. The making of one of these time pieces can be carried out by a village carpenter, but the purchasing of an old one had better be done by an expert as there are so many reproductions placed to-day on the market. All that is essential in order to work out proper results is that the dial should have a firm and absolutely level base to rest on, and that the gnomon should point directly towards the North Star, so that time may be accurately computed. A stone pedestal is correct, although concrete is often used. The design depends largely upon the type of garden and the owner's taste. The beautiful, carved pedestals imported from Italy are suitable only for the formal garden, and for our simple, less pretentious ones, wood or stone can be used, although cement has become very fashionable. To soften the lines of a severely simple column, Ivy and other clinging vines can be placed around the base. The location is a matter that requires some thought, as the sundial's charm depends upon harmonious setting. It should be exposed to the sun continuously and placed far enough away from trees or buildings to preclude the possibility of its being shaded. There is no set rule that can be laid down for its placing. One is usually safe, however, in locating it at the intersection of two paths near a vine-clad pergola or within sight of a summer house or garden seat. Formal gardens use it frequently as a central feature. If, however, a water garden takes this central place, the sundial should be at the end of some alluring path surrounded by masses of bright bloom. The chief fault that we find in contrasting the sundials of a century ago with those of the twentieth century is that there is now too much sameness. They seem to follow the same lines, more perhaps, than any other form of garden furniture. This can be overcome by designing them yourself, working out new ideas in the decoration and its motto. Here the gnomons offer a chance for variation for instead of a plain, simple shaft, it can be changed into an ornamental design that helps out in changing it from monotony to originality. For the simple garden, why not make one yourself? It is not a hard matter, that is if you have any ingenuity. The only thing we must consider is to have it set perfectly even, to be sure the pedestal is carefully laid so that it will not tip and spoil the marking of the hours. There are so many materials that you can construct one from, there is no need of sameness. The most inexpensive is the rustic sundial. This is made from a small tree trunk. It should be about six to eight inches in diameter, tapering at the top, and show branches irregularly cut within three or four inches of the main trunk. There is a reason for this; it adds picturesqueness to the effect and gives pegs for the vines to climb over. Do not top it with a wooden dial. They are never satisfactory, for they are apt to warp and thus ruin the entire scheme. You need not go to great expense to procure a satisfactory one, for there are many materials to draw from, iron, brass and slate being the most desirable. The latter are not expensive as they cost simply the price of the material and engraving. It takes a piece that ranges from an inch to an inch and a half in thickness and should not be more than a foot square. For this, one should not pay more than seventy-five cents, although if it is cut round it will be a little more expensive. If you prefer to use brass it costs more and needs a machinist who is used to handling this material to put it together for you and burnish the surface. You must remember that this applies to the dial only, the pedestal being a separate proposition. [Illustration: THE SUN-DIAL IS A FEATURE IN ITSELF] For a little inexpensive time piece for your garden you can make one of wood, coloring it any shade that you like but so that it will contrast prettily with the flowers. The only thing that you must bear in mind is that care should be taken in its setting. If it is out of plumb it will not keep good time. Should you, by chance, be able to procure an old mill stone, it serves two purposes, first it is a practical foundation and second it lends an old-time setting that is appropriate. For a simple, every-day foundation, stones can be laid about six inches deep and filled in with mortar. Cement is also appropriate and oftentimes bricks can be used to good advantage. For a pedestal, a rather good idea is to use second-hand bricks. These can be cemented together with mortar, the red giving a touch of color to the drapery of the sundial that is picturesque. Sometimes a boulder is used for this purpose or a slab of stone. If you purchase a sundial, you should bear in mind that if it is a genuine antique, it may not be suitable for our latitude. In cases like that it is best to have it looked after by an expert and so placed that it will be a correct timekeeper. We tire of the same idea continuously reproduced so why not work out a design of your own? This is hard to do, however, unless cement is used, when some floral design or ornamentation that is appropriate for the garden can be introduced. For the dial the gnomon is made much more interesting if it shows a unique formation rather than a straight shaft, as in the sundial at Didsbury, England, where a harp is introduced, and in another case where a dragon holds the uplifted shaft. The situation of this feature has much to do with its practicability. As it is a sun-loving formation, its proper place is necessarily in the open, but whether surrounded by lawn or flowers, is something that everyone must decide for themselves. One reason against the flower setting is that it serves to hide the dial's meaning until you approach it closely. The eye is attracted to the bright blooming flowers rather than to the dial itself. This is not so if it has only a sward setting. It then becomes a prominent piece of garden furniture, its pure white surface standing out vividly from its surrounding of soft green grass. Occasionally, all attempt at floriculture or gardening is abandoned. This is when it stands in the heart of a garden at the intersection of two paths. Then care should be taken that in immediate proximity there should be pure white pebbles picked up on the beach. This may re-act on the shaft, giving it an air of sameness, and in that case different colored stones can be introduced. One can even go so far as to work out mottos in this way, forming the letters out of highly colored pebbles. To give it a rural appearance, some people set it in the heart of a bed of ferns. These can be chosen from a single variety such as the Boston fern, which is one of the most popular on account of its graceful fronds and the durability which causes it to keep green for a long time. Should, however, a lower growth be necessary, there is the Dreyii, which is a dwarf variety of the same species. A much better effect, however, is obtained by planting the dwarf fern as a border to the circle and placing inside the Elegantissima, which belongs to the crested variety and is especially adapted for massing. For a delicate, dainty setting, there is nothing more beautiful than the Adiantum Ruhm von Mordrecht, which is the most beautiful of all the maiden hair ferns and easily cultivated. It is so graceful that it seems to add an almost poetic touch to the foundation on which the sundial stands. Have you ever considered placing your sundial in the heart of a rose garden? Unconsciously, the sweet perfume of the rose does much to increase the sentiment of this particular feature of garden culture. It depends in part on the pedestal as to whether low roses or delicate climbing ones should be used. If it is a plain, simple shaft, it can be delicately draped to within a few inches of the dial, but great care should be taken to obtain delicate coloring that will bring out the whiteness of the marble. One should be very careful not to have the roses grow so high that only the dial is visible. This would spoil the idea which it represents--a sundial in a garden. One of the most artistic ways is to plant low, dwarf roses, near the pedestal just far enough away so there will be several inches of space between. The roses themselves should be planted in heavy clay loam, although light and sandy soil can be used for this purpose. Many people make a mistake in having their rose beds too rich. The fertilizer can be replaced, if exhausted, by fine-ground bone, which can be used only once a year. The dwarf Polyanthas are a charming class of ever-blooming roses with bushy habits. The flowers are double, delightfully fragrant and borne in large clusters, being covered with a large mass of bloom. For a combination planting, the Baby Dorothy is very effective; it is carnation pink, with the habit and growth similar to that of the Baby Rambler. The latter is very effective, rosy crimson in coloring, very free flowering, and useful in massing effects. Add to that Catherine Zeimet, which is a great acquisition, to the Baby Ramblers, and produces an abundance of double white flowers. Directly around the base of the pedestal, you can plant your climbing roses, taking great care to nip them back so that they will only show a tracery of leaves and flowers and allow the white of the sundial to peer through. For these, use the Lady Gay whose delicate cerise pink blossoms fade to soft white, making a most pleasing combination of white flowers, crimson buds and green foliage. In connection with that, why not plant the Source d'Or, which is deep yellow, gradually paling. This bears large clusters of double flowers, and shows fine foliage. For red, the Wall Flower is the best, as it shows a distinct coloring and has vigorous habits. Mix with that the Shower of Gold, a fine coppery gold color with glossy foliage. For the outer edge of the rose bed, do not forget those used in our grandmother's time. They have lasted long and on account of their sterling qualities are still popular. They have a range of coloring and are so absolutely hardy, easy to grow and fragrant that they are advisable for this use. The Clothilde Soupert is a good color to choose. It is a strong, vigorous grower, putting forth large, double flowers like a ball of snow. The color blends from soft shell pink to pure satiny white. Mix with these the Souvenir de Malmaison, which blooms well in hot weather, its rich colored flowers being of large size, doubled to the center and produced in abundance. [Illustration: AN OLD WELL USED EFFECTIVELY AS A DECORATIVE FEATURE] For a Hybrid, there is nothing more effective than the Killarney, whose color is a sparkling brilliant pink, the buds long and pointed, the petals very large and of great substance, being just as handsome in the bud form as in the full-blown flower. For a soft, pearly white, the Kaiserin Augusta Victoria is advisable, tinting to a soft lemon, its fragrance added to its beautifully formed flowers, make it a joy in your garden. A rustic sundial requires far different treatment, and only vines that bring forth white blossoms or pale colors should be used. If Clematis is chosen, the Duchess of Edinburgh is suitable as it shows double white flowers that are very fragrant. Mixed with this can be the Jackmania Alba, which is white, shaded with blue. The Fair Rosamond, if one wishes a combination, fits in with the color scheme, being tinted white with red stripes. The advantage of these flowers is that the blossoms open in masses that bring out the dark of the wood and lend themselves to picturesque effects. Around the foot of the sundial, why not plant Poppies, making a circle about five inches in width. The Perennial Poppies are among the most brilliant in coloring, the graceful bright-colored, cup-shaped flowers being borne on long stems. Mix with them the Oriental Poppies, which are the most showy plants possible for decorative effects. To fill in the spaces put in a package of Shirley, the combination of the three varieties giving a most fascinating touch of color. For the Shirley, why not use the finest mixed, as it will bring out white, delicate pink, deep crimson, and handsomely striped varieties. The Perennial is advantageous because it comes up every year while the Oriental are magnificent in coloring, more especially the Grand Mogul with bright crimson flower of immense size, the Princess Ena, bearing large, bright, orange-scarlet and the Marie Studholme, which is a delicate shade of salmon with a silver sheen. Nothing can give better effects for this style of sundial than the clematis with a poppy in the foreground. Color makes a great difference in proper planting, the white marble or concrete and possibly wood painted white, demands a strong color to bring out effectively the white of the surface. The gray stone is not picturesque unless blues, yellows, or reds are used. These three colors can be blended so that they form a scheme that is most attractive. When it comes to brick you will have to depend upon white, or light blue for coloring. More care should be taken with the planting around this kind of a pedestal than any other. The red of the brick demands more covering than any other type. The Hop vine fits into the scheme, but requires a great deal of trimming lest it overshadows the brick, making a mass of green without any hint of the brick below. The leaves are fine, three-lobed, and rough on both sides while the loose paper-like straw-yellow Hop in the fall hang gracefully from the brick, making a fluffy but attractive covering. Fragrance is necessary in the planting of a sundial, then why not use the Honeysuckle? The Brachypoda is particularly effective for this purpose. It shows white flowers in pairs, and sends forth a delicious perfume that attracts one even before the sundial is viewed. The Hall Evergreen Honeysuckle is also good for this purpose, being a strong grower and constant bloomer. The flowers open white, change to buff, and are very delicate in appearance. This sundial should be set in a circle of green. At the edge of the border plant Iris. This makes a more effective setting than if a whole bed of this should be used. The well-known, beautiful Iris of Japan displays a great variety of colors, the chief of which is white, maroon, dark blue and violet. Most of them are veined, mottled or flaked with different colors. There are both single and double varieties. The beauty of this plant is that it succeeds in any good soil, that is if well drained and given plenty of water when dry. They can be planted either in the late summer or spring, as desirable, and should be shown in masses, growing from two to three feet in height and lasting in blossom for a month. For double use the Antelope, which shows a white ground flaked with purple. Mix with it the Beauty which is a pure white. Add to it the Mount Hood, light blue, shaded darker in the center. These can be intermixed with the Crested Iris, a dwarf, showing handsome, light-colored flowers, and the Snow Queen, whose large snow-white blossoms are free flowering. The planting around the sundial rests with the whim of the owner, though, if out-of-the-way ideas can be evolved, it will add much to the attractiveness of this feature of the garden. THE FOUNTAIN [Illustration: NARCISSUS STANDS IN THE HEART OF THE FOUNTAIN] CHAPTER X THE FOUNTAIN Have you ever seated yourself in your garden, more especially on a warm summer day, and dreamily listened to the musical tinkle of the water that flowed from the mouth of the fountain, dripping down from the over-flowing basin into the pool below? It is then you realize what an attractive ornament it is for your garden for it appeals not only to the eye but to the ear. Lowell picturesquely describes his idea of this bit of garden furnishing when he speaks of it as "leaping and flashing," in the sunlight. While the pergola, the garden seat and the sundial each have their own appropriate use, they serve one purpose only. Not so the fountain, which never fails to convey a delightful impression of coolness, as it gurgles and murmurs, on its way. Surely there is nothing that gives to the garden a more picturesque charm than this, standing like a spot of color in a vivid setting of bright flowering plants. In the pool below one finds constantly changing pictures of the blue sky, snowy clouds or summer blossoms, each one worthy of its floral frame. As the garden fountain is merely an accessory and the beauty of the constantly dripping water and the rising of the spray are what constitutes its real charm, the conventional design can be simple or elaborate but it should follow the garden scheme. It depends upon its environment as to whether we make it the central feature in the design or a setting in the wall. Lovely effects can easily be produced if one is careful in trying to work out a right treatment, for the placing is fully as much of importance as the planting. Balance should be the main object. To the amateur who has had no special training in floriculture, the introduction of even a simple water spout is of interest. He watches its workings with a newly awakened enthusiasm, directing its course so that it falls artistically over the different levels of the rock garden into the home-made concrete pool below. The introduction of this water feature gives a distinctive touch to even the simplest little flower plot. For a larger garden, what is more alluring than a fountain sending forth a high, vapory stream, bursting into a cloud of filmy spray? This is especially true when it is viewed through a vista or at the ending of a vine-shaded pergola. Around it should be planted a carefully selected combination of flowers or shrubs, great care being taken that they blend harmoniously. The size of the fountain and the breadth of the pool lend themselves more or less effectively to producing alternating sunshine and shade on the surface of the water. The basin is, in a way, of as much importance as the fountain design. It is generally round, although occasionally an oblong design fits better into the landscape effect. It should be from two to three feet deep and so constructed that the sides slope outward much like the ordinary wooden water bucket. There is a practical reason for this, as it prevents cracking during the winter months. The cost naturally varies, the size materially affecting the price. The background demands more than passing notice. Nearness of trees is a decided drawback, as the falling leaves, especially in the autumn, mar the surface and clog the outlet and make it necessary to clean the basin frequently. The best time to plan for any garden ornament is just before the early fall. The flowers are in their prime and one can better determine placing than in the early spring when the garden lies bleak and desolate. Many garden lovers with a desire for originality feel confident that they can rely upon their imagination to work out color schemes even during the winter months. Fortunate is he who accomplishes this satisfactorily. There is great danger, however, that his castles in the air may fall to the ground through taking too much for granted. The grounds do not always meet requirements, and the result is not only wrong placing but an ornament that is either too large or too small for its allotted space. We are far too impatient to obtain results and it is this undue haste that often ruins the composition of gardens. There is a great satisfaction in adding to and improving our grounds, much more so than if the whole work were developed at once. Almost every garden into which careful thought has been placed grows with its years. Few, if any garden lovers, but have felt a keen sense of disappointment at the finished results of their garden schemes. What was satisfying the first year, has later brought about unhappy combinations. It is this fact that should be impressed on everyone's mind, if they wish a perfect lay-out. [Illustration: A ROMAN FOUNTAIN PLACED AGAINST A VERY APPROPRIATE BACKGROUND] Probably everybody who has become interested in floriculture finds the same difficulty in obtaining exactly what they wish. It is often hard to match ideas with reality. This is another reason for curbing one's impatience. The right things are sure to be found, that is if one is willing to take time. It is when comparing the gardens of the old world with those of to-day that we are impressed with the atmosphere of the twentieth-century garden, where nature is encouraged to be genuine rather than artificial. This is the height of success, the bringing into harmony of paths, ornaments, and flowers, omitting gaudy effects or over-crowding with marble fragments. Simplicity should be the key-note in arranging this part of our ground, a simplicity that has been worked out by careful thought for it means hard study to obtain natural effects. There are many materials from which our fountain can be manufactured. The most expensive of these are marble, terra cotta and manufactured stone, the former leading the list, while the latter is better suited to the moderate purse. This last is, in reality, a composition of marble dust with cement, and the result is most satisfactory, the finished product showing a smooth surface resembling as nearly as possible that of unpolished marble. In rare cases, however, chemicals have been used to produce an antique look. Many people are under the impression that manufactured stone is always white. As a matter of fact, in the finished product, there are as many as half a dozen neutral tints shown. These all incline to a soft, delicate gray, sometimes with a blueish cast. Terra cotta comes next in cost. A detriment to its use is that, particularly when it is shown in deep bronze coloring, it does not lend itself artistically to landscape effect, through lack of contrast with its surroundings. We find this material with both glazed and unglazed surfaces, the former being more expensive but not as practical as the latter. The most strongly recommended coloring is limestone gray, whose soft, delicate finish brings out the tone of the vines, and emphasizes the color of the surrounding flowers. Next comes the Pompeian red, only to be used under certain conditions on account of its color. Colonial yellow has also been introduced. The two last colors are rarely, if ever, used for fountain designs, the gray being considered much more advisable. There are many reasons why cement is considered practical; its cost, its wearing qualities, and its appropriate coloring. All these qualities lend themselves to constructive purposes, and making it decoratively most desirable. The architect who suits the design of the garden to the type of the house will take advantage of this particular material. He has his ideas concerning the effect that he wishes to bring out, to emphasize the design of the house. He realizes that there is something more than interest in botany to be shown if he wishes to make this part of his plan a success. We have grown to a realizing sense that for the best results it is better to employ a skilled man. No clever result can be brought out through an inexperienced person planning the grounds, that is, unless they have natural ability such as few people possess. We have only to go back to our Colonial ancestors and study effects. It is then we realize the difference between home planting and architectural planting. Cost is not the only thing to be taken into consideration when creating garden effects. Character should be considered as well. In order to obtain this satisfactorily, the accessories should be planned by a connoisseur, such as an architect becomes after many years' study of the subject. The fountain is the most important detail and requires more careful thought than any other part of the garden setting. It makes no difference what its construction is, so that it fits in with the scheme. Great care should be taken not to introduce different periods or materials when placing garden ornaments on our grounds. Take, as an instance, a home-made fountain and place it in close proximity with an imported one and note the result. You will see the lack of harmony. The Italian fountain belongs distinctively to the formal or Italian lay-out, and should never be used, with the exception of making a central feature on a lawn, in any other way. If you place the Greek fountain on a hillside where landscape effects have been worked out through the use of cascades that dash over terraces and under rustic bridges, you will see it is entirely out of place and in the wrong surroundings. [Illustration: AN ARTISTIC FOUNTAIN PARTICULARLY WELL PLACED] Occasionally, we come across an iron fountain painted black or red. This metal is cheap and stock designs can be purchased, but the very best ones are private orders and can never be reproduced. The price varies as with every other bit of garden furniture from a few dollars up to as many thousands. The advantage of this metal is that it fits into places where marble should be avoided. Pottery fountains have been used within the last few years, and many of them are very graceful, being turned and finished by hand. This type has a special mission in our garden, its proper placing being in New England where the gray rocks, hedges and evergreen predominate. This material is shown in more colors than almost any other. These include gray, brown, green, blue, and many shades of terra cotta. This variation of color makes it adapted to almost any situation. One advantage in their use is that, strongly reinforced as they are by galvanized steel wires, they are climate-proof and practically indestructible. The location of this special garden ornament demands serious attention. It is often placed where it will attract attention to some special feature that has been carefully worked out in detail. More especially is this true when it has been inserted as a part of the retaining wall and is surrounded by some choice vine whose flowers accentuate the architecture. There are so many forms and features connected with this special garden ornament that there need never be any sameness. It is an ideal medium with which to recreate the fauns, satyrs and nymphs of the garden. Animals, too, are often used and so are cupids. The planting, which is of as much importance as the ornamentation, depends upon the size of the pool and its location. Shade requires far different treatment from sunny exposures, while the heart of a grass plot lends itself to little or no floral embellishment. The finish of the pool influences the arrangement of the flowers. Should it be very ornamental, the planting should be far enough away not to shut off its picture effect in the landscape. If it is simply a curbing, it should have a setting of green or of low-growing plants. Often an effective treatment is worked out through a border of velvety turf outlined by plants. Peonies never fail to bring out the right coloring of the fountain, that is if they are far enough away not to cut off the design. They are called rightly the aristocrats of the flower garden. For mass planting, they are most effective, their great gorgeous blossoms, daintily dyed and ranging from white to the deepest red, their wonderful fragrance and their decorative value are unsurpassed. They can either be planted in solid color or in a combination that is artistic. The Couronne d'Or, beautiful white in coloring and showing blossoms of red in the center with a halo of yellow around, makes a picturesque contrast to the deep green of the tree leaves. The large, double, ball-shape bloom of the Felix Crousse intermixed with white, gives one of the most fascinating combinations of red and white. The beauty of peonies is that they grow anywhere although they do best in rich, deep soil and with a sunny exposure. They are perfectly hardy, require no protection and unlike most other plants are not infested by either insects or disease. All they ask for is plenty of water during their growing season. Grandmother's flowers, which are so fashionable to-day, are particularly desirable as a planting around a fountain. The sweet moss rose trailing through the grass and mixing its blossoms with the yellow of the Scotch rose is often used for low effects, or where very little coloring is advisable. The amount of planting and the height naturally depend upon the design of the individual fountain. Those that are ornamental are so effective that they need practically nothing to bring out right effects. Iris is always in good form. We find it to-day so highly developed that in comparison to the little fleur-de-lis that grows unmolested in the neighboring swamp, it seems scarcely a variety of the same flower. As we are able to buy both double and single Irises, we should make a choice and not mingle the two. The double with its flowers averaging from eight to ten inches across, is an artistic foil for the white of the fountain. Commencing with the German, which comes into bloom about the middle of May, we can follow the time of blossoming through the introduction of the Japanese Iris which lasts through July. In their planting, better effects are produced if two colors only are used. This can be supplemented by a third if the coloring is broken by the introduction of a thread of white. For the German, why not use the Honorabilis, which is a golden yellow with outside yellow petals shading to a mahogany brown, or the King of Iris, which is a clear yellow. The Florentina Alba gives the white coloring, its flowers being very large and fragrant. These two colors can be enhanced by the adding of the Camillian which is a delicate blue with falls tipped a little darker shade. These are more suited for a fountain with a low curbing or for an informal garden where cement is used. They give a very pretty effect, their flowers being pictured in the water below. [Illustration: THIS WALL FOUNTAIN WITH ITS SHELL BACKGROUND AND BASIN IS MOST FITTINGLY PLACED] Pansies are never out of place. A very pretty idea is to have them massed for as many as eight inches around the curb. Choose for these, bright-colored varieties rather than dark. The tufted pansies, which are one of the most important bedding plants in Europe, are rapidly growing in favor in our country. One reason for this is that they flower continuously for nearly eight months in the year. The flowers are not as large as those of the single pansy, but their bright colors make them a welcome addition to our garden. The rich, golden yellow, the violet with a dark eye and the white, are all three admirable for this purpose. Pansies love coolness and give their largest and finest flowers in early spring and late fall. They are so easy to grow, rioting in the cool, deep mellow beds they love, that everybody should use them. They will endure all winter long if protected by a few evergreen vines. The size needed for bedding for your fountain depends entirely upon the width of the bed. The most superb specimens are found among the orchid flowering ones. They take their name mainly from their tints and variation of color resembling the gorgeous shades seen in orchids. These are the most novel and distinctive strain that we have used for years. Have you ever considered the graceful effect of ornamental grasses? They can be used with telling effects for the margin of the fountain, although care must be taken not to plant those that grow to enormous height. The Euallia Japonica is appropriate. Its long, narrow, graceful green foliage, flowering into attractive plumes, give it a distinctive place for this purpose. Mix with it the Zebra grass, whose long blades are marked with broad yellow bands across the leaf. Intermix with this the hardy fountain grass which grows only four feet in height and has narrow foliage, bright green in coloring, cylindrical flower-heads carried well above the foliage, tinged with a bronze purple and is one of the most valuable of the hardy grasses. In the planting of the grasses, to make the best effect give the taller ones the outside row, letting the low ones fall over the water, mirroring in the surface below. One of the advantages in using this is that it attracts birds and butterflies. Nothing can attract the songsters quicker to your fountain than this kind of surrounding. Occasionally, we find that instead of planting, beds are geometrically laid out to surround this, the axis of the garden design. In cases like this we have to depend upon the borders for effect. These can be hedge-loving plants or they can be a solid, low planting. Scotch heather is very pretty. It should be grown in sunny places with moist surroundings. Its racimes of dark rose pink petals, lasting from July to September, make it very effective for this purpose. The Japanese Barberry can also be included, nothing equals it in artistic value. It requires but little pruning to keep it in shape, while its fruit or berries, assuming rich brilliant colors in the fall, are most effective when used for a setting like this. If possible, try for flowers that have fragrance. It adds so much to the effect to breathe in the sweet odor as you sit watching the shading of the flowers, the swaying of the birds, and listening to the musical tinkle of the water as it drips into the basin below. 
19408	----	[Illustration: "That gardening is best ... which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom." This is my study. The tree in the middle of the picture is Barrie's elm. I once lifted it between my thumb and finger, but I was younger and the tree was smaller. The dark tree in the foreground on the right is Felix Adler's hemlock. [Page 82]] THE AMATEUR GARDEN BY GEORGE W. CABLE ILLUSTRATED CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK: MCMXIV _Copyright, 1914, by_ CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS _Published October, 1914_ CONTENTS PAGE MY OWN ACRE 1 THE AMERICAN GARDEN 41 WHERE TO PLANT WHAT 79 THE COTTAGE GARDENS OF NORTHAMPTON 107 THE PRIVATE GARDEN'S PUBLIC VALUE 129 THE MIDWINTER GARDENS OF NEW ORLEANS 163 ILLUSTRATIONS "That gardening is best ... which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom" _Frontis_ "... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where Mill River loiters through Paradise" 6 "On this green of the dryads ... lies My Own Acre" 8 "The beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above My Own Acre" 12 "A fountain ... where one,--or two,--can sit and hear it whisper" 22 "The bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of My Own Acre" 24 "Souvenir trees had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends" 26 "How the words were said which some of the planters spoke" 28 "'Where are you going?' says the eye. 'Come and see,' says the roaming line" 34 "The lane is open to view from end to end. It has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn" 36 "... until the house itself seems as naturally ... to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song" 48 "Beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds" 52 "Muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom" 52 Fences masked by shrubbery 64 After the first frost annual plantings cease to be attractive 72 Shrubbery versus annuals 72 Shrubs are better than annuals for masking right angles. South Hall, Williston Seminary 74 "... a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations" 74 "However enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her some subserviency about your own dwelling" 84 "Plant it where it will best enjoy itself" 86 "... climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end" 94 "Some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure" 96 "... tall, rectangular, three-story piles ... full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style" 100 "You can make gardening a concerted public movement" 112 "Plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings" 122 "Not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination" 122 "Having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus" 138 "One such competing garden was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view" 138 "Beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile" 148 "Those who pay no one to die, plant or prune for them" 148 "In New Orleans the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors--so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines" 174 "The lawn ... lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across" 174 "There eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward.... In a half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity by the elimination of these excesses" 176 "The rear walk ... follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path" 178 "Thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even ... where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults" 180 "... a lovely stage scene without a hint of the stage's unreality" 182 "Back of the building-line the fences ... generally more than head-high ... are _sure_ to be draped" 184 "... from the autumn side of Christmas to the summer side of Easter" 184 "The sleeping beauty of the garden's unlost configuration ... keeping a winter's share of its feminine grace and softness" 186 "It is only there that I see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce" 192 MY OWN ACRE A lifelong habit of story-telling has much to do with the production of these pages. All the more does it move me because it has always included, as perhaps it does in most story-tellers, a keen preference for true stories, stories of actual occurrence. A flower-garden trying to be beautiful is a charming instance of something which a storyteller can otherwise only dream of. For such a garden is itself a story, one which actually and naturally occurs, yet occurs under its master's guidance and control and with artistic effect. Yet it was this same story-telling bent which long held me back while from time to time I generalized on gardening and on gardens other than my own. A well-designed garden is not only a true story happening artistically but it is one that passes through a new revision each year, "with the former translations diligently compared and revised." Each year my own acre has confessed itself so full of mistranslations of the true text of gardening, has promised, each season, so much fairer a show in its next edition, and has been kept so prolongedly busy teaching and reteaching its master where to plant what, while as to money outlays compelled to live so much more like a poet than like a prince, that the bent for story-telling itself could not help but say wait. Now, however, the company to which this chapter logically belongs is actually showing excellent reasons why a history of their writer's own acre should lead them. Let me, then, begin by explaining that the small city of Northampton, Massachusetts, where I have lived all the latter three-fifths of my adult years, sits on the first rise of ground which from the west overlooks the alluvial meadows of the Connecticut, nine miles above South Hadley Falls. Close at its back a small stream, Mill River, coming out of the Hampshire hills on its way to the Connecticut, winds through a strip of woods so fair as to have been named--from a much earlier day than when Jenny Lind called it so--"Paradise." On its town side this wooded ground a few hundred yards wide drops suddenly a hundred feet or so to the mill stream and is cut into many transverse ravines. In its timber growth, conspicuous by their number, tower white-pines, while among them stand only less loftily a remarkable variety of forest trees imperfectly listed by a certain humble authority as "mostly h-oak, h-ellum, and h-ash, with a little 'ickory." Imperfectly listed, for there one may find also the birch and the beech, the linden, sycamore, chestnut, poplar, hemlock-spruce, butternut, and maple overhanging such pleasant undergrowths as the hornbeam and hop-hornbeam, willows, black-cherry and choke-cherry, dogwood and other cornels, several viburnums, bush maples of two or three kinds, alder, elder, sumach, hazel, witch-hazel, the shadblow and other perennial, fair-blooming, sweet-smelling favorites, beneath which lies a leaf-mould rife with ferns and wild flowers. From its business quarter the town's chief street of residence, Elm Street, begins a gently winding westerly ascent to become an open high-road from one to another of the several farming and manufacturing villages that use the water-power of Mill River. But while it is still a street there runs from it southerly at a right angle a straight bit of avenue some three hundred yards long--an exceptional length of unbent street for Northampton. This short avenue ends at another, still shorter, lying square across its foot within some seventy yards of that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where Mill River loiters through Paradise. The strip of land between the woods and this last street is taken up by half a dozen dwellings of modest dignity, whose front shade-trees, being on the southerly side, have been placed not on the sidewalk's roadside edge but on the side next the dwellings and close within their line of private ownership: red, white and post-oaks set there by the present writer when he named the street "Dryads' Green." They are now twenty-one years old and give a good shade which actually falls where it is wanted--upon the sidewalk. [Illustration: " ... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where Mill River loiters through Paradise." A strong wire fence (invisible in the picture) here divides the _grove_ from the old river road.] On this green of the dryads, where it intercepts the "avenue" that slips over from the Elm Street trolley-cars, lies, such as it is, my own acre; house, lawn, shrubberies and, at the rear, in the edge of the pines, the study. Back there by the study--which sometimes in irony we call the power-house--the lawn merges into my seven other acres, in Paradise. Really the whole possession is a much humbler one than I find myself able to make it appear in the flattering terms of land measure. Those seven acres of Paradise I acquired as "waste land." Nevertheless, if I were selling that "waste," that "hole in the ground," it would not hurt my conscience, such as it is, to declare that the birds on it alone are worth more than it cost: wood-thrushes and robins, golden orioles, scarlet tanagers, blackbirds, bluebirds, oven-birds, cedar-birds, veeries, vireos, song-sparrows, flycatchers, kinglets, the flicker, the cuckoo, the nuthatch, the chickadee and the rose-breasted grosbeak, not to mention jays or kingfishers, swallows, the little green heron or that cock of the walk, the red squirrel. Speaking of walks, it was with them--and one drive--in this grove, that I made my first venture toward the artistic enhancement of my acre,--acre this time in the old sense that ignores feet and rods. I was quite willing to make it a matter of as many years as necessary when pursued as play, not work, on the least possible money outlay and having for its end a garden of joy, not of care. By no inborn sagacity did I discover this to be the true first step, but by the trained eye of an honored and dear friend, that distinguished engineer and famous street commissioner of New York, Colonel George E. Waring, who lost his life in the sanitary regeneration of Havana. [Illustration: "On this green of the dryads ... lies My Own Acre." The two young oaks in the picture are part of the row which gives the street its name.] "Contour paths" was the word he gave me; paths starting from the top of the steep broken ground and bending in and out across and around its ridges and ravines at a uniform decline of, say, six inches to every ten feet, until the desired terminus is reached below; much as, in its larger way, a railway or aqueduct might, or as cattle do when they roam in the hills. Thus, by the slightest possible interference with natural conditions, these paths were given a winding course every step of which was pleasing because justified by the necessities of the case, traversing the main inequalities of the ground with the ease of level land yet without diminishing its superior variety and charm. And so with contour paths I began to find, right at my back door and on my own acre, in nerve-tired hours, an outdoor relaxation which I could begin, leave off and resume at any moment and which has never staled on me. For this was the genesis of all I have learned or done in gardening, such as it is. My appliances for laying out the grades were simple enough: a spirit-level, a stiff ten-foot rod with an eighteen-inch leg nailed firmly on one end of it, a twelve-inch leg on the other, a hatchet, and a basket of short stakes with which to mark the points, ten feet apart, where the longer leg, in front on all down grades, rested when the spirit-level, strapped on the rod, showed the rod to be exactly horizontal. Trivial inequalities of surface were arbitrarily cut down or built up and covered with leaves and pine-straw to disguise the fact, and whenever a tree or anything worth preserving stood in the way here came the loaded barrow and the barrowist, like a piece of artillery sweeping into action, and a fill undistinguishable from nature soon brought the path around the obstacle on what had been its lower side, to meander on at its unvarying rate of rise or fall as though nothing--except the trees and wild flowers--had happened since the vast freshets of the post-glacial period built the landscape. I made the drive first, of steeper grade than the paths; but every new length of way built, whether walk or road, made the next easier to build, by making easier going for the artillery, the construction train. Also each new path has made it easier to bring up, for the lawn garden, sand, clay, or leaf-mould, or for hearth consumption all the wood which the grove's natural mortality each year requires to be disposed of. There is a superior spiritual quality in the warmth of a fire of h-oak, h-ash, and even h-ellum gathered from your own acre, especially if the acre is very small and has contour paths. By a fire of my own acre's "dead and down" I write these lines. I never buy cordwood. Only half the grove has required these paths, the other half being down on the flat margin of the river, traversed by a cart-road at least half a century old, though used by wheels hardly twice a year; but in the three acres where lie the contour paths there is now three-fifths of a mile of them, not a rod of which is superfluous. And then I have two examples of another kind of path: paths with steps; paths which for good and lawful reasons cannot allow you time to go around on the "five per cent" grade but must cut across, taking a single ravine lengthwise, to visit its three fish-pools. These steps, and two short retaining walls elsewhere in the grove, are made of the field stones of the region, uncut. All are laid "dry" like the ordinary stone fences of New England farms, and the walls are built with a smart inward batter so that the winter frosts may heave them year after year, heave and leave but not tumble them down. I got that idea from a book. Everything worth while on my acre is from books except what two or three professional friends have from time to time dropped into my hungry ear. Both my ears have good appetites--for garden lore. About half a mile from me, down Mill River, stands the factory of a prized friend who more than any other man helps by personal daily care to promote Northampton's "People's Institute," of whose home-garden work I have much to say in the chapters that follow this one. For forty years or more this factory has been known far and wide as the "Hoe Shop" because it makes shovels. It has never made hoes. It uses water-power, and the beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above my own acre. In winter this is the favorite skating-pond of the town and of Smith College. In the greener seasons of college terms the girls constantly pass upstream and down in their pretty rowboats and canoes, making a charming effect as seen from my lawn's rear edge at the head of the pine and oak shaded ravine whose fish-pools are gay by turns with elder, wild sunflower, sumach, iris, water-lilies, and forget-me-not. [Illustration: "The beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above My Own Acre." This is the "Hoe Shop." The tower was ruined by fire many years ago, and because of its unsafety is being taken down at the present writing.] This ravine, the middle one of the grove's three, is about a hundred feet wide. When I first began to venture the human touch in it, it afforded no open spot level enough to hold a camp-stool. From the lawn above to the river road below, the distance is three hundred and thirty feet, and the fall, of fifty-five feet, is mostly at the upper end, which is therefore too steep, as well as too full of varied undergrowth, for any going but climbing. In the next ravine on its left there was a clear, cold spring and in the one on its right ran a natural rivulet that trickled even in August; but this middle ravine was dry or merely moist. Here let me say to any who would try an amateur landscape art on their own acre at the edge of a growing town, that the town's growth tends steadily to diminish the amount of their landscape's natural water supply by catching on street pavements and scores and hundreds of roofs, lawns and walks, and carrying away in sewers, the rain and melting snows which for ages filtered slowly through the soil. Small wonder, I think, that, when in the square quarter-mile between my acre and Elm Street fifty-three dwellings and three short streets took the place of an old farm, my grove, by sheer water famine, lost several of its giant pines. Wonder to me is that the harm seems at length to have ceased. But about that ravine: one day the nature of its growth and soil, especially its alders, elders, and willows and a show of clay and gravel, forced on my notice the likelihood that here, too, had once been a spring, if no more. I scratched at its head with a stick and out came an imprisoned rill like a recollected word from the scratched head of a schoolboy. Happily the spot was just at the bottom of the impassably steep fall of ground next the edge of the lawn and was almost in the centre of those four acres--one of sward, three of woods--which I proposed to hold under more or less discipline, leaving the rest--a wooded strip running up the river shore--wholly wild, as college girls, for example, would count wildness. In both parts the wealth of foliage on timber and underbrush almost everywhere shut the river out of view from the lawn and kept the eye restless for a glint, if no more, of water. And so there I thought at once to give myself what I had all my life most absurdly wished for, a fish-pool. I had never been able to look upon an aquarium and keep the tenth Commandment. I had never caught a fish without wanting to take it home and legally adopt it into the family--a tendency which once led my son to say, "Yes, he would be pleased to go fishing with me if I would only fish in a sportsmanlike manner." What a beautifully marked fish is the sun-perch! Once, in boyhood, I kept six of those "pumpkin-seed" in a cistern, and my smile has never been the same since I lost them--one of my war losses. I resolved to impound the waters of my spring in the ravine and keep fish at last--without salt--to my heart's content. Yet I remembered certain restraining precepts: first, that law of art which condemns incongruity--requires everything to be in keeping with its natural surroundings--and which therefore, for one thing, makes an American garden the best possible sort of garden to have in America; second, that twin art law, against inutility, which demands that everything in an artistic scheme serve the use it pretends to serve; third, a precept of Colonel Waring's: "Don't fool with running water if you haven't money to fool away"; and, fourth, that best of all gardening rules--look before you leap. However, on second thought, and tenth, and twentieth, one thought a day for twenty days, I found that if water was to be impounded anywhere on my acre here was the strategic point. Down this ravine, as I have said, was the lawn's one good glimpse of the river, and a kindred gleam intervening would tend, in effect, to draw those farther waters in under the trees and into the picture. Such relationships are very rewarding to find to whoever would garden well. Hence this mention. One's garden has to do with whatever is in sight from it, fair or otherwise, and it is as feasible and important to plant in the fair as to plant out the otherwise. Also, in making my grove paths, I had noticed that to cross this ravine where at one or two places in its upper half a contour grade would have been pettily circuitous and uninteresting, and to cross it comfortably, there should be either a bridge or a dam; and a dam with water behind it seemed pleasanter every way--showed less incongruity and less inutility--than a bridge with no water under it. As to "fooling with running water," the mere trickle here in question had to be dragged out of its cradle to make it run at all. It remained for me to find out by experience that even that weakling, imprisoned and grown to a pool, though of only three hundred square feet in surface, when aided and abetted by New England frosts and exposed on a southern slope to winter noonday suns, could give its amateur captor as much trouble--proportionately--as any Hebrew babe drawn from the bulrushes of the Nile is said to have given his. Now if there is any value in recording these experiences it can be only in the art principles they reveal. To me in the present small instance the principle illustrated was that of the true profile line for ascent or descent in a garden. You may go into any American town where there is any inequality of ground and in half an hour find a hundred or two private lawns graded--from the house to each boundary line--on a single falling curve, or, in plain English, a hump. The best reason why this curve is not artistic, not pleasing, but stupid, is that it is not natural and gains nothing by being unnatural. All gardening is a certain conquest of Nature, and even when "formal" should interfere with her own manner and custom as slightly as is required by the necessities of the case--the needs of that particular spot's human use and joy. The right profile and surface for a lawn of falling grade, the surface which will permanently best beguile both eye and foot, should follow a double curve, an ogee line. For, more or less emphasized, that is Nature's line in all her affable moods on land or water: a descent or ascent beginning gradually, increasing rapidly, and concluding gently. We see it in the face of any smooth knoll or billow. I believe the artists impute to Praxiteles a certain ownership in this double curve. It is a living line; it suggests Nature conscious and astir as no single curve or straight line can. I admit that even among amateurs this is rather small talk, but it brings me to this point: in the passage of water down a ravine of its own making, this line of Nature astir may repeat itself again and again but is commonly too inaffable, abrupt, angular, to suggest the ogee. In that middle part of it where the descent is swift it may be more or less of a plunge, and after the plunge the water is likely to pause on the third turn, in a natural pool, before resuming its triple action again. And so, in my ravine, some seasons later, I ventured to detain the overflow of my first pool on a second and a third lingering place, augmenting the water supply by new springs developed in the bottoms of the new pools. The second pool has a surface of a thousand square feet, the third spans nineteen hundred, and there are fish in all three, hatched there--"pumpkin-seed" included, but also trout--among spontaneous bulrushes, pond-lilies, flags, and dainty water-weeds; and sometimes at night, when the reflected glory of a ten-o'clock full moon shines up from it to the stone exedra on the lawn, I seem to have taken my Praxitelean curves so directly from Nature that she thinks she took them herself from me and thanks me for the suggestion. Please observe that of great gardens, or of costly gardens whether great or only costly, we here say nothing. Our theme is such a garden as a householder may himself make and keep or for which, at most, he needs professional advice only in its first planning, and for its upkeep one gardener, with one occasional helper in pressing seasons or in constructional work. Constructional work. Dams, for example. In two of my dams I built cores of concrete and thus made acquaintance with that interesting material. Later I pressed the acquaintanceship, made garden and grove seats, a table or two, a very modest fountain for a single jet of water in my highest, smallest fish-pool, and even a flight of steps with a pair of gaîne-shaped pedestals--suggested by a sculptor friend--at their top. The exedra I mentioned just now is of concrete. The stuff is a temptation to be wary of. The ordinary gray sort--I have touched no other--is a humble medium, and pretentious designs in humble materials are one of the worst, and oldest, of garden incongruities. In my ventures with concrete I have studied for grace in form but grace subordinated to stability, and have shunned embellishment. Embellishment for its own sake is the easiest and commonest sin against good art wherever art becomes self-conscious. It is having a riotous time just now in concrete. I have rarely seen a commercial concrete garden-seat which was not more ornate than I should want it for my own acre. I happen to have two or three articles in my garden which are a trifle elaborate but they are of terra-cotta, are not home-made and would be plainer could I have found them so. A garden needs furniture only less than a house, and concrete is a boon to "natural" gardening, being inexpensive, rustic, and imperishable. I fancy a chief reason why there is such inconsiderate dearth of seats and steps in our American amateur gardens is the old fashion--so well got rid of at any cost--of rustic cedar and hickory stairs and benches. "Have none of them," was Colonel Waring's injunction; "they are forever out of repair." But I fear another reason is that so often our gardens are neither for private ease nor social joy, but for public display and are planned mainly for street exhibition. That is the way we commonly treat garden fountains! We make a smug show of unfenced, unhedged, universal hospitality across a sidewalk boundary which nevertheless we hold inviolate--sometimes by means of a painted sign or gas-pipe--and never say "Have a seat" to the dearest friend in any secluded nook of our shrubberies, if there is such a nook. How many of us know a fountain beside an embowered seat where one,--or two,--with or without the book of verses, can sit and hear it whisper or watch the moonlight cover it with silent kisses? In my limited experience I have known of but two. One is by the once favorite thought-promoting summer seat of Augustus Saint-Gaudens on his own home acre in Vermont; the other I need not particularize further than to say that it is one of the things which interlock and unify a certain garden and grove. [Illustration: "A fountain ... where one,--or two,--can sit and hear it whisper." The ravine of the three fish pools. There is a drop of thirty feet between the upper and the lowermost pool.] The bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of my own acre. When the house was built its lot and others backed up to a hard, straight rear line where the old field had halted at its fence and where the woods began on ground that fell to the river at an angle of from forty to fifty degrees. Here my gifted friend and adviser gave me a precept got from his earlier gifted friend and adviser, Frederick Law Olmsted: that passing from any part of a pleasure-ground to any part next it should be entirely safe and easy or else impossible. By the application of this maxim I brought my lawn and grove together in one of the happiest of marriages. For I proceeded, by filling with earth (and furnace ashes), to carry the lawn in, practically level, beyond the old fence line and under the chestnuts and pines sometimes six feet, sometimes twelve, until the difficult and unsafe forty or fifty degrees of abrupt fall were changed to an impassable sixty and seventy degrees, and every one's instinctive choice of way was the contour paths. At the same time this has preserved, and even enhanced, the place's wildness, especially the wild flowers and the low-nesting birds. Sometimes a few yards of retaining-wall, never cemented, always laid up dry and with a strong inward batter, had to be put in to avoid smothering the roots of some great tree; for, as everybody knows and nearly everybody forgets, roots, like fishes, must have air. In one place, across the filled head of a ravine, the wall, though but a scant yard high, is fifty feet long, and there is another place where there should be one like it. In this work no tree was sacrificed save one noble oak done to death by a youth who knew but forgot that roots must have air. Not to make the work expensive it was pursued slowly, through many successive seasons; yet before even its easy, first half was done the lawn was in under the grove on an apparently natural, irregular crest line. Moreover the grove was out on the lawn with an even more natural haphazard bordering line; for another operation had been carried on meantime. Trees, souvenir trees, had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends. Most of them are set close enough to the grove to become a part of it, standing in a careful irregularity which has already obliterated, without molesting, the tree line of the ancient fence. [Illustration: "The bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of My Own Acre." At the point where the party is drinking tea (the site of the Indian mound) the overlap of grove and lawn is eighty-five feet across the old fence line that once sharply divided them.] Young senators among their seniors, they still have much growth to make before they can enter into their full forest dignity, yet Henry Ward Beecher's elm is nearly two feet through and has a spread of fifty; Max O'Rell's white-ash is a foot in diameter and fifty feet high; Edward Atkinson's is something more, and Felix Adler's hemlock-spruce, the maple of Anthony Hope Hawkins, L. Clark Seelye's English ash, Henry van Dyke's white-ash, Sol Smith Russell's linden, and Hamilton Wright Mabie's horse-chestnut are all about thirty-five feet high and cast a goodly shade. Sir James M. Barrie's elm--his and Sir William Robertson Nicoll's, who planted it with him later than the plantings aforementioned--has, by some virtue in the soil or in its own energies, reached a height of nearly sixty-five feet and a diameter of sixteen inches. Other souvenirs are a horse-chestnut planted by Minnie Maddern Fiske, a ginkgo by Alice Freeman Palmer, a beech by Paul van Dyke, a horse-chestnut by Anna Hempstead Branch, another by Sir Sidney Lee, yet another by Mary E. Burt, a catalpa by Madelaine Wynne, a Colorado blue spruce--fitly placed after much labor of mind--by Sir Moses Ezekiel, and a Kentucky coffee-tree by Gerald Stanley Lee and Jennette Lee, of our own town. Among these should also stand the maple of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but it was killed in its second winter by an undetected mouse at its roots. Except Sir Moses, all the knights here named received the accolade after their tree plantings, but I draw no moral. [Illustration: "Souvenir trees had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends." The Beecher elm, first of the souvenir trees.] Would it were practicable to transmit to those who may know these trees in later days the scenes of their setting out and to tell just how the words were said which some of the planters spoke. Mr. Beecher, lover of young trees and young children, straightened up after pressing the soil about the roots with hands as well as feet and said: "I cannot wish you to live as long as this tree, but may your children's children and their children sit under its shade." Said Felix Adler to his hemlock-spruce, "Vivat, crescat, floreat"; and a sentiment much like it was implied in Sol Smith Russell's words to the grove's master as they finished putting in his linden together--for he was just then proposing to play Rip Van Winkle, which Joseph Jefferson had finally decided to produce no more: "Here's to your healt', undt der healt' of all your family; may you lif long undt brosper." We--the first person singular grows tiresome--we might have now, on our acre, a tree planted by Joseph Jefferson had we thought in time to be provided with a sapling, growing, in a tub. Have your prospective souvenir tree already tubbed and waiting. This idea I got from Andrew Carnegie, with whom I had the honor to plant an oak at Skibo Castle and from whom I, like so many others, have had other things almost as good as ideas. Have your prospective souvenir tree tubbed and the tub sunk in the ground, of course, to its rim. Then the dear friend can plant it at any time that he may chance along between March and December. But let no souvenir tree, however planted, be treated, after planting, as other than a living thing if you would be just to it, to your friend, or to yourself. Cultivate it; coax it on; and it will grow two or three or four times as fast as if left to fight its daily battle for life unaided. And do not forbear to plant trees because they grow so slowly. They need not. They do not. With a little attention they grow so swiftly! Before you know it you are sitting in their shade. Besides Sir Arthur's maple the only souvenir tree we have lost was a tulip-tree planted by my friend of half a lifetime, the late Franklin H. Head. So much for my grove. I write of it not in self-complacency. My many blunders, some of them yet to be made, are a good insurance against that. I write because of the countless acres as good as mine, in this great, dear America, which might now be giving their owners all the healthful pastime, private solace, or solitary or social delights which this one yields, yet which are only "waste lands" or "holes in the ground" because unavailable for house lots or tillage. [Illustration: "How the words were said which some of the planters spoke." President Seelye of Smith College planting a tree.--A majority of the company present were Smith College students and others engaged in the work of the People's Institute. The tree on the left is Barrie's elm. The tree directly behind the small sapling which is being planted, and on a line with it, is Max O'Rell's. The hemlock-spruce between them is Felix Adler's.] And now as to the single acre by measure, of lawn, shrubs, and plants, close around my house; for the reason that it was and is my school of gardening. There was no garden here--I write this in the midst of it--when I began. Ten steps from where I sit there had been a small Indian mound which some one had carefully excavated. I found stone arrow chips on the spot, and one whole arrow-head. So here no one else's earlier skill was in evidence to point my course or impede it. This was my clean new slate and at that time I had never "done a sum" in gardening and got anything like a right answer. It is emphatically an amateur garden and a book garden: a garden which to me, as to most of us, would have been impossible in any but these days when the whole art of gardening has been printed in books and no amateur is excusable for trying to garden without reading them, or for saying after having read them that he has planned and worked without professional advice. The books _are_ the professional advice, with few drawbacks and with the great advantage that they are ours truly and do not even have to be "'phoned." I should rather have in my library my Bailey's "American Cyclopedia of Horticulture," than any two garden periodicals once a month. These, too, I value, but, for me, they are over-apt to carry too much deckload of the advice and gentle vauntings of other amateurs. I have an amateur's abhorrence of amateurs! The Cyclopedia _knows_, and will always send me to the right books if it cannot thresh a matter out with me itself. Before Bailey my fount of knowledge was Mr. E. J. Canning, late of Smith College Botanic Gardens; a spring still far from dry. As the books enjoin, I began my book-gardening with a plan on paper; not the elaborate thing one pays for when he can give his garden more money than time, but a light sketch, a mere fundamental suggestion. This came professionally from a landscape-architect, Miss Frances Bullard, of Bridgeport, Connecticut, who had just finished plotting the grounds of my neighbor, the college. I tell of my own garden for another reason: that it shows, I think, how much can be done with how little, if for the doing you take time instead of money. All things come to the garden that knows how to wait. Mine has acquired at leisure a group of effects which would have cost from ten to twenty times as much if got in a hurry. Garden for ten-year results and get them for next to nothing, and at the same time you may quicken speed whenever your exchequer smiles broadly enough. Of course this argument is chiefly for those who have the time and not the money; for by time we mean play time, time which is money lost if you don't play. The garden that gives the most joy, "Joyous Gard," as Sir Launcelot named his, is not to be bought, like a Circassian slave; it must be brought up, like a daughter. How much of life they can miss who can buy whatever they want whenever they want it! But I tell first of my own garden also because I believe it summarizes to the eye a number of primary book-rules, authoritative "don'ts," by the observance of which a multitude of amateur gardeners may get better results than it yet shows. Nevertheless, I will hardly do more than note a few exceptions to these ground rules, which may give the rules a more convincing force. First of all, "don't" let any of your planting cut or split your place in two. How many a small house-lot lawn we see split down the middle by a row of ornamental shrubs or fruit-trees which might as easily have been set within a few feet of the property line, whose rigidity, moreover, would have best excused the rigidity of the planted line. But such glaring instances aside, there are many subtler ones quite as unfortunate; "don't" be too sure you are not unwittingly furnishing one. "Don't" destroy the openness of your sward by dotting it with shrubs or pattern flower-beds. To this rule I doubt if a plausible exception could be contrived. It is so sweeping and so primary that we might well withhold it here were we not seeking to state its artistic reason why. Which is, that such plantings are mere eruptions of individual smartness, without dignity and with no part in any general unity; chirping up like pert children in a company presumably trying to be rational. On the other hand, I hope my acre, despite all its unconscious or unconfessed mistakes, shows pleasantly that the best openness of a lawn is not to be got between unclothed, right-angled and parallel bounds. The more its verdure-clad borders swing in and out the longer they look, not merely because they are longer but also because they interest and lure the eye. "Where are you going?" says the eye. "Come and see," says the roaming line. "Don't" plant in stiff lines except in close relation to architectural or legal bounds. A straight horizontal line Nature scarcely knows save in her rocks and on a vaster scale than we here have to do with. Yet straight lines in gardening are often good and fine if only they are lines of real need. Where, when and in what degree it is good to subordinate utility to beauty or beauty to utility depends on time, place and circumstance, but when in doubt "don't" pinch either to pet the other. Oppression is never good art. Yet "don't" cry war, war, where there is no war. A true beauty and a needed utility may bristle on first collision but they soon make friends. Was it not Ruskin himself who wanted to butt the railway-train off the track and paw up the rails--something like that? But even between them and the landscape there is now an entente cordiale. I have seen the hand of Joseph Pennell make beautiful peace with billboards and telegraph-poles and wires. The railway points us to the fact that along the ground Nature is as innocent of parallel lines, however bent, as of straight ones, and that in landscape-gardening parallels should be avoided unless they are lines of utility. "Don't" lay parallel lines, either straight or curved, where Nature would not and utility need not. Yet my own acre has taught me a modification of this rule so marked as to be almost an exception. On each side of me next my nearest neighbor I have a turfed alley between a continuous bed of flowering shrubs and plants next the division line, and a similar bed whose meanderings border my lawn. At first I gave these two alleys a sinuous course in correspondence with the windings of the bed bordering the lawn--for they were purely ways of pleasure among the flowers, and a loitering course seemed only reasonable. But sinuous lines proved as disappointing in the alleys as they were satisfying out on the lawn, and by and by I saw that whereas the bendings of the open lawn's borders lured and rewarded the eye, the same curves in the alleys obstructed and baffled it. The show of floral charms was piecemeal, momentary and therefore trivial. "Don't" be trivial! [Illustration: "'Where are you going?' says the eye. 'Come and see,' says the roaming line." This planting conceals one of the alleys described on page 34. In the alley a concrete bench built into a concrete wall looks across the entire breadth of the garden and into the sunset.] But a cure was easy. I had to straighten but one side of each alley to restore the eye's freedom of perspective, and nothing more was wanting. The American eye's freedom of perspective is one of our great liberties. Oh, say, can you _see_--? I made this change, of course, on the side nearest the straight, property-division bound, where ran an invisible wire fence. Thus the bed on that side was set between two straight parallels, while the bed on the lawn side remained between waving parallels. This gave the best simplicity with the least artificiality. And thus the two lanes are open to view from end to end, yet each has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn, bays which remain unseen till one actually reaches them in traversing the lane. In such a bay one should always have, I think, some floral revelation of special charm worthy of the seclusion and the surprise. But this thought is only one of a hundred that tell me my garden is not a finished thing. To its true lover a garden never is. Another sort of bay, the sort resulting from a swift retreat of a line of shrubberies pursued by the lawn and then swinging round and returning upon the lawn in a counter pursuit, I thought I had learned from books and Miss Bullard and had established on my own acre, until I saw the college gardens of Oxford, England, and the landscape work in Hyde Park, London. On my return thence I made haste to give my own garden's in-and-out curves twice the boldness they had had. And doubling their boldness I doubled their beauty. "Don't" ever let your acre's, or half or quarter acre's, ground lines relax into feebleness or shrink into pettiness. "Don't" ever plan a layout for whose free swing your limits are cramped. [Illustration: "The lane is open to view from end to end. It has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn." The straight line of high growth conceals in the midst of its foliage a wire division fence, and makes a perfect background for blooming herbaceous perennials.] "Don't" ever, if you can help it, says another of my old mistakes to me, let your acre lead your guest to any point which can be departed from only by retracing one's steps. Such necessities involve a lapse--not to say collapse--of interest, which makes for dulness and loss of dignity. Lack what my own acre may, I have it now so that by its alleys, lawns and contour paths in garden and grove we can walk and walk through every part of it without once meeting our own tracks, and that is not all because of the pleasant fact that the walks, where not turfed, are covered with pine-straw, of which each new September drops us a fresh harvest. A garden, we say, should never compel us to go back the way we came; but in truth a garden should never compel us to do anything. Its don'ts should be laid solely on itself. Those applicable to its master, mistress, or guests should all be impossibilities, not requests. "Private grounds, no crossing"--take that away, please, wherever you can, and plant your margins so that there can be no crossing. Wire nettings hidden by shrubberies from all but the shameless trespasser you will find far more effective, more promotive to beauty and more courteous. "Don't" make your garden a garden of don'ts. For no garden is quite a garden until it is "Joyous Gard." Let not yours or mine be a garden for display. Then our rhododendrons and like splendors will not be at the front gate, and our grounds be less and less worth seeing the farther into them we go. Nor let yours or mine be a garden of pride. The ways of such a garden are not pleasantness nor its paths peace. And let us not have a garden of tiring care or a user up of precious time. That is not good citizenship. Neither let us have an old-trousers, sun-bonnet, black finger-nails garden--especially if you are a woman. A garden that makes a wife, daughter or sister a dowdy is hardly "Joyous Gard." Neither is one which makes itself a mania to her and an affliction to her family. Let us not even have, you or me, a wonder garden--of arboreal or floral curiosities. Perhaps because I have not travelled enough I have never seen a garden of exotics that was a real garden in any good art sense; in any way, that is, lastingly pleasing to a noble spirit. Let your garden, and let mine, be the garden of joy. For the only way it can be that, on and on, year in, year out, is to be so good in art and so finely human in its purposes that to have it and daily keep it will make us more worth while to ourselves and to mankind than to go without it. THE AMERICAN GARDEN Almost any good American will admit it to be a part of our national social scheme, I think,--if we have a social scheme,--that everybody shall aspire to all the refinements of life. Particularly is it our theory that every one shall propose to give to his home all the joys and graces which are anywhere associated with the name of home. Yet until of late we have neglected the art of gardening. Now and then we see, or more likely we read about, some garden of wonderful beauty; but the very fame of it points the fact that really artistic gardening is not democratically general with us. Our cities and towns, without number, have the architect and the engineer, for house and for landscape, for sky-scrapers and all manner of public works; we have the nurseryman, the florist; we have parks, shaded boulevards and riverside and lakeside drives. Under private ownership we have a vast multitude of exactly rectilinear lawns, extremely bare or else very badly planted; and we have hundreds of thousands of beautiful dames and girls who "love flowers." But our home gardens, our home gardeners, either professional or amateur, where are they? Our smaller cities by scores and our towns by hundreds are full of home-dwellers each privately puzzled to know why every one of his neighbors' houses, however respectable in architecture, stares at him and after him with a vacant, deaf-mute air of having just landed in this country, without friends. What ails these dwellings is largely lack of true gardening. They will never look like homes, never look really human and benign, that is, until they are set in a gardening worthy of them. For a garden which alike in its dignity and in its modesty is worthy of the house around which it is set, is the smile of the place. In the small city of Northampton, Massachusetts, there has been for many years an annual prize competition of amateur flower-gardens. In 1913 there were over a thousand homes, about one-fourth of all the dwellings in the town, in this pretty contest. Not all, not half, these competitors could make a show worthy the name of good gardening, but every one of these households stood pledged to do something during the year for the outdoor improvement of the home, and hundreds of their house lots were florally beautiful. If I seem to hurry into a mention of it here it is partly in the notion that such a recital may be my best credentials as the writer of these pages, and partly in the notion that such a concrete example may possibly have a tendency to help on flower-gardening in the country at large and even to aid us in determining what American flower-gardening had best be. For the reader's better advantage, however, let me first state one or two general ideas which have given this activity and its picturesque results particular aspects and not others. I lately heard a lady ask an amateur gardener, "What is the garden's foundation principle?" There was a certain overgrown pomp in the question's form, but that is how she very modestly asked it, and I will take no liberty with its construction. I thought his reply a good one. "We have all," he said, "come up from wild nature. In wild nature there are innumerable delights, but they are qualified by countless inconveniences. The cave, tent, cabin, cottage and castle have gradually been evolved by an orderly accumulation and combination of defences and conveniences which secure to us a host of advantages over wild nature and wild man. Yet rightly we are loath to lose any more of nature than we must in order to be her masters and her children in one, and to gather from her the largest fund of profit and delight she can be made to yield. Hence around the cottage, the castle or the palace waves and blooms the garden." Was he not right? This is why, in our pleasant Northampton affair, we have accepted it as our first rule of private gardening that _the house is the climacteric note_. This is why the garden should never be more architectural and artificial than the house of which it is the setting, and this is why the garden should grow less and less architectural and artificial as it draws away from the house. To say the same thing in reverse, the garden, as it approaches the house, should accept more and more discipline--domestication--social refinement, until the house itself at length seems as unabruptly and naturally to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song. By this understanding of the matter what a fine truce-note is blown between the contending advocates of "natural" and of "formal" gardening! The right choice between these two aspects of the art, and the right degree in either choice, depend on the character of the house. The house is a part of the garden. It is the garden's brow and eyes. In gardening, almost the only thing which costs unduly is for us to try to give our house some other house's garden. One's private garden should never be quite so far removed from a state of nature as his house is. Its leading function should be to delight its house's inmates (and intimates) in things of nature so refined as to inspire and satisfy their happiest moods. Therefore no garden should cost, nor look as if it cost, an outlay of money, time or toil that cramps the house's own ability to minister to the genuine bodily needs and spiritual enlargements of its indwellers; and therefore, also, it should never seem to cost, in its first making or in its daily keeping, so much pains as to lack, itself, a garden's supreme essential--tranquillity. So, then, to those who would incite whole streets of American towns to become florally beautiful, "formal" gardening seems hardly the sort to recommend. About the palatial dwellings of men of princely revenue it may be enchanting. There it appears quite in place. For with all its exquisite artificiality it still is nearer to nature than the stately edifice it surrounds and adorns. But for any less costly homes it costs too much. It is expensive in its first outlay and it demands constantly the greatest care and the highest skill. Our ordinary American life is too busy for it unless the ground is quite handed over to the hired professional and openly betrays itself as that very unsatisfying thing, a "gardener's garden." [Illustration: " ... until the house itself seems as naturally ... to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song." On the right of this picture you may see the piers of one of the front gates of My Own Acre standing under Henry Ward Beecher's elm. The urn forms surmounting them are of concrete, and the urns are cast from earlier forms in wood, which were a gift from Henry van Dyke. On the left the tops of the arbor vitæ and a magnolia are bending in the wind.] Our ordinary American life is also too near nature for the formal garden to come in between. Unless our formal gardening is of some inexpensive sort our modest dwelling-houses give us an anticlimax, and there is no inexpensive sort of formal gardening. Except in the far south our American climate expatriates it. A very good practical rule would be for none of us to venture upon such gardening until he is well able to keep up an adequate greenhouse. A formal garden without a greenhouse or two--or three--is a glorious army on a war footing, but without a base of supplies. It is largely his greenhouses which make the public gardener and the commercial florist so misleading an example for the cottager to follow in his private gardening. To be beautiful, formal gardening requires stately proportions. Without these it is almost certain to be petty and frivolous. In the tiny gardens of British and European peasants, it is true, a certain formality of design is often practised with pleasing success; but these gardens are a by-product of peasant toil, and in America we have no joy in contemplating an American home limited to the aspirations of peasant life. In such gardening there is a constraint, a lack of natural freedom, a distance from nature, and a certain contented subserviency, which makes it--however fortunate it may be under other social conditions--wholly unfit to express the buoyant, not to say exuberant, complacencies of the American home. For these we want, what we have not yet quite evolved, the American garden. When this comes it must come, of course, unconsciously; but we may be sure it will not be much like the gardens of any politically shut-in people. No, not even of those supreme artists in gardening, the Japanese. It will express the traits of our American domestic life; our strong individuality and self-assurance, our sense of unguarded security, our affability and unexclusiveness and our dislike to high-walled privacy. If we would hasten its day we must make way for it along the lines of these traits. On the other hand, if in following these lines we can contrive to adhere faithfully to the worldwide laws of all true art, who knows but our very gardening may tend to correct more than one shortcoming or excess in our national character? In our Northampton experiment it has been our conviction from the beginning that for a private garden to be what it should be--to have a happy individuality--a countenance of its own--one worthy to be its own--it must in some practical way be the fruit of its householder's own spirit and not merely of some hired gardener's. If one can employ a landscape-architect, all very well; but the most of us cannot, and after all, the true landscape-architect, the artist gardener, works on this principle and seeks to convey into every garden distinctively the soul of the household for which it springs and flowers. "Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee." Few American householders, however, have any enthusiasm for this theory, which many would call high-strung, and as we in Northampton cannot undertake to counsel and direct our neighbors' hired helps, we enroll in the main branch of our competition only those who garden for themselves and hire no labor. To such the twenty-one prizes, ranging from two dollars and a half up to fifteen dollars, are a strong incentive, and by such the advice of visiting committees is eagerly sought and followed. The public educative value of the movement is probably largest under these limitations, for in this way we show what beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds and with the least outlay. Its private educative value, too, is probably largest thus, because thus we disseminate as a home delight a practical knowledge of æsthetic principles among those who may at any time find it expedient to become wage-earning gardeners on the home grounds of the well-to-do. [Illustration: "Beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds." This is half of a back yard, the whole of which is equally handsome. The place to which it belongs took a capital prize in the Carnegie Flower Garden Competition.] [Illustration: "Muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom." An invisible fault of this planting is that it was set too close to the building and tended to give an impression, probably groundless, of promoting dampness. Also it was an inconvenience to mechanics in painting or repairing.] The competing gardens being kept wholly without hired labor, of course our constant advice to all contestants is to shun formal gardening. It is a pity that in nearly all our cities and towns the most notable examples of gardening are found in the parks, boulevards, and cemeteries. By these flaring displays thousands of modest cottagers who might easily provide, on their small scale, lovely gardens about their dwellings at virtually no cost and with no burdensome care, get a notion that this, and this only, is artistic gardening and hence that a home garden for oneself would be too expensive and troublesome to be thought of. On the other hand, a few are tempted to mimic them on a petty scale, and so spoil their little grass-plots and amuse, without entertaining, their not more tasteful but only less aspiring neighbors. In Northampton, in our Carnegie prize contest--so called for a very sufficient and pleasant reason--our counsel is to avoid all mimicry in gardening as we would avoid it in speech or in gait. Sometimes we do not mind being repetitious. "In gardening" we say--as if we had never said it before--"almost the only thing which costs unduly--in money or in mortification--is for one to try to give himself somebody else's garden!" Often we say this twice to the same person. One of the reasons we give against it is that it leads to toy gardening, and toy gardening is of all sorts the most pitiful and ridiculous. "No true art," we say, "can tolerate any make-believe which is not in some way finer than the reality it simulates. In other words, imitation should always be in the nature of an amiable condescension. Whatever falseness, pretension or even mere frailty or smallness, suggests to the eye the ineffectuality of a toy is out of place in any sort of gardening." We do not actually speak all this, but we imply it, and we often find that the mere utterance of the one word, "toy gardening," has a magical effect to suggest all the rest and to overwhelm with contrition the bad taste and frivolity of many a misguided attempt at adornment. At that word of exorcism joints of cerulean sewer-pipe crested with scarlet geraniums, rows of whited cobbles along the walk or drive like a cannibal's skulls around his hut, purple paint-kegs of petunias on the scanty door-steps, crimson wash-kettles of verbenas, ant-hill rockeries, and well-sweeps and curbs where no wells are, steal modestly and forever into oblivion. Now, when we so preach we try also to make it very plain that there is not one set of rules for gardening on a small scale of expense in a small piece of ground, and another set for gardening on a larger scale. For of course the very thing which makes the small garden different from the large, the rich man's from the poor man's, the Scotch or Italian peasant's from the American mechanic's, or the public garden from the private, is the universal and immutable oneness of the great canons of art. One of our competitors, having honestly purged her soul of every impulse she may ever have had to mimic the gardening of the cemeteries, planted her dooryard with a trueness of art which made it the joy of all beholders. Only then was it that a passing admirer stopped and cried: "Upon me soul, Mrs. Anonyma, yir gyairden looks joost loike a pooblic pairk!" He meant--without knowing it--that the spot was lovely for not trying to look the least bit like a public park, and he was right. She had kept what it would be well for the public gardeners to keep much better than some of them do--the Moral Law of Gardening. * * * * * There is a moral law of gardening. No garden should ever tell a lie. No garden should ever put on any false pretence. No garden should ever break a promise. To the present reader these proclamations may seem very trite; it may seem very trite to say that if anything in or of a garden is meant for adornment, it must adorn; but we have to say such things to many who do not know what trite means--who think it is something you buy from the butcher. A thing meant for adornment, we tell them, must so truly and sufficiently adorn as to be worth all the room and attention it takes up. Thou shalt not let anything in thy garden take away thy guest's attention without repaying him for it; it is stealing. A lady, not in our competition but one of its most valued patronesses, lately proposed to herself to place in the centre of a wide, oval lawn a sun-dial and to have four paths cross the grass and meet there. But on reflection the query came to her-- "In my unformal garden of simplest grove and sward will a sun-dial--posing in an office it never performed there, and will never again be needed for anywhere--a cabinet relic now--will a _posed_ sun-dial be interesting enough when it is arrived at to justify a special journey and four kept-up paths which cut my beautiful grass-plot into quarters?" With that she changed her mind--a thing the good gardener must often do--and appointed the dial to a place where one comes upon it quite incidentally while moving from one main feature of the grounds to another. It is now a pleasing, mild surprise instead of a tame fulfilment of a showy promise; pleasing, after all, it must, however, be admitted, to the toy-loving spirit, since the sun-dial has long been, and henceforth ever will be, an utterly useless thing in a garden, only true to art when it stands in an old garden, a genuine historical survival of its day of true utility. Only in such a case does the sun-dial belong to the good morals of gardening. But maybe this is an overstrict rule for the majority of us who are much too fond of embellishments and display--the rouge and powder of high art. On the other hand, we go to quite as much pains to say that though a garden may not lie nor steal, it may have its concealments; they are as right as they are valuable. One of the first steps in the making of a garden should be to determine what to hide and how most gracefully to hide it. A garden is a house's garments, its fig-leaves, as we may say, and the garden's concealments, like its revelations, ought always to be in the interest of comfort, dignity, and charm. We once had a very bumptious member on our board of judges. "My dear madam!" he exclaimed to an aspirant for the prizes, the underpinning of whose dwelling stood out unconcealed by any sprig of floral growth, "your house is barefooted! Nobody wants to see your house's underpinning, any more than he wants to see your own!" It is not good to be so brusque about non-penitentiary offences, but skilful and lovely concealments in gardening were his hobby. To another he whispered, "My dear sir, tell your pretty house her petticoat shows!" and to yet another, "Take all those shrubs out of the middle of your lawn and 'plant out' with them every feature of your house which would be of no interest to you if the house were not yours. Your house's morals may be all right, but its manners are insufferable, it talks so much about itself and its family." To a fourth he said: "In a gardening sense your house makes too much noise; you can hear its right angles hit the ground. Muffle them! Muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom. Up in the air they may be ever so correct and fine, but down in the garden and unclothed they are heinous, heinous!" Another precept we try to inculcate in our rounds among the gardens, another commandment in the moral law of gardening, is that with all a garden's worthy concealments it should never, and need never, be frivolous or be lacking in candor. I know an amateur gardener--and the amateur gardener, like the amateur photographer, sometimes ranks higher than the professional--who is at this moment altering the location of a sidewalk gate which by an earlier owner was architecturally misplaced for the sole purpose of making a path with curves--and such curves!--instead of a straight and honest one, from the street to the kitchen. When a path is sent on a plain business errand it should never loaf. And yet those lines of a garden's layout which are designed not for business but for pleasure, should never behave as though they were on business; they should loiter just enough to make their guests feel at ease, while not enough to waste time. How like a perfect lady, or a perfect gentleman, is--however humble or exalted its rank--a garden with courtly manners! As to manners, our incipient American garden has already developed one trait which distinguishes it from those beyond the Atlantic. It is a habit which reminds one of what somebody has lately said about Americans themselves: that, whoever they are and whatever their manners may be, they have this to their credit, that they unfailingly desire and propose to be polite. The thing we are hinting at is our American gardens' excessive openness. Our people have, or until just now had, almost abolished the fence and the hedge. A gard, yard, garth, garden, used to mean an enclosure, a close, and implied a privacy to its owner superior to any he enjoyed outside of it. But now that we no longer have any military need of privacy we are tempted--are we not?--to overlook its spiritual value. We seem to enjoy publicity better. In our American eagerness to publish everything for everybody and to everybody, we have published our gardens--published them in paper bindings; that is to say, with their boundaries visible only on maps filed with the Registrar of Deeds. Foreigners who travel among us complain that we so overdo our good-natured endurance of every public inconvenience that we have made it a national misfortune and are losing our sense of our public rights. This obliteration of private boundaries is an instance. Our public spirit and out imperturbability are flattered by it, but our gardens, except among the rich, have become American by ceasing to be gardens. I have a neighbor who every year plants a garden of annuals. He has no fence, but two of his neighbors have each a setter dog. These dogs are rarely confined. One morning I saw him put in the seed of his lovely annuals and leave his smoothly raked beds already a pleasant show and a prophecy of delight while yet without a spray of green. An hour later I saw those two setter dogs wrestling and sprawling around in joyous circles all over those garden beds. "Gay, guiltless pair!" What is one to do in such a case, in a land where everybody is expected to take everything good-naturedly, and where a fence is sign of a sour temper? Of course he can do as others do, and have no garden. But to have no garden is a distinct poverty in a householder's life, whether he knows it or not, and--suppose he very much wants a garden? They were the well-to-do who began this abolition movement against enclosures and I have an idea it never would have had a beginning had there prevailed generally, democratically, among us a sentiment for real gardening, and a knowledge of its practical principles; for with this sentiment and knowledge we should have had that sweet experience of outdoor privacy for lack of which we lose one of the noblest charms of home. The well-to-do started the fashion, it cost less money to follow than to withstand it and presently the landlords of the poor utilized it. The poor man--the poor woman--needs the protection of a fence to a degree of which the well-to-do know nothing. In the common interest of the whole community, of any community, the poor man--the poor woman--ought to have a garden; but if they are going to have a garden they ought to have a fence. We in Northampton know scores of poor homes whose tenants strive year after year to establish some floral beauty about them, and fail for want of enclosures. The neighbors' children, their dogs, their cats, geese, ducks, hens--it is useless. Many refuse to make the effort; some, I say, make it and give it up, and now and then some one wins a surprising and delightful success. Two or three such have taken high prizes in our competition. The two chief things which made their triumph possible were, first, an invincible passion for gardening, and, second, poultry-netting. A great new boon to the home gardener they are, these wire fencings and nettings. With them ever so many things may be done now at a quarter or tenth of what they would once have cost. Our old-fashioned fences were sometimes very expensive, sometimes very perishable, sometimes both. Also they were apt to be very ugly. Yet instead of concealing them we made them a display, while the shrubbery which should have masked them in leaf and bloom stood scattered over the lawn, each little new bush by itself, visibly if not audibly saying-- "You'd scarce expect one of my age----" etc.; the shrubs orphaned, the lawn destroyed. If the enclosure was a hedge it had to be a tight one or else it did not enclose. Now wire netting charms away these embarrassments. Your hedge can be as loose as you care to have it, while your enclosure may be rigidly effective yet be hidden from the eye by undulating fence-rows; and as we now have definite bounds and corners to plant out, we do not so often as formerly need to be reminded of Frederick Law Olmsted's favorite maxim, "Take care of the corners, and the centres will take care of themselves." [Illustration: Fences masked by shrubbery. One straight line of Williston Seminary campus, the effect of whose iron fence before it was planted out with barberry may be seen in the two panels of it still bare on the extreme right.] Here there is a word to be added in the interest of home-lovers, whose tastes we properly expect to find more highly trained than those of the average tenant cottager. Our American love of spaciousness leads us to fancy that--not to-day or to-morrow, but somewhere in a near future--we are going to unite our unfenced lawns in a concerted park treatment: a sort of wee horticultural United States comprised within a few city squares; but ever our American individualism stands broadly in the way, and our gardens almost never relate themselves to one another with that intimacy which their absence of boundaries demands in order to take on any special beauty, nobility, delightsomeness, of gardening. The true gardener--who, if he is reading this, must be getting very tired of our insistent triteness--carefully keeps in mind the laws of linear and of aërial perspective, no matter how large or small the garden. The relative stature of things, both actual and prospective; their breadth; the breadth or slenderness, darkness or lightness, openness or density, of their foliage; the splendor or delicacy of their flowers, whether in size or in color; the season of their blooming; the contour of the grounds--all these points must be taken into account in determining where things are to stand and how be grouped. Once the fence or hedge was the frame of the picture; but now our pictures, on almost any street of unpalatial, comfortable homes, touch edge to edge without frames, and the reason they do not mar one another's effects is that they have no particular effects to be marred, but lie side by side as undiscordantly as so many string instruments without strings. Let us hope for a time when they will rise in insurrection, resolved to be either parts of a private park, or each one a whole private garden. In our Carnegie prize contest nothing yields its judges more pleasure than to inculcate the garden rules of perspective to which we have just referred and to see the blissful complacency of those who successfully carry them out. I have now in my mind's eye a garden to which was awarded the capital prize of 1903. A cottage of maybe six small rooms crowns a high bank on a corner where two rural streets cross. There are a few square yards of lawn on its front, and still fewer (scarcely eight or ten) on the side next the cross-street, but on the other two sides there is nearly a quarter of an acre. On these two sides the limits touch other gardens, and all four sides are entirely without fencing. From the front sward have been taken away a number of good shrubs which once broke it into ineffectual bits, and these have been grouped against the inward and outward angles of the house. The front porch is garlanded--not smothered--with vines whose flowers are all white, pink, blue or light purple. About the base of the porch and of all the house's front, bloom flowers of these same delicate tints, the tallest nearest the house, the lesser at their knees and feet. The edges of the beds--gentle waves that never degenerate to straightness--are thickly bordered with mignonette. Not an audacious thing, not a red blossom nor a strong yellow one, nor one broad leaf, nor any mass of dense or dark foliage, comes into view until one reaches a side of the dwelling. But there at once he finds the second phase in a crescendo of floral colors. The base of the house, and especially those empty eye-sockets, the cellar windows, are veiled in exultant bloom, yellows predominating. Then at the back of the place comes the full chorus, and red flowers overmaster the yellow, though the delicate tints with which the scheme began are still present to preserve the dignity and suavity of all--the ladies of the feast. The paths are only one or two and they never turn abruptly and ask you to keep off their corners; they have none. Neither have the flower-beds. They flow wideningly around the hard turnings of the house with the grace of a rivulet. Out on the two wider sides of the lawn nothing breaks the smooth green but a well-situated tree or two until the limits of the premises are reached, and there, in lines that widen and narrow and widen again and hide the surveyor's angles, the flowers rise once more in a final burst of innumerable blossoms and splendid hues--a kind of sunset of the garden's own. When this place, five seasons ago, first entered the competition, it could hardly be called a garden at all. Yet it was already superior to many rivals. In those days it seemed to us as though scarcely one of our working people in a hundred knew that a garden was anything more than a bed of flowers set down anywhere and anyhow. It was a common experience for us to be led by an unkept path and through a patch of weeds or across an ungrassed dooryard full of rubbish, in order to reach a so-called garden which had never spoken a civil word to the house nor got one from it. Now, the understanding is that every part of the premises, every outdoor thing on the premises--path, fence, truck-patch, stable, stable-yard, hen-yard, tennis or croquet-court--everything is either a part of the garden or is so reasonably related to it that from whatever point one views the place he beholds a single satisfactory picture. This, I say, is the understanding. I do not say that even among our prize-winners anybody has yet perfectly attained this, although a few have come very near it. With these the main surviving drawback is that the artistic effect is each season so long coming and passes away so soon--cometh up as a flower and presently has withered. One of our most gifted literary critics a while ago pointed out the poetic charm of evanescence; pointed it out more plainly, I fancy, than it has ever been shown before. But evanescence has this poetic charm chiefly in nature, almost never in art. The transitoriness of a sunset glory, or of human life, is rife with poetic pathos because it is a transitoriness which _cannot be helped_. Therein lay the charm of that poetic wonder and marvel of its day (1893) the Columbian Exposition's "White City"; it was an architectural triumph and glory which we could not have except on condition that it should vanish with the swiftness of an aurora. Even so, there would have been little poetry in its evanescence if, through bad workmanship or any obvious folly, it had failed to fulfil the transient purpose for which it was erected. The only poetic evanescence is the evanescence that is inevitable. An unnecessary evanescence in things we make is bad art. If I remember the story correctly, it was to a Roman lady that Benvenuto Cellini took the exquisite waxen model of some piece of goldsmithing she had commissioned him to execute for her. So delighted was she with this mere model that she longed to keep it and called it the perfection of art, or some such word. But Benvenuto said, No, he could not claim for it the high name of art until he should have reproduced it in gold, that being the most worthy material in which it would endure the use for which it was designed. Unless the great Italian was in error, then, a garden ought not to be so largely made up of plants which perish with the summer as to be, at their death, no longer a garden. Said that harsh-spoken judge whom we have already once or twice quoted--that shepherd's-dog of a judge--at one of the annual bestowals of our Carnegie garden prizes: "Almost any planting about the base of a building, fence or wall is better than none; but for this purpose shrubs are far better than annual flowers. Annuals do not sufficiently mask the hard, offensive right-angles of the structure's corners or of the line whence it starts up from the ground. And even if sometimes they do, they take so long to grow enough to do it, and are so soon gone with the first cold blast, that the things they are to hide are for the most of the year not hidden. Besides which, even at their best moments, when undoubtedly they are very beautiful, they have not a sufficiently substantial look to be good company for the solid structure they are set against. Sweetly, modestly, yet obstinately, they confess to every passer-by that they did not come, but were put there and were put there only last spring. Shrubs, contrariwise, give a feeling that they have sprung and grown there in the course of nature and of the years, and so convey to the house what so many American homes stand in want of--a quiet air of being long married and a mother of growing children. "Flowering shrubs of well-chosen kinds are in leaf two-thirds of the year, and their leafless branches and twigs are a pleasing relief to the structure's cold nakedness even through the winter. I have seen a house, whose mistress was too exclusively fond of annuals, stand waiting for its shoes and stockings from October clear round to August, and then barefooted again in October. In such gardening there is too much of love's labor lost. If one's grounds are so small that there is no better place for the annuals they can be planted against the shrubs, as the shrubs are planted against the building or fence. At any rate they should never be bedded out in the midst of the lawn, and quite as emphatically they should never, alone, be set to mark the boundary lines of a property." [Illustration: After the first frost annual plantings cease to be attractive.] [Illustration: Shrubbery versus annuals. The contrast in these two pictures is between two small street plantings standing in sight of each other, one of annuals with a decorative effect and lasting three months, the other with shrubberies and lasting nine months.] It is hoped these sayings, quoted or otherwise, may seem the more in place here because they contemplate the aspects likely to characterize the American garden whenever that garden fully arrives. We like largeness. There are many other qualities to desire, and to desire even more; but if we give them also the liking we truly owe them it is right for us to like largeness. Certainly it is better to like largeness even for itself, rather than smallness for itself. Especially is it right that we should like our gardens to look as large as we can make them appear. Our countless lawns, naked clear up into their rigid corners and to their dividing lines, are naked in revolt against the earlier fashion of spotting them over with shrubs, the easiest as well as the worst way of making a place look small. But a naked lawn does not make the premises look as large, nor does it look as large itself, as it will if planted in the manner we venture to commend to our Northampton prize-seekers. Between any two points a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations appears much longer than a straight one, because it is longer. But, over and above this, it makes the distance between the two points seem greater. Everybody knows the old boast of the landscape-architects--that they can make one piece of ground look twice as large as another of the same measure, however small, by merely grading and planting the two on contrary schemes. The present writer knows one small street in his town, a street of fair dwellings, on which every lawn is diminished to the eye by faulty grading. [Illustration: Shrubs are better than annuals for masking right angles. South Hall, Williston Seminary. (See "Where to Plant What.")] [Illustration: " ... a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations." The straight planting on this picture's left masks the back yards of three neighbors, and gives them a privacy as well as My Own Acre. The curved planting shows but one of three bends. It was here that I first made the mistake of planting a sinuous alley. (See "My Own Acre," p. 34.)] For this he has no occasion to make himself responsible but there are certain empty lots not far from him for whose aspect he is answerable, having graded them himself (before he knew how). He has repeatedly heard their depth estimated at ninety feet, never at more. In fact it is one hundred and thirty-nine. However, he has somewhat to do also with a garden whose grading was quite as bad--identical, indeed--whose fault has been covered up and its depth made to seem actually greater than it is, entirely by a corrective planting of its shrubbery. One of the happiest things about gardening is that when it is bad you can always--you and time--you and year after next--make it good. It is very easy to think of the plants, beds and paths of a garden as things which, being once placed, must stay where they are; but it is shortsighted and it is fatal to effective gardening. We should look upon the arrangement of things in our garden very much as a housekeeper looks on the arrangement of the furniture in her house. Except buildings, pavements and great trees--and not always excepting the trees--we should regard nothing in it as permanent architecture but only as furnishment and decoration. At favorable moments you will make whatever rearrangement may seem to you good. A shrub's mere being in a certain place is no final reason that it should stay there; a shrub or a dozen shrubs--next spring or fall you may transplant them. A shrub, or even a tree, may belong where it is this season, and the next and the next; and yet in the fourth year, because of its excessive growth, of the more desired growth of something else, or of some rearrangement of other things, that spot may be no longer the best place for it. Very few shrubs are injured by careful and seasonable, even though repeated, transplanting. Many are benefited by one or another effect of the process: by the root pruning they get, by the "division," by the change of soil, by change of exposure or even by backset in growth. Transplanting is part of a garden's good discipline. It is almost as necessary to the best results as pruning--on which grave subject there is no room to speak here. The owner even of an American garden should rule his garden, not be ruled by it. Yet he should rule without oppression, and it will not be truly American if it fails to show at a glance that it is not overgardened. Thus do we propose to exhort our next season's competitors as this fall and winter they gather at our projected indoor garden-talks, or as we go among them to offer counsel concerning their grounds plans for next spring. And we hope not to omit to say, as we had almost omitted to say here, in behalf of the kind of garden we preach, that shrubs, the most of them, require no great enrichment of the soil--an important consideration. And we shall take much care to recommend the perusal of books on gardening. Once this gentle art was largely kept a close secret of craftsmen; but now all that can be put into books is in books, and the books are non-technical, brief and inexpensive; or if voluminous and costly, as some of the best needs must be, are in the public libraries. In their pages are a host of facts (indexed!) which once had to be burdensomely remembered. For one preoccupied with other cares--as every amateur gardener ought to be--these books are no mean part of his equipment; they are as necessary to his best gardening as the dictionary to his best English. What a daily, hourly, unfailing wonder are the modern opportunities and facilities by which we are surrounded! If the present reader and the present writer, and maybe a few others, will but respond to them worthily, who knows but we may ourselves live to see, and to see as democratically common as telephones and electric cars, the American garden? Of course there is ever and ever so much more to be said about it, and the present writer is not at all weary; but he hears his reader's clock telling the hour and feels very sure it is correct. WHERE TO PLANT WHAT Often one's hands are too heavily veneered with garden loam for him to go to his books to verify a quotation. It was the great Jefferson, was it not, who laid into the foundations of American democracy the imperishable maxim that "That gardening is best which gardens the least"? My rendition of it may be more a parody than a quotation but, whatever its inaccuracy, to me it still sounds Jeffersonian--Joseph Jeffersonian. Whether we read it "garden" or "govern," it has this fine mark of a masterful utterance, that it makes no perceptible effort to protect itself against the caviller or the simpleton; from men, for instance, who would interpret it as meaning that the only perfect government, or gardening, is none at all. Speaking from the point of view of a garden-lover, I suppose the true signification is that the best government is the government which procures and preserves the noblest happiness of the community with the least enthralment of the individual. Now, I hope that as world-citizens and even as Americans we may bear in mind that, while this maxim may be wholly true, it is not therefore the whole truth. What maxim is? Let us ever keep a sweet, self-respecting modesty with which to confront and consort with those who see the science of government, or art of gardening, from the standpoint of some other equally true fraction of the whole truth. All we need here maintain for our Jeffersonian maxim is that its wide domination in American sentiment explains the larger part of all the merits and faults of American government--and American gardening. It accounts for nearly all our American laws and ordinances, manners, customs, and whims, and in the great discussion of Where to Plant What (in America) no one need hope to prevail who does not recognize that this high principle of American democracy is the best rule for American gardening. That gardening is best, for most Americans, which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom. Hence the initial question--a question which every amateur gardener must answer for himself. How much subserviency of nature to art and utility is really necessary to my own and my friends' and neighbors' best delight? For--be not deceived--however enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her _some_ subserviency close about your own dwelling. You cannot there persistently enjoy the wolf and the panther, the muskrat, buzzard, gopher, rattlesnake, poison-ivy and skunk in full swing, as it were. How much, then, of nature's subserviency does the range of your tastes demand? Also, how much will your purse allow? For it is as true in gardening as in statecraft that, your government being once genuinely established, the more of it you have, the more you must pay for it. In gardening, as in government, the cost of the scheme is not in proportion to the goodness or badness of its art, but to its intensity. This is why the general and very sane inclination of our American preferences is away from that intense sort of gardening called "formal," and toward that rather unfairly termed "informal" method which here, at least, I should like to distinguish as "free-line" gardening. A free people who govern leniently will garden leniently. Their gardening will not be a vexing tax upon themselves, upon others, or upon the garden. Whatever freedom it takes away from themselves or others or the garden will be no more than is required for the noblest delight; and whatever freedom remains untaken, such gardening will help everybody to exercise and enjoy. The garden of free lines, provided only it be a real garden under a real government, is, to my eye, an angel's protest against every species and degree of tyranny and oppression, and such a garden, however small or extensive, will contain a large proportion of flowering shrubbery. Because a garden should not, any more than my lady's face, have all its features--nose, eyes, ears, lips--of one size? No, that is true of all gardening alike; but because with flowering shrubbery our gardening can be more lenient than with annuals alone, or with only herbaceous plants and evergreens. [Illustration: "However enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her _some_ subserviency about your own dwelling." A front view of the three older buildings of Williston Seminary.] So, then, our problem, Where to Plant What, may become for a moment, Where to Plant Shrubbery; and the response of the free-line garden will be, of course, "Remember, concerning each separate shrub, that he or she--or it, if you really _prefer_ the neuter--is your guest, and plant him or her or it where it will best enjoy itself, while promoting the whole company's joy." Before it has arrived in the garden, therefore, learn--and carefully consider--its likes and dislikes, habits, manners and accomplishments and its friendly or possibly unfriendly relations with your other guests. This done, determine between whom and whom you will seat it; between what and what you will plant it, that is, so as to "draw it out," as we say of diffident or reticent persons; or to use it for drawing out others of less social address. But how many a lovely shrub has arrived where it was urgently invited, and found that its host or hostess, or both, had actually forgotten its name! Did not know how to introduce it to any fellow guest, or whether it loved sun or shade, loam, peat, clay, leaf-mould or sand, wetness or dryness; and yet should have found all that out in the proper blue-book (horticultural dictionary) before inviting the poor mortified guest at all. "Oh, pray be seated--anywhere. Plant yourself alone in the middle. This is Liberty Garden." "It is no such thing," says the tear-bedewed beauty to herself; "it's Anarchy Garden." Yet, like the lady she is, she stays where she is put, and gets along surprisingly well. New England calls Northampton one of her most beautiful towns. But its beauty lies in the natural landscape in and around it, in the rise, fall, and swing of the seat on which it sits, the graceful curving of its streets, the noble spread of its great elms and maples, the green and blue openness of grounds everywhere about its modest homes and its highly picturesque outlook upon distant hills and mountains and intervening meadows and fields, with the Connecticut winding through. Its architecture is in three or four instances admirable though not extraordinary, and, as in almost every town in our vast America, there are hardly five householders in it who are really skilled flower-gardeners, either professional or amateur. [Illustration: "Plant it where it will best enjoy itself." These wild roses are in two clumps with a six-foot open way between them. They are a wild rose (_Rosa Arkansana_) not much in use but worthy of more attention, as indeed all the wild roses are. The sunlit tree farthest on the right is Sol Smith Russell's linden.] As the present century was coming in, however, the opportunity, through private flower-gardening, to double or quadruple the town's beauty and to do it without great trouble or expense, yet with great individual delight and social pleasure, came to the lively notice of a number of us. It is, then, for the promotion of this object throughout all our bounds, and not for the perfection of the art for its own sake, that we maintain this competition and award these "Carnegie" prizes. Hence certain features of our method the value and necessity of which might not be clear to the casual inquirer without this explanation. May I repeat it? Not to reward two or three persons yearly for reaching some dizzy peak of art unattainable by ordinary taste and skill, nor to reward one part of the town or one element of its people for gardening better than another, nor to promote the production of individual plants or flowers of extraordinary splendor, nor even to incite children to raise patches of flowers, is our design; but to make the modest and democratic art of Where to Plant What (an art, nevertheless, quite beyond the grasp of children) so well known and so valued that its practical adoption shall overrun the whole town. To this end we have divided our field into seven districts, in each of which the number of gardens is about the same. In each of these seven districts only three prizes (out of twenty-one) may be taken in any one season. Consequently three prizes _must_ fall to each district every year. Yet the best garden of all still carries off the capital prize, the second-best may win the second, and cannot take a lower than the third, and the lowest awards go into the district showing the poorest results. Even this plan is so modified as further to stimulate those who strive against odds of location or conditions, for no district is allowed to receive two prizes consecutive in the list. The second prize cannot be bestowed in the same district in which the first is being awarded, though the third can. The third cannot go into the same district as the second, though the fourth may. And so on to the twenty-first. Moreover, a garden showing much improvement over the previous season may take a prize, as against a better garden which shows no such improvement. Also no garden can take the capital prize twice nor ever take a prize not higher than it has taken before. The twenty-one prizes are for those who hire no help in their gardening; two others are for those who reserve the liberty to employ help, and still another two are exclusively for previous winners of the capital prize, competing among themselves. In each of the five districts a committee of ladies visits the competing gardens, inspecting, advising, encouraging, sometimes learning more than they teach, and reporting to headquarters, the People's Institute. At these headquarters, on two acres of ground in the heart of the city, we have brought gradually into shape, on a plan furnished by Frederick Law Olmsted's Sons, Landscape Architects, of Boston (Brookline), a remarkably handsome garden of flowers and shrubbery designed as a model for the guidance of those in the competition who seek to combine artistic beauty with inexpensiveness. From time to time we have given at these headquarters winter courses of lectures on practical flower-gardening. As a result we have improved, and are still improving, the aspect of entire streets and are interesting the whole city. But to return to our discussion. Here is a short story of two ladies. They are not in our competition, though among its most ardent well-wishers. A friend had given one of them a bit of green, woody growth some two feet high and half an inch thick. She had a wee square bit of front grass-plot something larger than a table-cloth, but certainly not large enough for a game of marbles. In the centre of this bit of grass she planted her friend's gift. Then came our other lady, making a call, and with her best smile of humorous commendation, saying: "My dear, you have violated the first rule of gardening. You've planted your bush where you wanted it." The delighted gardener went in the strength of that witticism for forty weeks or at least until some fiend of candor, a brother, like as not, said: "Yes, truly you have violated the first rule of gardening, for you have put your willow-tree--that's what it is--where a minute's real reflection would have told you you'd wish you hadn't." Where to Plant What! Plant it where you--and your friends--your friends of best gardening taste--will be glad you planted it when all your things are planted. Please those who know best, and so best please yourself. Nevertheless, beware! Watch yourself! Do so specially when you think you have mastered the whole art. Watch even those who indisputably know better than you do, for everybody makes mistakes which he never would have dreamed he could make. Only the other day I heard an amateur say to a distinguished professional gardener: "Did you plant those shrubs of gorgeous flower and broad, dark leaf out on your street front purely as a matter of artistic taste?" "I did," he replied. "I wanted to put my best foot foremost. Wouldn't you?" "Why should I?" asked the amateur. "I wouldn't begin a song with my highest note, nor a game with my strongest card, nor an address with my most impassioned declaration, nor a sonnet with its most pregnant line. If I should, where were my climax?" Certainly the amateur had the best of it. A garden is a discourse. A garden is a play. See with what care both the dramatist and the stage-manager avoid putting the best foot foremost. See how warily they hold back the supreme strength of the four or five act piece for the last act but one. There is a charmingly instructive analogy between a garden and a drama. In each you have preparation, progress, climax, and close. And then, also, in each you must have your lesser climaxes leading masterfully up to the supreme one, and a final quiet one to let gratefully down from the giddy height. In Northampton nearly all of our hundreds of gardens contesting for prizes are plays of only one or two acts. I mean they have only one or two buildings to garden up to and between and around and away from. Yet it is among these one-act plays, these one-house gardens, that I find the art truth most gracefully emphasized, that the best foot should not go foremost. In a large garden a false start may be atoned for by better art farther on and in; but in a small garden, for mere want of room and the chance to forget, a bad start spoils all. No, be the garden a prince's or a cottager's, the climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end. Even in the one-house garden I should like to see the climaxes plural to the extent of two; one immediately at the back of the house, the other at the extreme rear of the ground. At the far end of the lot I would have the final storm of passion and riot of disclosure, and then close about the rear of the house there should be the things of supreme richness, exquisiteness and rarity. This soft-voiced echo answering back out of the inmost heart of the whole demesne gives genuineness of sentiment to the entire scheme. To plant a conflagration of color against the back fence and stop there would be worse than melodramatic. It would be to close the play with a bang, and even a worthy one-act play does not close with a bang. The back of the lot is not the absolute end of the garden-play. Like the stage-play, the garden-play brings its beholder back at the very last, by a sweet reversion, to the point from which it started. The true garden-lover gardens not mainly for the passer-by, but rather for himself and the friends who come to see him. Even when he treads his garden paths alone he is a pleased and welcome visitor to himself, and shows his garden to himself as to a visitor. Hence there is always at last a turning back to the house or to the front entrance, and _this_ is the play's final lines, the last grouping of the players, the relief of all tension and the descent of the curtain. [Illustration: " ... climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end." Everything in this photograph was planted by the amateur gardener except the pine-trees in perspective.] One point farther in this direction and we may give our hard-worked analogy a respite. It is this: as those who make and present a play take great pains that, by flashes of revelation to eye and to ear, the secrets most unguessed by the characters in the piece shall be early revealed to the audience and persistently pressed upon its attention, so should the planting of a garden be; that, as if quite without the gardener's or the garden's knowledge, always, to the eye, nostril or ear, some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure across easy and tempting distances from nook to nook of the small garden, or from alley to alley and from glade to glade of the large one. Where to Plant What? Plant it as far away as, according to the force of its character or the splendor of its charms, it can stand and beckon back with best advantage for the whole garden. [Illustration: "Some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure." From a photograph taken on My Own Acre, showing how I pulled the lawn in under the trees. The big chestnuts in the middle are on the old fence line that stood on the very edge of the precipitously falling ground. All the ground in sight in the picture is a fill.] Thus we generalize. And as long as one may generalize he is comparatively safe from humiliating criticism. It is only when he begins to name things by name and say what is best for just where, that he touches the naked eyeball (or the funny-bone) of others whose crotchets are not identical with his. Yet in Northampton this is what we have to do, and since the competitors for our prizes always have the Where before they are moved to get and place the What, we find our where-and-what problem easiest to handle when we lift it, so to speak, by the tail. Then it is "What to Plant Where," and for answer we have made a short list of familiar flowering shrubs best suited to our immediate geographical locality. We name only fourteen and we so describe each as to indicate clearly enough, without dictating, whereabouts to put it. We begin: "Azalea. Our common wild azalea is the flowering bush best known as 'swamp honeysuckle.' The two azaleas listed here, _A. mollis_ and the Ghent varieties, are of large, beautiful and luxuriant bloom, and except the 'swamp honeysuckle' are the only azaleas hardy in western Massachusetts. Mollis is from two to six feet high, three to six feet broad, and blooms in April and May. Its blossoms are yellow, orange or pink, single or double. Its soil may be sandy or peaty, and moist, but any good garden soil will serve; its position partly shaded or in full sunlight. The Ghents are somewhat taller and not so broad in proportion. They bloom from May to July, and their blossoms are white, yellow, orange, pink, carmine, or red, single or double. Soil and position about the same as for mollis. "Berberis. Berberis is the barberry, so well known by its beautiful pendent berries. It is one of the best shrubs to use where a thorny bush is wanted. _B. vulgaris_, the common sort, and one of the most beautiful, grows from four to eight feet high, with a breadth of from three to six feet. _B. Thunbergii_, or Thunberg's barberry, is the well-known Japanese variety, a dense, drooping bush from two to four feet high and somewhat greater breadth. Its pale-yellow blossoms come in April and May, and its small, slender, bright-red berries remain on the spray until spring. A dry soil is the best for it, though it will grow in any, and needs little shade or none. _B. purpurea_ is a variety of vulgaris and is as handsome as the common. It answers to the same description, except that its foliage is purple, which makes it very tempting to new gardeners, but very hard to relate in good artistic taste among the other shrubs of the garden. Few small gardens can make good use of purple foliage. "_Deutzia gracilis._ The gracilis is one of the most beautiful of all the deutzias. Its delicate foliage of rather light green, its snowy flowers and its somewhat bending form, make it one of the fairest ornaments of the home grounds. Its height is three feet, its breadth from two to four feet. It blooms in May and June. Its soil may be any well-drained sort, and its position any slightly sheltered aspect." So we hurry down the alphabet. The list is short for several good reasons, one being that it is well to give other lists from season to season. No doubt our inaccuracies would distress a botanist or scientific gardener, but we convey the information, such as it is, to our fellow citizens, and they use it. In the last ten years we have furnished to our amateurs thousands of shrubs and plants, at the same reduced rates for a few specimens each which we pay for them by the hundred. But of the really good sorts are there shrubs enough, you ask, to afford new lists year after year? Well, for the campus of a certain preparatory school for boys, with the planting of which the present writer had somewhat to do a few years ago, the list of shrubs set round the bases of four large buildings and several hundred yards of fence numbered seventy-five kinds. To end the chapter, let us say something about that operation. On a pictorial page or two we give ourselves the pleasure of showing the results of this undertaking; but first, both by pictures and by verbal description let me show where we planted what. Of course we made sundry mistakes. Each thing we did may be vulnerable to criticism, and our own largest hope is that our results may not fall entirely beneath that sort of compliment. This campus covers some five acres in the midst of a small town. Along three of its boundaries old maples and elms, in ordinary single-file shade-tree lines, tower and spread. On the fourth line, the rear bound, a board fence divides the ground from the very unattractive back yards, stables and sheds of a number of town residents. The front lies along the main street of the place, facing the usual "shop-row." The entire area has nearly always been grassed. Not what an Englishman would call so, but turfed in a stuttering fashion, impetuous and abashed by turns, and very easy to keep off; most rank up against the granite underpinnings of the buildings, and managing somehow to writhe to all the fences, of which those on the street fronts are of iron. Parallel with the front fence and some fifty feet behind it, three of the institution's buildings stand abreast and about a hundred feet apart. All three are tall, rectangular three-story piles of old red brick, on granite foundations, and full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style. The middle one has a fairly good Greek-pillared porch, of wood, on the middle half of its front. [Illustration: " ... tall, rectangular, three-story piles ... full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style." Middle Hall, Williston Seminary, facing the main street of the town.] Among these buildings we began our planting. We had drawn, of course, a ground plan of the whole place, to scale, showing each ground-floor door and window, so that we might respect its customary or projected use. A great point, that, in Where to Plant What. I once heard of a school whose small boys were accused of wantonly trampling down some newly set shrubs on the playground. "Well," demanded one brave urchin, "what made 'em go and plant a lot of bushes right on first base?" And no one was ready with an answer, for there is something morally wrong about any garden that will rob a boy of his rights. With this ground plan before us we decided indoors where to plant what outdoors and calculated arithmetically the number of each sort of shrub we should need for the particular interval we designed that sort to fill. Our scheme of arrangement was a crescendo of foliage and flower effects, beginning on the fronts of the buildings and rising toward their rears, while at all points making more of foliage than of bloom, because the bloom shows for only a month or less, while the leaf remains for seven or more. Beginning thus with our quietest note, the interest of any one looking in, or coming in, from the public front is steadily quickened and progressively rewarded, while the crowning effects at the rear of the buildings are reserved for the crowning moment when the visitor may be said to be fully received. On the other hand, if the approach is a returning one from the rear of the entire campus,--where stands the institution's only other building, a large tall-towered gymnasium, also of red brick,--these superlative effects show out across an open grassy distance of from two hundred to three hundred feet. Wherefore--and here at last we venture to bring names of things and their places together--at the fronts of the northernmost and southernmost of these three "Halls" we set favorite varieties of white-flowering spireas (_Thunbergia, sorbifolia_, _arguta_, _Van Houttei_), the pearl-bush (_exochorda_), pink diervillas, and flowering-almonds. After these, on the southern side of the southernmost building, for example, followed lilacs, white and purple, against the masonry,--the white against the red brick, the lilac tint well away from it,--with tamarisk and kerria outside, abreast of them, and then pink and red spireas (_Bumaldi_ and its dwarf variety, _Anthony Waterer_). On the other side of the same house we set deutzias (_scabra_ against the brick-work and _Lemoynei_ and _gracilis_ outside). In a wing corner, where melting snows crash down from a roof-valley, we placed the purple-flowered _Lespedeza penduliflorum_, which each year dies to the ground before the snow-slides come, yet each September blooms from three to four feet high in drooping profusion. Then from that angle to the rear corner we put in a mass of pink wild roses. Lastly, on the tall, doorless, windowless rear end, we planted the crimson-rambler rose, and under it a good hundred of the red rugosas. In the arrangement of these plantings we found ourselves called upon to deal with a very attractive and, to us, new phase of our question. The rising progression from front to rear was a matter of course, but how about the progression at right angles to it; from building to building, that is, of these three so nearly alike in size and dignity? To the passer-by along their Main Street front--the admiring passer-by, as we hope--should there be no augmentation of charm in the direction of his steps? And if there should be, then where and how ought it to show forth so as to avoid an anticlimax to one passing along the same front from the opposite direction? We promptly saw,--as the reader sees, no doubt, before we can tell it,--that what we wanted was two crescendos meeting somewhere near the middle; a crescendo passing into a diminuendo from whichever end you moved to the other--a swell. We saw that our loud-pedal effect should come upon "Middle Hall." So there, on its lucky bit of Greek porch, we bestowed the purple wistaria for spring, and for late summer that fragrant snowdrift, the clematis paniculata, so adapted as to festoon and chaplet, but never to smother, the Greek columns. On one of this structure's sides we planted forsythia, backed closer against the masonry by althæas, with the low and exquisite mahonia (holly-leafed barberry) under its outer spread. On the other side of the house we placed, first, loniceras (bush honeysuckles); next, azaleas, in variety and profusion; then, toward the rear end, a mass of hardy hydrangeas (_Hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_), and at the very back of the pile another mass, of the flowering-quince (_Pyrus japonica_), with the trumpet-creeper (_Tecoma radicans_), to climb out of it. About "North Hall," the third building, we planted more quietly, and most quietly on its outer, its northern, side where our lateral "swell" (rising effect) begins, or ends, according to the direction of your going, beginning with that modest but pretty bloomer the _Ligustrum ibota_, a perfectly hardy privet more graceful than the California (_ovalifolium_) species, which really has little business in icy New England away from the seashore. I might have remarked before that nearly all the walls of these three buildings, as well as the gymnasium on the far side of the campus, were already adorned with the "Boston ivy" (_Ampelopsis Veitchii_). With the plantings thus described, and with the gymnasium surrounded by yet stronger greenery; with the back fence masked by willows, elders and red-stemmed cornus; and with a number of haphazard footpaths reduced to an equally convenient and far more graceful few, our scheme stands complete in its first, but only, please notice, its first, phase. The picture is submitted to your imagination not as it looked the day we ceased planting, but as we expected it to appear after a season or two, and as it does look now. At present, rather tardily, we have begun to introduce herbaceous flowering perennials, which we ignored in the first part of our plan, because herbaceous plants are the flesh and blood and garments of a complete living and breathing garden; the walls, shrubs, trees, walks and drives are its bones. When this secondary phase has been more fully realized and we have placed bush-clumps and tree-clumps out on the open campus, and when our hundreds of cottage gardens are shaking off the prison irons of frost, we hope, if you cannot do us the honor to be with us bodily, your spirit may be near, aiding us on in the conquest of this ever beautiful Where-to-Plant-What problem, which I believe would make us a finer and happier nation if it could be expanded to national proportions. THE COTTAGE GARDENS OF NORTHAMPTON Adam and Eve, it is generally conceded, were precocious. They entered into the cares and joys of adult life at an earlier age than any later human prodigy. We call them the grand old gardener and his wife, but, in fact, they were the youngest gardeners the world has ever seen, and they really did not give entire satisfaction. How could they without tools? Let it pass. The whole allusion is prompted only by the thought that youth does not spontaneously garden. If it was actually necessary that our first parents should begin life as gardeners, that fully explains why they had to begin it also as adults. Youth enjoys the garden, yes! but not its making or tending. Childhood, the abecedarian, may love to plant seeds, to watch them spring, grow, and flower, and to help them do so; but that is the merest a-b-c of gardening, and no more makes him an amateur in the art than spelling words of one letter makes him a poet. One may raise or love flowers for a lifetime, yet never in any art sense become a gardener. In front of the main building of a public institution which we must presently mention again there is a sloping strip of sward a hundred feet long and some fifteen wide. A florist of fully half a century's experience one day halted beside it and exclaimed to the present writer, "Only say the word, and I'll set out the 'ole len'th o' that strip in foliage-plants a-spellin' o' the name: 'People's Hinstitute!'" Yet that gentle enthusiast advertised himself as a landscape-gardener and got clients. For who was there to tell them or him that he was not one? Not only must we confess that youth does not spontaneously garden, but that our whole American civilization is still so lingeringly in its non-gardening youth that only now and then, here and there, does it realize that a florist, whether professional or amateur, or even a nurseryman, is not necessarily a constructive gardener, or that artistic gardening, however informal, is nine-tenths constructive. Yet particularly because such gardening is so, and because some of its finest rewards are so slow-coming and long-abiding, there is no stage of life in which it is so reasonable for man or woman to love and practise the art as when youth is in its first full stature and may garden for itself and not merely for posterity. "John," said his aged father to one of our living poets, "I know now how to transplant full-grown trees successfully. Do it a long time ago." Let the stripling plant the sapling. Youth, however, and especially our American youth, has his or her excuses, such as they are. Of the garden or the place to be gardened, "It's not mine," he or she warmly says; "it's only my father's," or "my mother's." Young man! Young maiden! True, the place, so pathetically begging to be gardened, may not be your future home, may never be your property, and it is right enough that a feeling for ownership should begin to shape your daily life. But let it not misshape it. You know that ownership is not all of life nor the better half of it, and it is quite as good for you to give the fact due recognition by gardening early in life as it was for Adam and Eve. It is better, for you can do so in a much more fortunate manner, having tools and the first pair's warning example. It is better also because you can do what to them was impossible; you can make gardening a concerted public movement. That is what we have made it in Northampton, Massachusetts, whose curving streets and ancient elms you may have heard of as making it very garden-like in its mere layout; many of whose windows, piazzas, and hillside lawns look on across the beautiful Connecticut, winding broadly among its farmed meadows and vanishing southward through the towering gateway made for or by it millenniums ago between Mounts Tom and Holyoke. There Smith College is, as well as that "People's Institute" aforementioned, and it is through that institute, one of whose several branches of work is carried on wholly by Smith College students, that we, the Northampton townspeople, established and maintain another branch, our concerted gardening. [Illustration: "You can make gardening a concerted public movement." A gathering on My Own Acre in the interest of the Flower Garden Competition.] One evening in September a company of several hundred persons gathered in the main hall of the institute's "Carnegie House" to witness and receive the prize awards of their twelfth annual flower-garden competition. The place was filled. A strong majority of those present were men and women who earn their daily bread with their hands. The whole population of Northampton is but twenty thousand or so, and the entire number of its voters hardly exceeds four thousand, yet there were one thousand and thirteen gardens in the competition, the gardens of that many homes; and although children had taken part in the care of many of them, and now were present to see the prizes go to their winners, not one was separately a child's garden. By a rule of the contest, each garden had been required to comprise the entire home lot, with the dwelling for its dominating feature and the family its spiritual unit. The ceremony of award began with the lowest cash prize and moved steadily up to the second and first, these two being accompanied by brilliantly illuminated diplomas, and as each award was bestowed, the whole gathering of winners and non-winners--for no one could be called a loser--sounded their congratulations by a hearty clapping of hands. They had made the matter a public, concerted movement, and were interested in its results and rewards as spiritual proprietors in a common possession much wider than mere personal ownership under the law. This wider sentiment of community, so valuable to the whole public interest, was further promoted by the combining of nearly two hundred of these same gardens in "neighborhood garden clubs" of seven or more gardens each, every garden in each club directly adjoining another, and the clubs competing for prizes of so much a garden to the best and second-best clubs. Yet none the less for all this, but much more, a great majority of the multitude of home gardeners represented by this gathering were enjoying also--each home pair through their own home garden--the pleasures of personal ownership and achievement. Many of the prize-winners were young, but many were gray, and some were even aged, yet all alike would have testified that even for age, and so all the more for youth, artistic flower-gardening is as self-rewarding a form of unselfish work and as promptly rewarding a mode of waiting on the future as can easily be found; that there is no more beautifully rewarding way by which youth may "Learn to labor and to wait." Maybe that is why Adam and Eve were apprenticed to it so very young. It should have been said before that in advance of the award of prizes some very pleasant music and song were given from the platform by a few Smith College girls, and that then the company were shown stereopticon pictures of a number of their own gardens as they looked during the past summer and as they had looked when, a few years ago,--although seemingly but yesterday,--their owners began to plan and to plant. The contrasts were amazing and lent great emphasis to the two or three truths we have here dwelt on probably long enough. To wit: first, that, as a rule, all true gardeners are grown-ups; second, that therein lies the finest value of concerted gardening; third, that the younger the grown-up the better, for the very reason that the crowning recompenses of true gardening come surely, but come late; and fourth, that, nevertheless, gardening yields a lovely amplitude of immediate rewards. For instance, this gathering in our People's Institute also, before the announcement of prizes, took delight in hearing reported the aggregate of the flowers, mostly of that season's planting, distributed by a considerable number of the competitors to the shut-in and the bereaved. This feature of the movement had been begun only the previous year, and its total was no more than some three thousand dozens of flowers; but many grateful acknowledgments, both verbal and written, prove that it gave solace and joy to many hearts and we may call it a good beginning. A garden should be owned not to be monopolized, but to be shared, as a song is owned not to be hushed, but to be sung; and the wide giving of its flowers is but one of several ways in which a garden may sing or be sung--for the garden is both song and singer. At any rate it cannot help but be a public benefaction and a public asset, if only its art be true. Hence one of the values of our gardening in Northampton: making the gardens so many and so artistically true and good, it makes the town, as a whole, more interesting and pleasing to itself, and in corresponding degree the better to live in. Possibly there may be some further value in telling here how we do it. As soon as signs of spring are plain to the general eye the visiting for enrolment begins. A secretary of the institute sets out to canvass such quarters of the field as have not been apportioned among themselves individually by the ladies composing the committee of "volunteer garden visitors." At the same time these ladies begin their calls, some undertaking more, some less, according to each one's willingness or ability. This first round consists merely in enrolling the competitors by name, street, and number and in sending these registrations in to the institute. Later, by the same ladies, the same ground is more or less gone over again in visits of observation, inquiry and counsel, and once a month throughout the season the ladies meet together with the president of the institute to report the conditions and sentiments encountered and to plan further work. The importance of these calls is not confined to the advancement of good gardening. They promote fellowship among neighbors and kind feeling between widely parted elements of society. Last year this committee made nearly eleven hundred such visits. Meanwhile a circular letter has been early mailed to the previous year's competitors, urging them to re-enroll by post-card. Last year hundreds did so. Meanwhile, too, as soon as the enrolment is completed, the institute's general secretary begins a tour of official inspection, and as he is an experienced teacher of his art, his inspections are expert. His errand is known by the time he is in sight, and, as a rule, the householder joins him in a circuit of the place, showing achievements, reciting difficulties and disappointments, confessing errors, and taking tactful advice. And what room he finds for tact! He sees a grave-like bed of verbenas defacing the middle of a small greensward--a dab of rouge on a young cheek; a pert child doing all the talking. Whereupon he shrewdly pleads not for the sward but for the flowers, "You have those there to show off at their best?" "Yes. Don't they do it?" "Not quite." He looks again. "Nine feet long--five wide. If you'll plant them next year in a foot-wide ribbon under that border of stronger things along your side boundary they'll give you at least forty feet of color instead of nine, and they'll illuminate your bit of sward instead of eclipsing it." In another garden he says, "Splendid sunburst of color, that big tub of geraniums!" and the householder is pleased to admit the fact. "If you'd sink the tub into the ground clear down to the rim they'd take up no more room and they'd look natural. Besides, you wouldn't have to water them continually." "That's true!" says the householder, quite in the incredible way of an old-fashioned book. "I'll do it!" "And then," says the caller, "if you will set it away off on that far corner of the lawn it will shine clear across, showing everything between here and there, like a lighthouse across a harbor, or like a mirror, which you hang not in your parlor door, but at the far end of the room." "When you come back you shall see it there," is the reply. Sometimes, yet not often, a contestant is met who does not want advice, and who can hardly hide his scorn for book statements and experts. The present writer came upon one last year who "could not see what beauty there was in John Smith's garden, yet we had given him and his wife the capital prize!" Frequently one finds the house of a competitor fast locked and dumb, its occupants being at work in some mill or shop. Then if the visit is one of official inspection a card stating that fact and dated and signed on the spot is left under the door, and on its reverse side the returning householder finds printed the following: "In marking for merit your whole place is considered your garden. It is marked on four points: (1) Its layout, or ground plan; (2) its harmonies--of arrangement as to color of blooms and as to form and size of trees, shrubs and plants; (3) its condition--as to the neatness and order of everything; and (4) its duration--from how early in the year to how late it will make a pleasing show. "Mow your lawn as often as the mower will cut the grass, but also keep it thoroughly weeded. As a rule, in laying out your plantings avoid straight lines and hard angles; the _double_ curve, or wave line, is the line of grace. Plant all the flowers you wish, few or many, but set shrubs at their back to give stronger and more lasting effects when the flowers are out of season as well as while they are in bloom. "Try to plant so as to make your whole place one single picture of a _home_, with the house the chief element and the boundary-lines of the lot the frame. Plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings; but between these plantings keep the space grassed only, and open. In these house and boundary borders let your chief plantings be shrubs, and so have a nine months' instead of a three months' garden." The secretary's tour completed and his score of all the gardens tabulated, a list is drawn from it of the one hundred and fifty best gardens, and a second circuit of counsel and inspection, limited to this greatly reduced number, is made by the president of the institute, who marks them again on the same four points of merit. These two markings, averaged, determine the standing of all prize-winning gardens except the leading four. Then the president calls in one professional and one amateur expert, visits with them as many of the most promising contestants as can be seen in an afternoon's drive, and with them decides the award of the four highest prizes. [Illustration: "Plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings." A secluded back corner of a prize-winner's garden which shows how slight a planting may redeem the homeliness of an old fence.] [Illustration: "Not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination." A cheap apartment row whose landlord had its planting done by the People's Institute.] That is all. When we have given two or three lesser items our story is told--for what it is worth. It is well to say we began small; in our first season, fifteen years ago, our whole roll of competitors numbered but sixty. It is the visiting that makes the difference; last season these visits, volunteer and official, were more than thirty-one hundred. Another source of our success we believe to be the fact that our prizes are many and the leading ones large--fifteen, twelve, nine dollars, and so on down. Prizes and all, the whole movement costs a yearly cash outlay of less than three hundred dollars; without the People's Institute at its back it could still be done for five hundred. And now, this being told in the hope that it may incite others, and especially youth, to make experiments like it elsewhere, to what impulse shall we appeal? Will it not suffice if we invoke that adolescent instinct which moves us to merge our individual life--to consolidate it, as the stock-manipulators say--in the world's one great life, our "celestial selfishness" being intuitively assured that our own priceless individuality will gain, not lose, thereby? Or shall we make our plea to an "art impulse"? No? Is the world already artificial enough? Not by half, although it is full, crammed, with the things the long-vanished dead have done for it in every art, from cameos to shade-trees; done for it because it was already so fair that, live long or die soon, they could not hold themselves back from making it fairer. Yet, all that aside, is not this concerted gardening precisely such a work that young manhood and womanhood, however artificial or unartificial, anywhere, everywhere, Old World or newest frontier, ought to take to naturally? Adam and Eve did, and they--but we have squeezed Adam and Eve dry enough. Patriotism! Can you imagine a young man or woman without it? And if you are young and a lover of your country, do you not love its physical aspects, "its rocks and rills, its woods and templed hills"? And if so, do you love only those parts of it which you never see and the appearance of which you have no power to modify? Or do you love the land only and not the people, the nation, the government? Or, loving these, have you no love for the nearest public fraction of it, your own town and neighbors? Why, then, your love of the Stars and Stripes is the flattest, silliest idolatry; so flat and silly it is hardly worth chiding. Your patriotism is a patriotism for war only, and a country with only that kind is never long without war. You see the difference? Patriotism for war generalizes. A patriotism for peace particularizes, localizes. Ah, you do love, despite all their faults, your nation, your government, your town and townspeople, else you would not so often scold them! Otherwise, why do you let us call them yours? Because they belong to you? No, because you belong to them. Beyond cavil you are your own, but beyond cavil, too, you are theirs; their purchased possession, paid for long, long in advance and sight-unseen. You cannot use a sidewalk, a street-lamp, or a post-box, or slip away into the woods and find them cleared of savages and deadly serpents, without seeing part of the price paid for you before your great-grandfather was born. So, then, loving your town enough to scold it, you will also serve it! Now this we say not so much to be preaching as to bring in a last word descriptive of our Northampton movement. We do not make that work a mere aggregation of private kindnesses, but a public business for the promotion of the town in sanitary upkeep, beauty and civic fellowship. And so our aim is not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination. The individual is definitely subordinated to the community's undivided interest. Since gardening tends to develop in fortunate sections and to die out in others, we have laid off our town map in seven parts and made a rule that to each of these shall go three of the prizes. Moreover, no two consecutive prizes can be awarded in any one of these districts. Where a competitor takes the capital prize no other can take a higher than the third, and if two in one district win the first and third prizes no one else there can take a higher than the fifth. So on through to prize twenty-one. Still further, a garden taking any of these prizes can never again take any of them but a higher one, and those who attain to the capital prize are thenceforth _hors concours_ except to strive for the "Past Competitors' Prizes," first and second. Thus the seasons come and go, the gardens wake, rise, rejoice and slumber again; and because this arrangement is so evidently for the common weal and fellowship first, and yet leaves personal ownership all its liberties, rights and delights, it is cordially accepted of the whole people. And, lastly, as a certain dear lady whom we may not more closely specify exclaimed when, to her glad surprise, she easily turned the ceremonial golden key which first unlocked the Carnegie House of our People's Institute, "It works!" THE PRIVATE GARDEN'S PUBLIC VALUE What its pages are to a book, a town's private households are to a town. No true home, standing solitarily apart from the town (unbound, as it were) could be the blessed thing it is were there not so many other houses not standing apart but gathered into villages, towns and cities. Whence comes civilization but from _civitas_, the city? And where did _civitas_ get its name, when city and state were one, but from citizen? He is not named for the city but the city for him, and his title meant first the head of a household, the master of a home. To make a civilization, great numbers of men must have homes, must mass them compactly together and must not mass them together on a dead level of equal material equipment but in a confederation of homes of all ranks and conditions. The home is the cornerstone of the state. The town, the organized assemblage of homes, is the keystone of civilization's arch. In order to keep our whole civilization moving on and up, _which is the only way for home and town to pay to each other their endless spiral of reciprocal indebtedness_, every home in a town--or state, for that matter--should be made as truly and fully a home as every wise effort and kind influence of all the other homes can make it. Unless it takes part in this effort and influence, no home, be it ever so favored, can realize, even for itself and in itself, the finest civilization it might attain. Why should it? I believe this is a moral duty, a debt as real as taxes and very much like them. In our People's Institute over in Northampton, Massachusetts, this is the a-b-c of all they seek to do: the individual tutoring, by college girls and town residents, of hundreds of young working men and women in whatever these may choose from among a score or so of light studies calculated to refine their aspirations; the training of young girls, by paid experts, in the arts of the home, from cooking to embroidery; the training of both sexes in all the social amenities; and the enlistment of more than a thousand cottage homes in a yearly prize competition. It is particularly of this happy garden contest that I wish to say a word or two more. In 1914 it completed its sixteenth season, but it is modelled on a much older one in the town of Dunfermline, Scotland, the birthplace of Mr. Andrew Carnegie, and it is from the bountiful spirit of that great citizen of two lands that both affairs draw at least one vital element of their existence. We in Northampton first learned of the Dunfermline movement in 1898. We saw at once how strongly such a scheme might promote the general spiritual enrichment of our working people's homes if made one of the functions of our home-culture clubs, several features of whose work were already from five to ten years old. We proceeded to adopt and adapt the plan, and had our first competition and award of prizes in 1898-'99. Like Dunfermline, we made our prizes large, and to this we attribute no small part of our success. When we saw fit to increase their number we increased the total outlay as well, and at present we award twenty-one prizes a year, the highest being fifteen dollars, and one hundred dollars the sum of the whole twenty-one prizes. So we have gained one of our main purposes: to tempt into the contest the man of the house and thus to stimulate in him that care and pride of his home, the decline of which, in the man of the house, is one of the costliest losses of hard living. One day on their round of inspection our garden judges came to a small house at the edge of the town, near the top of a hill through which the rustic street cuts its way some twelve or fifteen feet below. The air was pure, the surroundings green, the prospect wide and lovely. Here was a rare chance for picturesque gardening. Although the yard was without a fence there had been some planting of flowers in it. Yet it could hardly be called a garden. So destitute was it of any intelligent plan and so uncared for that it seemed almost to have a conscious, awkward self-contempt. In the flecked shade of a rude trellis of grapes that sheltered a side door two children of the household fell to work with great parade at a small machine, setting bristles into tooth-brushes for a neighboring factory, but it was amusingly plain that their labor was spasmodic and capricious. The mother was away on a business errand. The father was present. He had done his day's stint in the cutlery works very early, and with five hours of sunlight yet before him had no use to make of them but to sit on a bowlder on the crest of the pleasant hill and smoke and whittle. Had he been mentally trained he might, without leaving that stone, have turned those hours into real living, communing with nature and his own mind; but he had, as half an eye could see, no developed powers of observation, reflection or imagination, and probably, for sheer want of practice, could not have fixed his attention on a worthy book through five of its pages. The question that arose in the minds of his visitors comes again here: what could have been so good to keep idleness from breeding its swarm of evils in his brain and hands--and home--as for somebody, something, somehow, to put it into his head--well--for example--to make a garden? A garden, we will say, that should win a prize, and--even though it failed to win--should render him and his house and household more interesting to himself, his neighbors and his town. He and his house seemed to be keeping the Ten Commandments in a slouching sort of way and we may even suppose they were out of debt--money debt; yet already they were an unconscious menace to society; their wage-earning powers had outgrown their wants. Outgrown them not because the wages were too high but because their wants were too low; were only wants of the body, wants of the barrenest unculture; _the inelastic wants_. That is "my own invention," that phrase! The bodily wants of a reptile are elastic. If an alligator or a boa-constrictor catches a dog he can swallow him whole and enjoy that one meal in unriotous bliss for weeks. Thereafter if he must put up with no more than a minnow or a mouse he can do that for weeks in unriotous patience. In a spring in one of our Northampton gardens I saw a catfish swallow a frog so big that the hind toes stuck out of the devourer's mouth for four days; but they went in at last, and the fish, in his fishy fashion, from start to finish was happy. He was never demoralized. It is not so with us. We cannot much distend or contract our purely physical needs. Especially is any oversupply of them mischievous. They have not the reptilian elasticity. Day by day they must have just enough. But the civilized man has spiritual wants and they are as elastic as air. A home is a house well filled with these elastic wants. Home-culture is getting such wants into households--not merely into single individuals--that lack them. What makes a man rich? Is the term merely comparative? Not merely. To be rich is to have, beyond the demands of our bodily needs, abundant means to supply our spiritual wants. To possess more material resources than we can or will use or bestow to the spiritual advantage of ourselves and others is to be perilously rich, whether we belong to a grinders' union in the cutlery works or to a royal family. Why is it so often right that a rich college, for example, should, in its money-chest, feel poor? Because it could so easily supply more spiritual wants if it had more money. Not low wages will ever make men harmless, nor high wages make them happy, nor low nor high save them from a spirit of pauperism or of malignant envy; but having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus--spiritual wants, that know both how to suffer need and how to abound, and to do either without backsliding toward savagery. Whoever would help this state of things on, let him seek at the same time to increase the home's wage-earning power and its spiritual powers to put to fine use the wages earned: to augment the love of beauty in nature and in art, the love of truth and knowledge, the love of achievement and of service, the love of God and of human society, the ambition to put more into the world than we get out of it. Wages will never be too high, nor the hours of a day's work too many or too few, which follow that "sliding scale." How much our garden contest may do of this sort for that cottage on the hill we have yet to know; last year was its first in the competition. But it has shown the ambition to enter the lists, and a number that promised no more at the outset have since won prizes. One such was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view. [Illustration: "Having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus." The owner of this cottage, who stands on the lawn, spaded and graded it and grassed it herself, and by shrubbery plantings about the house's foundation and on the outer boundaries of the grass has so transformed it since this picture was taken as to win one of the highest prizes awarded among more than a thousand competitors.] [Illustration: "One such competing garden was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view." A capital prize-winner's back yard which was a sand bank when he entered the competition. His front yard is still handsomer.] A certain garden to which we early awarded a high prize was, and yet remains, among the loveliest in Northampton. Its house stands perhaps seventy feet back from the public way and so nearly at one edge of its broad lot that all its exits and entrances are away from that side and toward the garden. A lawn and front bordered on side by loose hedges of Regel's privet and Thunberg's barberry and with only one or two slim trees of delicate foliage near its street line, rises slightly from the sidewalk to the house in a smooth half wave that never sinks below any level it has attained and yet consists of two curves. (It takes two curves, let us say once more, to make even half of the gentlest wave that can be made, if you take it from the middle of the crest to the middle of the trough, and in our American gardening thousands of lawns, especially small front lawns, are spoiled in their first layout by being sloped in a single curve instead of in two curves bending opposite ways.) Along a side of this greensward farthest from the boundary to which the house is so closely set are the drive and walk, in one, and on the farther side of these, next the sun, is the main flower-garden, half surrounding another and smaller piece of lawn. The dwelling stands endwise to the street and broadside to this expanse of bloom. Against its front foundations lies a bed of flowering shrubs which at the corner farthest from the drive swings away along that side's boundary line and borders it with shrubbery down to the street, the main feature of the group being a luxuriant flowering quince as large as ten ordinary ones and in every springtime a red splendor. But the focus of the gardening scheme is at the southeasterly side entrance of the house. To this the drive comes on unrigorous lines from the street. The walk curves away a few steps earlier to go to the front door but the drive, passing on, swings in under the rear corner windows and to the kitchen steps, veers around by the carriage-house door and so loops back into itself. In this loop, and all about the bases of the dwelling and carriage-house the flowers rise in dense abundance, related to one another with clever taste and with a happy care for a procession of bloom uninterrupted throughout the season. Straightaway from the side door, leaving the drive at a right angle, runs a short arbor of vines. Four or five steps to the left of this bower a clump of shrubbery veils the view from the street and in between shrubs and arbor lies a small pool of water flowers and goldfish. On the arbor's right, in charming privacy, masked by hollyhocks, dahlias and other tall-maidenly things, lie beds of strawberries and lettuce and all the prim ranks and orders of the kitchen garden. Words are poor things to paint with; I wish I could set forth all in one clear picture: lawn, drive, house, loop, lily pond, bower, rose-bordered drive again (as the eye comes back) and flowers crowding before, behind and beside you, some following clear out to the street and beseeching you not to go so soon. Such is the garden, kept without hired labor, of two soft-handed women; not beyond criticism in any of its aspects but bearing witness to their love of nature, of beauty and of home and of their wisdom and skill to exalt and refine them. This competitor early won, I say, a leading prize, and in later seasons easily held--still holds--a fine pre-eminence. Yet the later prizes fell to others, because, while this one had been a beautiful garden for years before the competition began, they, rising from much newer and humbler beginnings, sometimes from very chaos, showed between one season and the next far greater advances _toward_ artistic excellence. In the very next year a high prize fell to a garden in full sight of this one, a garden whose makers had caught their inspiration from this one, and, copying its art, had brought forth a charming result out of what our judges described as "particularly forlorn conditions." Does this seem hardly fair to the first garden? But to spread the gardening contagion and to instigate a wise copying after the right gardeners--these are what our prizes and honors are for. Progress first, perfection afterward, is our maxim. We value and reward originality, nevertheless, and only count it a stronger necessity to see not merely that no talented or happily circumstanced few, but that not even any one or two fortunate neighborhoods, shall presently be capturing all the prizes. Hence the rules already cited, which a prompt discovery of this tendency forced upon us. About this copying: no art is more inoffensively imitated than gardening but unluckily none is more easily, or more absurdly, miscopied. A safe way is to copy the gardener rather than the garden. To copy any performance in a way to do it honor we must discern and adapt its art without mimicking its act. To miscopy is far easier--we have only to mimic the act and murder the art. I once heard a man ask an architect if it would not answer to give his plan to the contractor and let him work it out without the architect's supervision. "My dear sir," the architect replied, "you wouldn't know the corpse." I suppose one reason why even the miscopying of gardens provokes so little offence is that the acts it mimics have no art it can murder. Mrs. Budd sets out her one little "high geraingia" in the middle of her tiny grass-plat (probably trimming it to look like a ballet-dancer on one leg). Whereupon Mrs. Mudd, the situation of whose house and grounds is not in the least like her neighbor's, plants and trims hers the same way and feels sure it has the same effect, for--why shouldn't it? The prize-winning copyist I am telling of copied principles only. To have copied mere performance would have been particularly unlucky, for though his garden stands within fifty yards of the one from which it drew its inspiration the two are so differently located that the same art principles demand of them very different performances. An old-time lover of gardens whom I have to quote at second-hand mentions in contrast "gardens to look in upon" and "gardens to look out from." The garden I have described at length is planned to be looked in upon; most town gardens must be, of course; but its competitor across the street, of which I am about to give account, is an exception. The lot has a very broad front and very little depth--at one side almost none, at the other barely enough for a small house and a few feet of front yard. Why there should be a drive I cannot say, but it is so well taken into the general scheme that to call it to account would be ungenerous. It enters at the narrowest part of the ground, farthest from the house, makes a long parabola, and turns again into the street close beside the dwelling. In the bit of lawn thus marked off, shrubs have place near the street, three or four old apple-trees range down the middle, and along the drive runs a gay border of annual flowers. Along the rear side of the drive lies but a narrow strip of turf beyond which the ground drops all at once to another level some thirty feet below. On the right this fall is so abrupt that the only way down to it is by a steep rustic stair. On the left, behind the house, the face of the bluff is broken into narrow terraces, from top to bottom of which, and well out on the lower level, the entire space is mantled with the richly burdened trellises of a small vineyard. At the right on this lower ground is a kitchen garden; beyond it stretch fair meadows too low to build on, but fruitful in hay and grain; farther away, on higher ground, the town again shows its gables and steeples among its great maples and elms, and still beyond, some three miles distant, the green domes and brown precipices of the Mount Holyoke Range stand across the sky in sharp billows of forest and rock. It seems at times a pity that Mount Holyoke and Mount Tom cannot themselves know how many modest gardens they are a component part of--the high violin note of: gardens, like this one, "to look out from." It stops one's pen for one to find himself using the same phrases for these New England cottage gardens that famous travellers have used in telling of the gardens of Italian princes; yet why should we not, when the one nature and the one art are mother and godmother of them all? It is a laughing wonder what beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile, out of what ugliness such beauty can be evoked and at how trivial a cost in money. Three years before this "garden to look out from" won its Carnegie prize it was for the most part a rubbish heap. Let me now tell of one other, that sprang from conditions still more unlovely because cramped and shut in. It was on the other side of the town from those I have been telling of. The house stood broadside to the street and flush with the sidewalk. The front of the lot was only broad enough for the house and an alley hardly four feet wide between the house's end and a high, tight board fence. The alley led into a small, square back yard one of whose bounds was the back fence of the house. On a second side was a low, mossy, picturesquely old wing-building set at right angles to the larger house, its doors and windows letting into the yard. A third boundary was the side of one well weathered barn and the back of another, with a scanty glimpse between them of meadows stretching down to the Connecticut River. The fourth was an open fence marking off a field of riotous weeds. When the tenant mistress of this unpromising spot began to occupy it the yard and alley were a free range for the poultry of the neighborhood, and its only greenery was two or three haphazard patches of weedy turf. One-fourth of the ground, in the angle made by the open fence and one of the barns, had been a hen-yard and was still inclosed within a high wire-netting; but outside that space every plant she set out had to be protected from the grubbing fowls by four stakes driven down with a hammer. Three years afterward she bore off our capital prize in a competition of one hundred gardens. Let me tell what the judges found. [Illustration: "Beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile." One of a great number of competing cottages whose gardens are handsomer in the rear and out of sight than on the street-front, though well kept there also.] [Illustration: "Those who pay no one to dig, plant or prune for them." The aged owner of this place has hired no help for twenty years. Behind her honey-locust hedge a highly kept and handsome flower and shrubbery garden fills the whole house lot. She is a capital prize-winner.] Out in the street, at the off side of the alley-gate, between a rude fence and an electric-railway siding, in about as much space as would give standing room to one horse and cart, bloomed--not by right of lease, but by permission of the railway company--a wealth of annual flowers, the lowest (pansies and such like) at the outer edge, the tallest against the unsightly fence. This was the prelude. In the alley the fence was clothed with vines; the windows--of which there were two--were decked with boxes of plumbago--pink, violet, white and blue, and of lady-ferns and maiden-hair. The back yard was a soft, smooth turf wherever there were not flowers. Along the back doors and windows of the house and the low-roofed wing a rough arbor was covered with a vine whose countless blossoms scented the air and feasted the bees, while its luminous canopy sheltered a rare assemblage of such flowers as bloom and thrive only for those whom they know and trust. But the crowning transformation was out in the open sunlight, in the space which had been the hen-yard. Within it was a holiday throng of the gardening world's best-known and loved gentles and commons, from roses down to forget-me-nots. Its screen of poultry-netting had been kept in place, and no feature on the premises more charmingly showed that this floral profusion came of no mere greed for abundance or diversity, but of a true art instinct recognizing the limits of its resources. The garden had to be made a "garden to look in upon," a veritable imprisoned garden; the question of expense required it to be chiefly of annuals, and all the structural features of the place called for concealment. These wire nettings did so; on their outside, next the grass, two complete groups of herbaceous things were so disposed as to keep them veiled in bloom throughout the whole warm half of the year. Close against them and overpeering their tops were hollyhocks and dahlias; against these stood at lesser height sweet peas, asters, zinnias, coreopsis and others of like stature; in front of these were poppies for summer, marigolds for autumn; beneath these again were verbenas, candytuft--all this is sketched from memory, and I recall the winsome effect rather than species and names; and still below nestled portulaca and periwinkle. I fear the enumeration gives but a harlequin effect; but the fault of that is surely mine, for the result was delightful. I have ventured to make report of these two or three gardens, not as in themselves worthy of a great public's consideration and praise but as happy instances of a fruitage we are gathering among hundreds of homes in a little city where it is proposed to give every home, if possible, its utmost value. Many other pleasing examples could be cited if further turnings of the kaleidoscope were a real need, but this slender discourse is as long now as it should be. It seems droll to call grave attention to such humble things in a world so rightly preoccupied with great sciences and high arts, vast industries, shining discoveries and international rivalries, strifes and projects; yet what are all these for, at last, but the simple citizen, his family and his home, and for him and them in the cottage as well as in the palace? The poor man's home may shine dimly but it is one of the stars by which civilization must guide its onward course. It may well be supposed that those whose office it is to award the twenty-one prizes of our garden competition among our eleven hundred competitors have an intricate task. Yet some of its intricacies add to the pleasure of it. One of these pleasing complications arises from our division of the field of contest into seven parts, in each of which prizes must be given to three contestants. Another comes from our rule that not alone the competitors who show the best gardening are to be rewarded, but also those who have made the most earnest effort and largest progress toward the best gardening. Under this plan one whose work shows a patient and signal progress in the face of many disadvantages may outrank on our prize list a rival whose superior artistic result has been got easily under favoring conditions and reveals no marked advance beyond the season before. After the manner of Dunfermline again, our rules are that no gardener by trade and no one who hires help in his garden may compete. Any friend may help his friend, and any one may use all the advice he can get from amateur or professional. Children may help in the care of the gardens, and many do; but children may not themselves put gardens into the competition. "If the head of the house is the gardener-in-chief," shrewdly argued one of our committee, "the children, oftener than otherwise, will garden with him, or will catch the gardening spirit as they grow up; but if the children are head-gardeners we shall get only children's gardening. We want to dispel the notion that flower-gardening is only woman's work and child's play." Our rule against hired labor sets naturally a maximum limit to the extent of ground a garden may cover. Our minimum is but fifty square yards, including turf, beds, and walks, and it may be of any shape whatever if only it does not leave out any part of the dooryard, front or rear, and give it up to neglect and disorder. To the ear even fifty square yards seems extensive, but really it is very small. It had so formidable a sound when we first named it that one of our most esteemed friends, pastor of a Catholic church in that very pretty and thrifty part of Northampton called for its silk mills Florence, generously added two supplementary prizes for gardens under the limit of size. This happy thought had a good effect, for, although in the first and second years Father Gallon's people took prizes for gardens above the minimum limit in size, while his own two prizes fell to contestants not in his flock, yet only in the third year did it become to all of us quite as plain as a pikestaff that fifty square yards are only the one-fiftieth part of fifty yards square, and that whoever in Northampton had a dooryard at all had fifty square yards. In 1903 more than two hundred and fifty gardens were already in the contest but every one was large enough to compete for the Carnegie prizes, and the kind bestower of the extra ones (withdrawn as superfluous), unselfishly ignoring his own large share of credit, wrote: "Your gardens have altered the aspect of my parish." Such praise is high wages. It is better than to have achieved the very perfection of gardening about any one home. We are not trying to raise the world's standard of the gardening art. Our work is for the home and its indwellers; for the home and the town. Our ideal is a town of homes all taking pleasant care of one another. We want to make all neighbors and all homes esthetically interesting to one another, believing that this will relate them humanely, morally and politically. We began with those who pay no one to dig, plant or prune for them, but soon we went further and ventured to open to gardens kept with hired service an allied competition for a separate list of prizes. In this way we put into motion, between two elements of our people which there are always more than enough influences to hold sufficiently apart, a joint pursuit of the same refining delight and so promoted the fellowship of an unconflicting common interest. In degree some of us who use hired help had already obtained this effect. Last season: "Come," I often heard one of our judges say on his rounds, "see my own garden some afternoon; I'll show you all the mistakes I've made!" And some came, and exchanged seeds and plants with him. "A high civilization," said an old soldier to me only a few days ago, "must always produce great social inequalities. They are needed mainly by and for those who see no need of them." I admitted that the need is as real, though not so stern, as the need of inequalities in military rank. "But," I said, "in the military relation you must also vividly keep up, across all inequalities of rank, a splendid sentiment of common interest and devotion, mutual confidence and affection, or your army will be but a broken weapon, a sword without a hilt." "Yes," he agreed, "and so in civilization; if it would be of the highest it must draw across its lines of social cleavage the bonds of civic fellowship." It was what I had intended to say myself. Social selection raises walls between us which we all help to build, but they need not be Chinese walls. They need not be so high that civic fellowship, even at its most feminine stature, may not look over them every now and then to ask: "How does my neighbor's garden grow?" It is with this end in view as well as for practical convenience that we have divided our field into seven districts and from our "women's council" have appointed residents of each to visit, animate and counsel the contestants of that district. The plan works well. On the other hand, to prevent the movement, in any district, from shrinking into village isolation; in order to keep the whole town comprised, and, as nearly as may be, to win the whole town's sympathy and participation, we have made a rule that in whatever district the capital prize is awarded, the second prize must go to some other district. If we have said this before you may slip it here; a certain repetitiousness is one part of our policy. A competitor in the district where the capital prize is awarded may take the third prize, but no one may take the third in the district where the second has been awarded. He may, however, be given the fourth. In a word, no two consecutive prizes can be won in the same district. Also, not more than three prizes of the fifteen may in one season be awarded in any one district. So each district has three prize-winners each year, and each year the prizes go all over town. Again, no garden may take the same prize two years in succession; it must take a higher one or else wait over. "This prize-garden business is just all right!" said one of the competitors to our general secretary. "It gives us good things to say to one another's face instead of bad things at one another's back, it does!" That is a merit we claim for it; that it operates, in the most inexpensive way that can be, to restore the social bond. Hard poverty minus village neighborship drives the social relation out of the home and starves out of its victims their spiritual powers to interest and entertain one another, or even themselves. If something could keep alive the good aspects of village neighborship without disturbing what is good in that more energetic social assortment which follows the expansion of the village into the town or city, we should have better and fairer towns and cities and a sounder and safer civilization. But it must be something which will give entirely differing social elements "good things to say to one another's face instead of bad things at one another's back." We believe our Northampton garden competition tends to do this. It brings together in neighborly fellowship those whom the discrepancies of social accomplishments would forever hold asunder and it brings them together without forced equality or awkward condescension, civic partners in that common weal to neglect which is one of the "dangers and temptations of the home." Two of our committee called one day at a house whose garden seemed to have fallen into its ill condition after a very happy start. Its mistress came to the door wearing a heart-weary look. The weather had been very dry, she said in a melodious French accent, and she had not felt so very well, and so she had not cared to struggle for a garden, much less for a prize. "But the weather," suggested her visitors, "had been quite as dry for her competitors, and few of them had made so fair a beginning. To say nothing of prizes, was not the garden itself its own reward?" She shook her head drearily; she did not know that she should ever care to garden any more. "Why?" exclaimed one questioner persuasively, "you didn't talk so when I was here last month!" "No," was the reply, "but since three weeks ago--" and all at once up came the stifled tears, filling her great black eyes and coursing down her cheeks unhindered, "I los' my baby." The abashed visitors stammered such apologies as they could. "They would not have come on this untimely errand could they have known." They begged forgiveness for their slowness to perceive. "Yet do not wholly," they presently ventured to urge, "give up your garden. The day may come when the thought that is now so bitter will, as a memory, yield some sweetness as well, and then it may be that the least of bitterness and the most of sweetness will come to you when you are busy among your flowers." "It may be," she sighed, but with an unconvinced shrug. And still, before the summer was gone, the garden sedately, yet very sweetly, smiled again and even the visitors ventured back. That was nearly three years ago. Only a few weeks since those two were in the company of an accomplished man who by some chance--being a Frenchman--had met and talked with this mother and her husband. "We made a sad bungle there," said the visitors. "Do not think it!" he protested. "They are your devoted friends. They speak of you with the tenderest regard. Moreover, I think they told me that last year--" "Yes," rejoined one of the visitors, "last year their garden took one of the prizes." THE MIDWINTER GARDENS OF NEW ORLEANS If the following pages might choose their own time and place they would meet their reader not in the trolley-car or on the suburban train, but in his own home, comfortably seated. For in order to justify the eulogistic tone of the descriptions which must presently occupy them their first word must be a conciliatory protest against hurry. One reason we Americans garden so little is that we are so perpetually in haste. The art of gardening is primarily a leisurely and gentle one. And gentility still has some rights. Our Louisiana Creoles know this, and at times maintain it far beyond the pales of their evergreen gardens. "'Step lively'?" one of them is said to have amazedly retorted in a New York street-car. "No, the lady shall not step lively. At yo' leisure, madame, entrez!" In New Orleans the conductors do not cry "Step lively!" Right or wrong, the cars there are not absolutely democratic. Gentility really enjoys in them a certain right to be treated gently. If democracy could know its own tyrants it would know that one of them is haste--the haste, the hurry of the crowd; that hurry whose cracking whip makes every one a compulsory sharer in it. The street-car conductor, poor lad, is not to blame. The fault is ours, many of us being in such a scramble to buy democracy at any price that, as if we were belatedly buying railway tickets, we forget to wait for our change. Now one of this tyrant's human forms is a man a part of whose tyranny is to call himself a gardener, though he knows he is not one, and the symbol of whose oppression is nothing more or less than that germ enemy of good gardening, the lawn-mower. You, if you know the gardening of our average American home almost anywhere else, would see, yourself, how true this is, were you in New Orleans. But you see it beautifully proved not by the presence but by the absence of the tyranny. The lawn-mower is there, of course; no one is going to propose that the lawn-mower anywhere be abolished. It is one of our modern marvels of convenience, a blessed release of countless human backs from countless hours of crouching, sickle-shaped, over the sickle. It is not the tyrant, but only like so many other instruments of beneficent democratic emancipation, the tyrant's opportunity. A large part of its convenience is expedition, and expedition is the easiest thing in the world to become vulgarized; vulgarized it becomes haste, and haste is the tyrant. Such arguing would sound absurdly subtle aimed against the uncloaked, barefaced tyranny of the street-car conductor, but the tyranny of the man with the lawn-mower is itself subtle, masked, and requires subtlety to unmask it. See how it operates. For so we shall be the better prepared for a generous appreciation of those far Southern gardens whose beauty has singled them out for our admiration. We know, of course, that the "formal garden," by reason of its initial and continuing costliness, is, and must remain, the garden of the wealthy few, and that the gardening for the great democracy of our land, the kind that will make the country at large a gardened land, is "informal," freehand, ungeometrical gardening. In this sort, on whatever scale, whether of the capitalist or of the cottager, the supreme feature is the lawn; the lawn-mower puts this feature within the reach of all, and pretty nearly every American householder has, such as it is, his bit of Eden. But just in that happy moment the Tempter gets in. The garden's mistress or master is beguiled to believe that one may have a garden without the expense of a gardener and at the same time without any gardening knowledge. The stable-boy, or the man-of-all-work, or the cook, or the cottager himself, pushes the lawn-mower, and except for green grass, or changeable brown and green, their bit of Eden is naked and is not ashamed. Or if ashamed, certain other beguilements, other masked democratic tyrannies, entering, reassure it; bliss of publicity, contempt of skill, and joy in machinery and machine results. An itinerant ignoramus comes round with his own lawn-mower, the pushing of which he now makes his sole occupation for the green half of the year, and the entire length, breadth and thickness of whose wisdom is a wisdom not of the lawn but only of the lawn-mower; how to keep its bearings oiled and its knives chewing fine; and the lawn becomes staringly a factory product. Then tyranny turns the screw again, and in the bliss of publicity and a very reasonable desire to make the small home lot look as large as possible, down come the fences, side and front, and the applauding specialist of the lawn-mower begs that those obstructions may never be set up again, because now the householder can have his lawn mowed so much _quicker_, and he, the pusher, can serve more customers. Were he truly a gardener he might know somewhat of the sweet, sunlit, zephyrous, fragrant outdoor privacies possible to a real garden, and more or less of that benign art which, by skilful shrubbery plantings, can make a small place look much larger--as well as incomparably more interesting--than can any mere abolition of fences, and particularly of the street fence. But he has not so much as one eye of a genuine gardener or he would know that he is not keeping your lawn but only keeping it shaven. He is not even a good garden laborer. You might as well ask him how to know the wild flowers as how to know the lawn pests--dandelion, chickweed, summer-grass, heal-all, moneywort and the like--with which you must reckon wearily by and by because he only mows them in his blindness and lets them flatten to the ground and scatter their seed like an infantry firing-line. Inquire of him concerning any one of the few orphan shrubs he has permitted you to set where he least dislikes them, and which he has trimmed clear of the sod--put into short skirts--so that he may run his whirling razors under (and now and then against) them at full speed. Will he know the smallest fact about it or yield any echo of your interest in it? There is a late story of an aged mother, in a darkened room, saying falteringly to the kind son who has brought in some flowers which she caresses with her soft touch, "I was wishing to-day--We used to have them in the yard--before the lawn-mower--" and saying no more. I know it for a fact, that in a certain cemetery the "Sons of the American Revolution" have for years been prevented from setting up their modest marks of commemoration upon the graves of Revolutionary heroes, because they would be in the way of the sexton's lawn-mower. Now in New Orleans the case is so different that really the amateur gardener elsewhere has not all his rights until he knows why it is so different. Let us, therefore, look into it. In that city one day the present writer accosted an Irishman who stood, pruning-shears in hand, at the foot of Clay's statue, Lafayette Square. It was the first week of January, but beside him bloomed abundantly that lovely drooping jasmine called in the books _jasminum multiflorum_. "Can you tell me what shrub this is?" "That, sor, is the _monthly flora!_ Thim as don't know the but-hanical nayum sometimes calls it the stare jismin, but the but-hanical nayum is the _monthly flora_." The inquirer spoke his thanks and passed on, but an eager footfall overtook him, his elbow felt a touch, and the high title came a third time: "The but-hanical nayum is the _monthly flora_." The querist passed on, warmed by a grateful esteem for one who, though doubtless a skilled and frequent tinkler of the lawn-mower within its just limitations, was no mere dragoon of it, but kept a regard for things higher than the bare sod, things of grace in form, in bloom, in odor, and worthy of "but-hanical nayum." No mere chauffeur he, of the little two-wheeled machine whose cult, throughout the most of our land, has all but exterminated ornamental gardening. In New Orleans, where it has not conquered, there is no crowding for room. A ten-story building is called there a sky-scraper. The town has not a dozen in all, and not one of that stature is an apartment or tenement house. Having felled her surrounding forests of cypress and drained the swamps in which they stood, she has at command an open plain capable of housing a population seven times her present three hundred and fifty thousand, if ever she chooses to build skyward as other cities do. But this explains only why New Orleans _might_ have gardens, not why she chooses to have them, and has them by thousands, when hundreds of other towns that have the room--and the lawns--choose not to have the shrubberies, vines and flowers, or have them without arrangement. Why should New Orleans so exceptionally choose to garden, and garden with such exceptional grace? Her house-lots are extraordinarily numerous in proportion to the numbers of her people, and that is a beginning of the explanation; but it is only a beginning. Individually the most of those lots are no roomier than lots elsewhere. Thousands of them, prettily planted, are extremely small. The explanation lies mainly in certain peculiar limitations, already hinted, of her--democracy! That is to say, it lies in her fences. Her fences remain, her democracy is different from the Northern variety. The difference may consist only in faults both there and here which we all hope to see democracy itself one day eliminate; but the difference is palpable. The fences mean that the dwellers behind them have never accorded to each other, as neighbors, that liberty-to-take-liberties of which Northern householders and garden-holders, after a quarter-century's disappointing experiment, are a bit weary. In New Orleans virtually every home, be it ever so proud or poor, has a fence on each of its four sides. As a result the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors. Unpleasant necessities these barriers are admitted to be, and those who have them are quite right in not liking them in their bare anatomy. So they clothe them with shrubberies and vines and thus on the home's true corporate bound the garden's profile, countenance and character are established in the best way possible; without, that is, any impulse toward embellishment _insulated_ from utility. Compelled by the common frailties of all human nature (even in a democracy) to maintain fortifications, the householder has veiled the militant aspect of his defences in the flowered robes and garlandries of nature's diplomacy and hospitality. Thus reassured, his own inner hospitality can freely overflow into the fragrant open air and out upon the lawn--a lawn whose dimensions are enlarged to both eye and mind, inasmuch as every step around its edges--around its meandering shrubbery borders--is made affable and entertaining by Flora's versatilities. [Illustration: "In New Orleans the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors--so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines." It is pleasant to notice how entirely the evergreen-vine-covered wall preserves the general air of spaciousness. The forest tree at the front and right (evergreen magnolia) is covered with an evergreen vine from the turf to its branches.] [Illustration: "The lawn ... lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across." A common garden feature in New Orleans is the division fence with front half of wire, rear half of boards, both planted out with shrubs. The overhanging forest tree is the evergreen magnolia (_M. grandiflora_).] At the same time, let us note in passing, this enlargement is partly because the lawn--not always but very much oftener than where lawns go unenclosed--lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across; free of bush, statue, urn, fountain, sun-dial or pattern-bed, an uninterrupted sward. Even where there are lapses from this delightful excellence they often do not spoil, but only discount, more or less, the beauty of the general scheme, as may be noted--if without offence we may offer it the homage of criticism--in one of the gardens we have photographed [page 176] to illustrate these argumentations. There eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward without in the least adding to the garden's abounding charm. The smallest effort of the reader's eye will show how largely, in a short half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity simply by the elimination of these slight excesses, or by their withdrawal toward the lawn's margins and into closer company with the tall trees. In New Orleans, where, even when there are basements, of which there are many, the domains of the cook and butler are somewhere else, a nearly universal feature of every sort of dwelling--the banker's on two or three lots, the laborer's on half a one--is a paved walk along one side of the house, between the house and the lawn, from a front gate to the kitchen. Generally there is but the one front gate, facing the front door, with a short walk leading directly up to this door. In such case the rear walk, beginning at the front door-steps, turns squarely along the house's front, then at its corner turns again as squarely to the rear as a drill-sergeant and follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path. In fact it is only the same path we see in uncrowded town life everywhere in our land. [Illustration: "There eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward.... In a half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity by the elimination of these excesses." The sky-line of this beautiful garden becomes a part of the garden itself, a fact of frequent occurrence in New Orleans. The happy contrast of rearmost oak and palm is also worthy of notice.] But down there it shows this peculiarity, that it is altogether likely to be well bordered with blooming shrubs and plants along all that side of it next the lawn. Of course it is a fault that this shrubbery border--and all the more so because it is very apt to be, as in three of our illustrations [pages 174,178, 180], a rose border--should, so often as it is, be pinched in between parallel edges. "No pinching" is as good a rule for the garden as for the kindergarten. Manifestly, on the side next the house the edge between the walk and the planted border should run parallel with the base line of the house, for these are business lines and therefore ever so properly lines of promptitude--of the shortest practicable distance between two points--lines of supply and demand, lines of need. For lines of need, business speed! But for lines of pleasure, grace and leisure. It is the tactful office of this shrubbery border to veil the business path from the lawn--from the pleasure-ground. Therefore its _outside_, lawn-side edge should be a line of pleasure, hence a line of grace, hence not a straight line (dead line), nor yet a line of but one lethargic curve, but a line of suavity and tranquil ongoing, a leisurely undulating line. [Illustration: "The rear walk ... follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path."] Not to have it so is an error, but the error is an inoffensive one easily corrected and the merit is that the dwelling's business path is greenly, bloomingly screened from its pleasure-ground by a lovely natural drapery which at the same time furnishes, as far as the path goes, the house's robes of modesty. Indeed they are furnished farther than the path goes; for no good work gathers momentum more readily than does good gardening, and the householder, having begun so rightly, has now nothing to do to complete the main fabric of his garden but to carry this flow of natural draperies on round the domicile's back and farther side and forward to its front again. Thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even above its reach and where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults, thus winsomely enhance all its architectural charm; like a sweet human mistress of the place, putting into generous shadow all the ill, and into open sunshine all the best, of a husband's strong character. (See both right and left foreground of illustration on page 178, and right foreground on page 180.) And now if this New Orleans idea--that enough private enclosure to secure good home gardening is not incompatible with public freedom, green lawns, good neighborship, sense of room and fulness of hospitality, and that a house-lot which is a picture is worth more to everybody (and therefore is even more democratic) than one which is little else than a map--if this idea, we say, finds any credence among sister cities and towns that may be able to teach the Creole city much in other realms of art and criticism, let us cast away chalk and charcoal for palette and brush and show in floral, arborescent, redolent detail what is the actual pictorial excellence of these New Orleans gardens. For notwithstanding all their shut-in state, neither their virtues nor their faults are hid from the passing eye. The street fence, oftenest of iron, is rarely more than breast-high and is always an open fence. Against its inner side frequently runs an evergreen hedge never taller than the fence's top. Commonly it is not so tall, is always well clipped and is so civil to strangers that one would wish to see its like on every street front, though he might prefer to find it not so invariably of the one sort of growth--a small, handsome privet, that is, which nevertheless fulfils its office with the perfection of a solid line of palace sentries. Unluckily there still prevails a very old-fashioned tendency to treat the front fence as in itself ornamental and to forget two things: First, that its nakedness is no part of its ornamental value; that it would be much handsomer lightly clothed--underclothed--like, probably, its very next neighbor; clothed with a hedge, either close or loose, and generously kept below the passer's line of sight. And, second, that from the householder's point of view, looking streetward from his garden's inner depth, its fence, when unplanted, is a blank interruption to his whole fair scheme of meandering foliage and bloom which on the other three sides frames in the lawn; as though the garden were a lovely stage scene with the fence for footlights, and some one had left the footlights unlit. [Illustration: "Thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even ... where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults."] A lovely stage scene, we say, without a hint of the stage's unreality; for the side and rear fences and walls, being frankly unornamental, call for more careful management than the front and are often charmingly treated. (Page 174.) (See, for an example of a side fence with front half of wire and rear half of boards, page 174, and for solid walls, pages 180 and 184.) Where they separate neighbors' front lawns they may be low and open, but back of the building-line, being oftenest tight and generally more than head-high, they are sure to be draped with such climbing floral fineries as honeysuckles, ivies, jasmines white and yellow, lantanas, roses or the Madeira vine. More frequently than not they are planted also, in strong masses, with ever so many beautiful sorts of firmer-stemmed growths, herbaceous next the sod, woody behind, assembled according to stature, from one to twelve feet high, swinging in and out around the lawn until all stiffness of boundaries is waved and smiled away. [Illustration: " ... a lovely stage scene without a hint of the stage's unreality." The beauty of this spot could be enhanced in ten minutes by taking away the planted urns which stand like gazing children in the middle of the background.] In that first week of January already mentioned the present writer saw at every turn, in such borders and in leaf and blossom, the delicate blue-flowered plumbago; two or three kinds of white jasmine, also in bloom; and the broad bush-form of the yellow jasmine, beginning to flower. With them were blooming roses of a dozen kinds; the hibiscus (not althæa but the _H. rosasinensis_ of our Northern greenhouses), slim and tall, flaring its mallow-flowers pink, orange, salmon and deep red; the trailing-lantana, covering broad trellises of ten feet in height and with its drooping masses of delicate foliage turned from green to mingled hues of lilac and rose by a complete mantle of their blossoms. He saw the low, sweet-scented geraniums of lemon, rose and nutmeg odors, persisting through the winter unblighted, and the round-leaved, "zonal" sorts surprisingly large of growth--in one case, on a division fence, trained to the width and height of six feet. There, too, was the poinsettia still bending in its Christmas red, taller than the tallest man's reach, often set too forthpushingly at the front, but at times, with truer art, glowing like a red constellation from the remoter bays of the lawn; and there, taller yet, the evergreen _Magnolia fuscata_, full of its waxen, cream-tinted, inch-long flowers smelling delicately like the banana. He found the sweet olive, of refined leaf and minute axillary flowers yielding their ravishing tonic odor with the reserve of the violet; the pittosporum; the box; the myrtle; the camphor-tree with its neat foliage answering fragrantly the grasp of the hand. The dark camellia was there, as broad and tall as a lilac-bush, its firm, glossy leaves of the deepest green and its splendid red flowers covering it from tip to sod, one specimen showing by count a thousand blossoms open at once and the sod beneath innumerably starred with others already fallen. The night jasmine, in full green, was not yet in blossom but it was visibly thinking of the spring. The Chinese privet, of twenty feet stature, in perennial leaf, was saving its flowers for May. The sea-green oleander, fifteen feet high and wide (see extreme left foreground, page 176), drooped to the sward on four sides but hoarded its floral cascade for June. The evergreen loquat (locally miscalled the mespilus plum) was already faltering into bloom; also the orange, with its flower-buds among its polished leaves, whitening for their own wedding; while high over them towered the date and other palms, spired the cedar and arborvitæ, and with majestic infrequency, where grounds were ample, spread the lofty green, scintillating boughs of the magnolia grandiflora (see left foregrounds on pages 174, 182 and 184), the giant, winter-bare pecan and the wide, mossy arms of the vast live-oak. [Illustration: "Back of the building-line the fences ... generally more than head-high ... are sure to be draped."] [Illustration: " ... from the autumn side of Christmas to the summer side of Easter." In any garden as fair as this there should be some place to sit down. This deficiency is one of the commonest faults in American gardening.] Now while the time of year in which these conditions are visible heightens their lovely wonder, their practical value to Northern home-lovers is not the marvel and delight of something inimitable but their inspiring suggestion of what may be done with ordinary Northern home grounds, to the end that the floral pageantry of the Southern January may be fully rivalled by the glory of the Northern June. For of course the Flora of the North, who in the winter of long white nights puts off all her jewelry and nearly all her robes and "lies down to pleasant dreams," is the blonde sister of, and equal heiress with, this darker one who, in undivested greenery and flowered trappings, persists in open-air revelry through all the months from the autumn side of Christmas to the summer side of Easter. Wherefore it seems to me the Northern householder's first step should be to lay hold upon this New Orleans idea in gardening--which is merely by adoption a New Orleans idea, while through and through, except where now and then its votaries stoop to folly, it is by book a Northern voice, the garden gospel of Frederick Law Olmsted. Wherever American homes are assembled we may have, all winter, for the asking--if we will but ask ourselves instead of the lawn-mower man--an effect of home, of comfort, cheer and grace, of summer and autumn reminiscences and of spring's anticipations, immeasurably better than any ordinary eye or fancy can extort from the rectangular and stiffened-out nakedness of unplanted boundaries; immeasurably better than the month-by-month daily death-stare of shroud-like snow around houses standing barefooted on the frozen ground. It may be by hearty choice that we abide where we must forego outdoor roses in Christmas week and broad-leaved evergreens blooming at New Year's, Twelfth-night or Carnival. Well and good! But we can have even in mid-January, and ought to allow ourselves, the lawn-garden's surviving form and tranced life rather than the shrubless lawn's unmarked grave flattened beneath the void of the snow. We ought to retain the sleeping beauty of the ordered garden's unlost configuration, with the warm house for its bosom, with all its remoter contours--alleys, bays, bushy networks and sky-line--keeping a winter share of their feminine grace and softness. We ought to retain the "frozen music" of its myriad gray, red and yellow stems and twigs and lingering blue and scarlet berries stirring, though leaflessly, for the kiss of spring. And we ought to retain the invincible green of cedars, junipers and box, cypress, laurel, hemlock spruce and cloaking ivy, darkling amid and above these, receiving from and giving to them a cheer which neither could have in their frostbound Eden without mutual contrast. [Illustration: "The sleeping beauty of the garden's unlost configuration ... keeping a winter's share of its feminine grace and softness." This picture was taken in the first flush of spring. The trees in blossom are the wild Japanese cherry.] Eden! If I so recklessly ignore latitude as to borrow the name of the first gardener's garden for such a shivering garden as this it is because I see this one in a dream of hope--a diffident, interrogating hope--really to behold, some day, this dream-garden of Northern winters as I have never with actual open eyes found one kept by any merely well-to-do American citizen. If I describe it I must preface with all the disclaimers of a self-conscious amateur whose most venturesome argument goes no farther than "Why not?" yet whom the evergreen gardens of New Orleans revisited in January impel to protest against every needless submission to the tyrannies of frost and of a gardening art--or non-art, a submission which only in the outdoor embellishment of the home takes winter supinely, abjectly. This garden of a hope's dream covers but three ordinary town lots. Often it shrinks to but one without asking for any notable change of plan. Following all the lines, the hard, law lines, that divide it from its neighbors and the street, there runs, waist-high on its street front, shoulder-high on its side bounds, a close evergreen hedge of hemlock spruce. In its young way this hedge has been handsome from infancy; though still but a few years old it gives, the twelvemonth round, a note both virile and refined in color, texture and form, and if the art that planted it and the care that keeps it do not decay neither need the hedge for a century to come. Against the intensest cold this side of Labrador it is perfectly hardy, is trimmed with a sloping top to shed snows whose weight might mutilate it, and can be kept in repair from generation to generation, like the house's plumbing or roof, or like some green-uniformed pet regiment with ranks yet full after the last of its first members has perished. Furthermore, along the inner side of this green hedge (sometimes close against it, sometimes with a turfed alley between), as well as all round about the house, extend borders of deciduous shrubs, with such meandering boundaries next the broad white lawn as the present writer, for this time, has probably extolled enough. These bare, gray shrub masses are not wholly bare or gray and have other and most pleasingly visible advantages over unplanted, pallid vacancy, others besides the mere lace-work of their twigs and the occasional tenderness of a last summer's bird's nest. Here and there, breaking the cold monotone, a bush of moose maple shows the white-streaked green of its bare stems and sprays, or cornus or willow gives a soft glow of red, purple or yellow. Only here and there, insists my dream, lest when winter at length gives way to the "rosy time of the year" their large and rustic gentleness mar the nuptial revels of summer's returned aristocracy. Because, moreover, there is a far stronger effect of life, home and cheer from the broad-leaved evergreens which, in duly limited numbers, assemble with and behind these, and from the lither sorts of conifers that spire out of the network and haze of living things in winter sleep. The plantings at the garden's and dwelling's front being properly, of course, lower than those farther back, I see among them, in this dream, the evergreen box and several kinds of evergreen ferns. I see two or three species of evergreen barberries, not to speak of Thunberg's leafless one warm red with its all-winter berries, the winter garden's rubric. I see two varieties of euonymus; various low junipers; two sorts of laurel; two of andromeda, and the high-clambering evergreen ivy. Beginning with these in front, infrequent there but multiplying toward the place's rear, are bush and tree forms of evergreen holly, native rhododendrons, the many sorts of foreign cedars and our native ones white and red, their skyward lines modified as the square or pointed architecture of the house may call for contrasts in pointed or broad-topped arborescence. If, at times, I dream behind all this a grove, with now and then one of its broad, steepling or columnar trees pushed forward upon the lawn, it is only there that I see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce. Such is the vision, and if I never see it with open eyes and in real sunlight, even as a dream it is--like certain other things of less dignity--grateful, comforting. I warrant there are mistakes in it, but you will find mistakes wherever you find achievement, and there is no law against them--in well-meant dreams. Observe, if you please, this vision lays no drawback on the garden's summer beauty and affluence. Twelve months of the year it enhances its dignity and elegance. Both the numerical proportions of evergreens to other greens, and the scheme of their distribution, are quite as correct and effective for contrast and background to the transient foliage and countless flowers of July as amid the bare ramage of January. Summer and winter alike, the gravest items among them all, the conifers, retain their values even in those New Orleans gardens. When we remember that in New England and on all its isotherm it is winter all that half of the year when most of us are at home, why should we not seek to realize this snow-garden dream? Even a partial or faulty achievement of it will surely look lovelier than the naked house left out on its naked white lawn like an unclaimed trunk on a way-station platform. I would not, for anything, offend the reader's dignity, but I must think that this midwinter garden may be made at least as much lovelier than no garden as Alice's Cheshire cat was lovelier--with or without its grin--than the grin without the cat. [Illustration: "It is only there that I see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce." The blossoming trees in this picture are a Chinese crab blooming ten days later than the Japanese wild cherry (see illustration facing p. 186), which is now in full leaf at their back.] Shall we summarize? Our gist is this: that those gardens of New Orleans are as they are, not by mere advantage of climate but for several other reasons. Their bounds of ownership and privacy are enclosed in hedges, tight or loose, or in vine-clad fences or walls. The lawn is regarded as a ruling feature of the home's visage, but not as its whole countenance--one flat feature never yet made a lovely face. This lawn feature is beautified and magnified by keeping it open from shrub border to shrub border, saving it, above all things, from the gaudy barbarism of pattern-bedding; and by giving it swing and sweep of graceful contours. And lastly, all ground lines of the house are clothed with shrubberies whose deciduous growths are companioned with broad-leafed evergreens and varied conifers, in whatever proportions will secure the best midwinter effects without such abatement to those of summer as would diminish the total of the whole year's joy. These are things that can be done anywhere in our land, and wherever done with due regard to soil as well as to climate will give us gardens worthy to be named with those of New Orleans, if not, in some aspects and at particular times of the year, excelling them. As long as mistakes are made in the architecture of houses they will be made in the architecture of gardening, and New Orleans herself, by a little more care for the fundamentals of art, of all art, could easily surpass her present floral charm. Yet in her gardens there is one further point calling for approval and imitation: the _very_ high trimming of the stems of lofty trees. Here many a reader will feel a start of resentment; but in the name of the exceptional beauty one may there see resulting from the practice let us allow the idea a moment's entertainment, put argument aside and consider a concrete instance whose description shall be our closing word. Across the street in which, that January, we sojourned (we were two), there was a piece of ground of an ordinary town square's length and somewhat less breadth. It had been a private garden. Its owner had given it to the city. Along its broad side, which our windows looked out upon, stood perfectly straight and upright across the sky to the south of them a row of magnolias (grandiflora) at least sixty feet high, with their boles, as smooth as the beach, trimmed bare for two-thirds of their stature. The really decorative marks of the trimming had been so many years, so many decades, healed as to show that no harm had come of it or would come. The soaring, dark-green, glittering foliage stood out against the almost perpetually blue and white sky. Beyond them, a few yards within the place but not in a straight line, rose even higher a number of old cedars similarly treated and offering a pleasing contrast to the magnolias by the feathery texture of their dense sprays and the very different cast of their lack-lustre green. Overtopping all, on the farther line of the grounds, southern line, several pecan-trees of nearly a hundred feet in height, leafless, with a multitude of broad-spreading boughs all high in air by natural habit, gave an effect strongly like that of winter elms, though much enlivened by the near company of the evergreen masses of cedar and magnolia. These made the upper-air half of the garden, the other half being assembled below. For the lofty trim of the wintergreen-trees--the beauty of which may have been learned from the palms--allowed and invited another planting beneath them. Magnolias, when permitted to branch low, are, to undergrowth, among the most inhospitable of trees, but in this garden, where the sunlight and the breezes passed abundantly under such high-lifted arms and among such clean, bare stems, a congregation of shrubs, undershrubs and plants of every stature and breadth, arose, flourished and flowered without stint. Yonder the wind-split, fathom-long leaves of the banana, brightening the background, arched upward, drooped again and faintly oscillated to the air's caress. Here bloomed and smelled the delicate magnolia fuscata, and here, redder with flowers than green with shining leaves, shone the camellia. Here spread the dark oleander, the pittosporum and the Chinese privet; and here were the camphor-tree and the slender sweet olive--we have named them all before and our steps should not take us over the same ground twice in one circuit; that would be bad gardening. But there they were, under those ordinarily so intolerant trees, prospering and singing praises with them, some in full blossom and perfume, some waiting their turn, like parts of a choir. In the midst of all, where a broad path eddied quite round an irregular open space, and that tender quaintness of decay appeared which is the unfailing New Orleans touch, the space was filled with roses. This spot was lovely enough by day and not less so for being a haunt of toddling babes and their nurses; but at night--! Regularly at evening there comes into the New Orleans air, from Heaven knows whither, not a mist, not a fog nor a dampness, but a soft, transparent, poetical dimness that in no wise shortens the range of vision--a counterpart of that condition which so many thousands of favored travellers in other longitudes know as the "Atlantic haze." One night--oh, oftener than that, but let us say one for the value of understatement--returning to our quarters some time before midnight, we stepped out upon the balcony to gaze across into that garden. The sky was clear, the neighborhood silent. A wind stirred, but the shrubberies stood motionless. The moon, nearly full, swung directly before us, pouring its gracious light through the tenuous cross-hatchings of the pecans, nestling it in the dense tops of the cedars and magnolias and sprinkling it to the ground among the lower growths and between their green-black shadows. When in a certain impotence of rapture we cast about in our minds for an adequate comparison--where description in words seemed impossible--the only parallel we could find was the art of Corot and such masters from the lands where the wonderful pictorial value of trees trimmed high has been known for centuries and is still cherished. For without those trees so disciplined the ravishing picture of that garden would have been impossible. Of course our Northern gardens cannot smile like that in winter. But they need not perish, as tens of thousands of lawn-mower, pattern-bed, so-called gardens do. They should but hibernate, as snugly as the bear, the squirrel, the bee; and who that ever in full health of mind and body saw spring come back to a Northern garden of blossoming trees, shrubs and undershrubs has not rejoiced in a year of four clear-cut seasons? Or who that ever saw mating birds, greening swards, starting violets and all the early flowers loved of Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley, Bryant and Tennyson, has not felt that the resurrection of landscape and garden owes at least half its glory to the long trance of winter, and wished that dwellers in Creole lands might see New England's First of June? For what says the brave old song-couplet of New England's mothers? That-- "Spring would be but wintry weather If we had nothing else but spring." Every year, even in Massachusetts--even in Michigan--spring, summer, and autumn are sure to come overladen with their gifts and make us a good, long, merry visit. All the other enlightened and well-to-do nations of the world entertain them with the gardening art and its joys and so make fairer, richer and stronger than can be made indoors alone the individual soul, the family, the social, the civic, the national life. In this small matter we Americans are at the wrong end of the procession. What shall we do about it? 
47688	----	THE BROCHURE SERIES Japanese Gardens FEBRUARY, 1900 [Illustration: PLATE XI DAIMIO'S GARDEN AT SHINJIKU] THE BROCHURE SERIES OF ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATION. 1900. FEBRUARY No. 2. JAPANESE GARDENS. The Japanese garden is not a flower garden, neither is it made for the purpose of cultivating plants. In nine cases out of ten there is nothing in it resembling a flower-bed. Some gardens may contain scarcely a sprig of green; some (although these are exceptional) have nothing green at all and consist entirely of rocks, pebbles and sand. Neither does the Japanese garden require any fixed allowance of space; it may cover one or many acres, it may be only ten feet square; it may, in extreme cases, be much less, and be contained in a curiously shaped, shallow, carved box set in a veranda, in which are created tiny hills, microscopic ponds and rivulets spanned by tiny humped bridges, while queer wee plants represent trees, and curiously formed pebbles stand for rocks. But on whatever scale, all true Japanese gardening is landscape gardening; that is to say, it is a living model of an actual Japanese landscape. But, though modelled upon an actual landscape, the Japanese garden is far more than a mere naturalistic imitation. To the artist every natural view may be said to convey, in its varying aspects, some particular mental impression or mood, such as the impression of peacefulness, of wildness, of solitude, or of desolation; and the Japanese gardener intends not only to present in his model the features of the veritable landscape, but also to make it express, even more saliently than the original, a dominant sentimental mood, so that it may become not only a picture, but a poem. In other words, a Japanese garden of the best type is, like any true work of art, the representation of nature as expressed through an individual artistic temperament. Through long accumulation of traditional methods, the representation of natural features in a garden model has come to be a highly conventional expression, like all Japanese art; and the Japanese garden bears somewhat the same relation to an actual landscape that a painting of a view of Fuji-yama by the wonderful Hokusai does to the actual scene--it is a representation based upon actual and natural forms, but so modified to accord with accepted canons of Japanese art, so full of mysterious symbolism only to be understood by the initiated, so expressed, in a word, in terms of the national artistic conventions, that it costs the Western mind long study to learn to appreciate its full beauty and significance. Suppose, to take a specific example, that in the actual landscape upon which the Japanese gardener chose to model his design, a pine tree grew upon the side of a hill. Upon the side of the corresponding artificial hill in his garden he would therefore plant a pine, but he would not clip and trim its branches to imitate the shape of the original, but rather, satisfied that by so placing it he had gone far enough toward the imitation of nature, he would clip his garden pine to make it correspond, as closely as circumstances might permit, with a conventional ideal pine tree shape (such a typical ideal pine tree is shown in the little drawing on page 25), a shape recognized as the model for a beautiful pine by the artistic conventions of Japan for centuries, and one familiar to every Japanese of any pretensions to culture whatsoever. And, as there are recognized ideal pine tree shapes, there are also ideal mountain shapes, ideal lake shapes, ideal water-fall shapes, ideal stone shapes, and innumerable other such ideal shapes. [Illustration: PLATE XII "RIVER VIEW," KORAKU-EN, KOISHIKAWA] In like manner in working out his design the gardener must take cognizance of a multitude of religious and ethical conventions. The flow of his streams must, for instance, follow certain cardinal directions; in the number and disposition of his principal rocks he must symbolize the nine spirits of the Buddhist pantheon. Some tree and stone combinations are regarded as fortunate, and should be introduced if possible; while other combinations are considered unlucky, and are to be as carefully avoided. [Illustration: MODEL PINE TREE] But endless and complex and bewildering to the western mind as are the rules and formulæ, æsthetic, symbolistic and religious, by which the Japanese landscape gardener is bound, it is apparent that most of them were originally based upon purely picturesque considerations, and that the earliest practitioners of this very ancient art, finding that certain types of arrangement, certain contrasts of mass or line, led to harmonious results, formulated their discoveries into rules, much as the rules of composition are formulated for us today in modern artistic treatises. Moreover, as Japanese gardening was at first, and for many years, practised only as a sacred art and by the priests of certain religious cults, it was but natural that they should impart to these laws which they had discovered symbolic and religious attributes. To preserve the arts in their purity, and to prevent the vulgar from transgressing æsthetic laws, combinations productive of beauty were represented as auspicious, and endowed with moral significance, while inharmonious arrangements were condemned as unlucky or inauspicious. It is one of the cardinal principles of Japanese philosophy, for example, that the inanimate objects of the universe are endowed with male or female attributes, and that from a proper blending of the two sex essences springs all the harmony, good fortune and beauty in this world. When, therefore, two contrasting shapes, colors, or masses, such as those of the sturdy pine tree and the graceful willow, were found conducive of a pleasing combination, they were named respectively male and female, and it became almost a religious observance to thereafter place them together in their attributed sex relations. It will be apparent, therefore, that with an art of such antiquity, originally practised as a religious ceremony, and in a country in which inherited tradition has such binding force, that there should have grown up around the craft of landscape gardening, a code of the most complex laws, rules, symbolism, formulæ and superstitions, which the artistic gardener is bound to learn and to implicitly obey. And yet it must not be considered that the art of the Japanese gardener has, through the accumulation of its limiting rules, become a mere science, or that its practice is only a mechanical expression of pre-established artistic conventions. On the contrary, the landscape gardener must be, first of all, a student and lover of nature, for his art is founded on nature; he must be next a poet, in order to appreciate and re-express in his garden the moods of nature, and he must thereafter be a lifelong student of his craft, that he may design in accordance with its established principles. But the very number of these precepts makes a wide range of choice among them possible; and in almost every instance, even the most apparently superstitious and fanciful of them will be found, upon examination, to make in some way for beauty in the final result. To those who can understand it, moreover, the mystical symbolism of a Japanese garden design is an added source of pleasure, just as a knowledge of symphonic form makes a symphony more enjoyable to the musician. "After having learned," writes Mr. Lafacdio Hearn, "something about the Japanese manner of arranging flowers, one can thereafter consider European ideas of floral decoration only as vulgarities. Somewhat in the same way, and for similar reasons, after having learned what a Japanese garden is, I can remember our costliest and most elaborate gardens at home only as ignorant displays of what wealth can accomplish in the creation of incongruities that violate nature." The Japanese artist who is called upon to design a new garden will first examine the site, and confer with his patron regarding its proposed size and character. If the site be large, and already furnished with natural hills, trees and water, the gardener will, of course, take advantage of these features. If it possess none of them, he will inquire the amount of money that can be placed at his disposal for the construction of artificial hills, lakes and the like; and this amount of money will also determine another important point, namely, the degree of elaboration with which the whole is to be treated. For all works of Japanese art whatsoever are rigorously divided into three styles, the "rough" style, the "finished" style and the "intermediate" style; and the adoption of any one style governs the degree of elaboration to which any part of the design may be carried. If the "rough" style is chosen, even the smallest accessory detail--a rustic well, or a stone lantern--must be rude to harmonize; if the "finished" style, no detail that does not correspond can be admitted,--a restriction greatly conducive to harmony, and one to which the almost invariable congruity and unity of Japanese compositions is due. [Illustration: PLATE XIII DAIMIO OF SATSUMA'S GARDEN, KAGOSHIMA] Knowing, then, the size and character of the site, and his patrons' wishes as to expense and elaboration, the landscape gardener will next choose the model landscape, or landscapes, upon which he is to base his design. He will find them divided by convention into two classes: those representing "Hill Gardens" and "Flat Gardens." (There is a third class, the "Tea Garden," but as this is of a separate genus altogether, it will be considered later.) [Illustration: DETAIL OF GARDEN, FUKAGAWA Showing some important features of arrangement close to a dwelling,--the water basin with its rock-hidden drain, the lantern, with its fire-box partially concealed by the trained branches of the pine tree.] The "Hill Garden" class is the more elaborate of the two, and that best adapted for large gardens, and for those where the natural site is undulating, or where money can be spent in artificial grading. The "Hill Garden" has many different species, such, for instance, as the "Rocky-ocean" style, which represents in general an inlet of the sea surrounded by high cliffs, the shores spread with white sea-sand, scattered with sea rocks and grown upon with pine trees trained to look as if bent and distorted with the sea wind; or the "Wide-river" style, showing a spreading stream issuing from behind a hill and running into a lake; or the "Reed-marsh" style, in which the hills are low, rounded sand dunes bordering a heath or moor in which lies a marshy pool overgrown with rushes; and many other such "styles," all well recognized, all carefully discriminated and all modelled upon actual landscapes. In any case, however, the true "Hill Garden" must present, in combination, mountain or hill, and water scenery. If on the contrary the site be small and flat, and the garden is to be less elaborate, the "Flat" style is usually chosen. The "Flat Garden" is generally supposed to represent either the floor of a mountain valley, a moor, a rural scene, or the like; and as in the case of "Hill Gardens," there are a number of well recognized and classical examples. Having, then, determined that the garden is to be of one of these types, and having also determined the degree of elaboration with which it is to be treated, the gardener will next proceed to fix the scale upon which it is to be constructed,--and this scale (a most important factor) is decided by the size of the garden area, and the number of features which must be introduced into the scene; for it is clear that if the site be large, and one in which natural hills or large bodies of water are already present, the scale will be a normal one; whereas if a whole valley, with hills, a river, a water-fall, a lake and a wooded slope is to be presented in a space of some fifty or sixty square yards, the scale of the whole must be miniature. But whatever scale is adopted, every tree, every rock, every pool, every accessory detail must be made exactly to correspond to it. A hill that might in a large garden be a natural elevation of considerable size, with full sized trees planted upon it, might in a smaller one modelled after the same design, be only a hillock, planted with dwarfed trees or shrubs; or in a still smaller area become only a clump of thick-leaved bushes trimmed to resemble a hill-shape, or even a large boulder flanked by tiny shrubs. So skilfully and completely do Japanese gardeners carry out any scale that they have determined upon, however, that Mr. Hearn describes a garden of not much above thirty yards square, that when viewed through a window from which the garden alone was visible, seemed to be really an actual and natural landscape seen from a distance,--a perfect illusion. [Illustration: PLATE XIV MERCHANT'S GARDEN, AWOMORI] Having determined upon the natural model and the scale for it, the gardener will begin by imitating on the given site the main natural land conformations of his original, building hills or grading slopes, excavating lake basins and cutting river channels. These natural features he will next proceed to elaborate, and it is in this process of elaboration that he must most carefully observe all those complex laws and conventions to which we have before alluded. [Illustration: DETAIL OF A MERCHANT'S VILLA GARDEN, FUKAGAWA Showing some characteristic garden accessories,--stepping-stones, a lantern, a common variety of bamboo fence. The lantern and plum tree conventionally mark the approach to a little shrine reached through a Shinto archway by means of a row of stepping-stones.] Almost every Japanese garden, be it hilly or flat, large or small, rough or elaborate, must be made to contain, in some form, water, rocks and vegetation, as well as such architectural accessories as bridges, pagodas, lanterns, water-basins, stepping-stones and boundary fences or hedges. Water may be made to present the sea, lakes, rivers, brooks, water-falls, springs, or combinations of them. It is not, of course, possible to imitate the open sea with any degree of realism; and when a coast scene is presented, it is customary to fashion the body of water as an ocean inlet, the supposed juncture with the sea being hidden by a cliff or hill. Lake scenes are much more common. There are six "classical" shapes into which lake forms are divided, some of them more formal for use near buildings, others more natural for use in wilder landscapes. It is an axiom that every lake, or pool, or stream represented must have both its source and outlet indicated. Sometimes the inflow is indicated by a stream issuing from behind a hillock which conceals its artificial source, sometimes a deep pool of clear water may suggest a spring, sometimes a water-fall (at least ten individual and distinct forms of water-fall are recognized as admissible into a properly planned garden) supplies the water; but water showing no inflow or outlet is termed "dead" water, and is regarded with the contempt bestowed upon all shams and falsities in art. In cases where it is impossible to introduce actual water into a garden its presence is often imitated by areas of smooth or rippled sand, the banks of the sand bed treated to simulate the banks of a natural lake or stream, and islands and bridges introduced to further the illusion. [Illustration: PLATE XV SHIRASE-NO-NIWA, NIIGATA] Extreme importance is attached to the use in gardens of natural stones, rocks and boulders; and some teachers of the craft go so far as to maintain that they constitute the skeleton of the design, and that their proper disposition and selection should receive the primary consideration. In large gardens there may be as many as one hundred and thirty-eight principal rocks and stones, each having its special name and function; but in smaller ones as few as five rocks will often suffice. Whatever the style of landscape composition, three stones, the "Guardian Stone," the "Stone of Worship," and the "Stone of the Two Deities" must never be dispensed with, their absence being regarded as inauspicious. On the same principle there are certain stone forms which are considered unlucky, and are therefore invariably avoided. The raised parts of a Japanese garden are supposed to represent the nearer eminences or distant mountains of natural scenery, and the stones which adorn them are intended to imitate either minor undulations and peaks, or rocks or boulders on their slopes. In like manner there are no less than twenty "water" stones, which have their places in lake and river scenery, as well as nine varieties of "cascade" stones alone. There are also sixteen stones which have their functions solely in the adornment of islands. After the contours of land and water and the principal rocks and stones have been arranged, the distribution of garden vegetation is considered; for the garden rocks form only the skeleton of the design and are only complete when embellished with vegetation. [Illustration: TYPICAL ARRANGEMENTS OF STONES WITH FOLIAGE] In the grounds of the larger temples, avenues and groves of trees are planted with the same formality adopted in Western gardens, but in true landscape gardening such formal arrangements are never resorted to. Indeed it is an axiom that when several trees are planted together they should never be placed in rows, but always in open and irregular groups. The rules for planting the clumps are rigidly determined; and these clumps may be disposed in double, triple or quadruple combinations, while these combinations may be again regrouped according to recognized rules based upon contrasts of form, line and color of foliage. Occasionally, when it is the designer's purpose to represent a natural forest or woodland, formulas are, of course, disregarded, and the trees are grouped together irregularly. [Illustration: TYPICAL VARIETIES OF GARDEN LANTERN] The architectural accessories of the Japanese garden,--bridges, pagodas, lanterns, water-basins, wells and boundary fences or hedges, we have no space to consider in detail. It must suffice to say that their use is rather ornamental than to aid in the landscape imitation, and that they are generally placed in the foreground of the scene. There are many beautiful designs for each of them, and their use and disposition is formally regulated. [Illustration: PLATE XVI PUBLIC GARDEN OF SHUZENJI, KUMAMATO] Important accessories in the Japanese garden are Stepping-Stones. Turf is not used in the open spaces, but these are spread with sand, either pounded smooth or raked into elaborate patterns. This sand, kept damp at all times, presents a cool and fresh surface, and to preserve its smoothness, which the marks of the Japanese wooden clogs would sadly mar, a pathway is invariably constructed across such areas with stones called "stepping-stones," or "flying stones" as they are occasionally termed, on account of the supposed resemblance in their composition to the order taken by a flight of birds. In the simpler and smaller gardens such stones form one of the principal features of the design. As nothing could be less artistic than a formal arrangement of stones at regular intervals, not to speak of the difficulty of keeping one's balance while walking upon them, the Japanese gardener therefore uses certain special stones and combinations having definite shapes and dimensions, the whole being arranged with a studied irregularity. The sketch on this page exhibits three typical arrangements. The left hand group shows stepping-stones as arranged to lead from a tea room. The centre group shows stepping-stones combined with a "pedestal stone" which marks the point from which a typical cross view in the garden is to be observed. The right hand group shows the stones near a veranda with a "shoe-removing" stone terminating the series. [Illustration: ARRANGEMENTS OF STEPPING-STONES] A third main type of garden, neither "Flat" nor "Hilly," to which we have before referred, properly speaking, is called the "Tea Garden." "Tea Gardens" are used for the performance of the "tea ceremony," and to explain the principle of its design would require a preliminary explanation of the intricacies of that ceremony itself, to which an entire volume might easily be devoted. A most cursory indication of the principal use and requirements must here suffice. "Tea Gardens" are divided into outer and inner inclosures separated by a rustic fence. The outermost inclosure contains a main entrance gate, and behind this there is often a small building in which it is sometimes the custom to change the clothing before attending the ceremony. The outer inclosure also contains a picturesque open arbor, called the "Waiting Shed," which plays an important part in tea ceremonies, for here the guests adjourn at stated intervals to allow of fresh preparations being made in the tiny tea room. The tea room is entered from the garden through a low door, about two and one-half feet square, placed in the outer wall and raised two feet from the ground, through which the guests are obliged to pass in a bending posture indicative of humility and respect. The rustic well forms an important feature of the inner garden, as do the principal lantern and the water-basin. A portion of the inner inclosure of a "Tea Garden" in the Tamagawa, or Winding-river style, showing the stream, bridge, lantern, water-basin, and an arrangement of stones, including the indispensable "Guardian Stone," is represented in the drawing on this page. All these separate features are connected, according to very rigid principles, by stepping-stones which make meandering routes between them, and form the skeleton of the whole design. [Illustration: INNER INCLOSURE OF A TEA GARDEN, "TAMAGAWA" STYLE] We can, perhaps, no better summarize this necessarily sketchy review of a complex subject, than by reproducing here, from Professor Conder's very elaborate monograph, "Landscape Gardening in Japan," (Tokio, 1893)--from which most of the information in this article has been derived, and to which the student of the subject is referred,--a figured model of an ordinary "Hill Garden" in the finished style. The numbers refer to the titles of the principal hills, stones, tree clumps and accessories, the positions of which are all relatively established by rule. [Illustration: PLATE XVII DAIMIO OF MITO'S GARDEN, HONJO] [Illustration: FIGURED MODEL OF AN ORDINARY HILL GARDEN IN THE FINISHED STYLE HILLS: 1, Near Mountain. 2, Companion Mountain. 3, Mountain Spur. 4, Near Hill. 5, Distant Peak. STONES: 1, Guardian Stone. 2, Cliff Stone. 3, Worshipping Stone. 4, View Stone. 5, Waiting Stone. 6, "Moon-Shadow" Stone. 7, Cave Stone. 8, Seat of Honor Stone. 9, Pedestal Stone. 10, Idling Stone. TREES: 1, Principal Tree. 2, "View Perfecting" Tree. 3, Tree of Solitude. 4, Cascade-Screening Tree. 5, Tree of Setting Sun. 6, Distancing Pine. 7, Stretching Pine. ACCESSORIES: A, Garden Well. B, Lantern. C, Garden Gate. D, Boarded Bridge. E, Plank Bridge. F, Stone Bridge. G, Water Basin. H, Lantern, I, Garden Shrine.] Hill 1 represents a mountain of considerable size in the middle distance, in front of which should be placed the cascade which feeds the lake; while Hills 2 and 3 are its companions, the depressions between them being planted with shrubs giving the idea of a sheltered dale. Hill 5 represents a distant peak in the perspective. The model shows ten important stones. The "Guardian Stone," 1, representing the dedication stone of the garden, occupies the most central position in the background, and in this case forms the flank of the cliff over which the cascade pours. The broad flat "Worshipping Stone," 3, indicating the place for worship, is placed in the foreground, or some open space. The "Moon-Shadow Stone," 6, occupies an important position in the distant hollow between two hills and in front of the distant peak, its name implying the sense of indistinctness and mystery attached to it. The term "tree" as used in the diagram often refers to an arrangement or clump of trees. The "Principal Tree," 1, is placed in the centre of the background, and is usually a large and striking specimen. The "View Perfecting Tree," 2, generally stands alone, and its shape is carefully trained to harmonize with the foreground accessories. The "Tree of Solitude," 3, is a group to afford a shady resting place. The "Tree of the Setting Sun," 5, is planted in the western part of the garden to intercept the direct rays of the sunset. The titles of the other features in the model will probably be found self explanatory. Errata. By an unfortunate misprint in the preceding issue of THE BROCHURE SERIES, Prof. A. D. F. Hamlin, author of the article on the "Ten Most Beautiful Buildings in the United States," was announced as Professor of Architecture in "Cornell" University, instead of in "Columbia" University. Mr. Hamlin's correct title is: "Adjunct-Professor of Architecture, Columbia University." In the same issue (page 15), it was stated that the terraces and approaches to the Capitol at Washington were the work of Mr. Edward Clark. This was an error: they were designed by Mr. Frederick Law Olmstead, and elaborated by Mr. Thomas Wisedell under Mr. Olmstead's supervision. [Illustration: PLATE XVIII DAIMIO'S GARDEN, KANAZAWA] Transcriber's Note: Small capitals have been rendered in full capitals. A number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note. 
34893	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Internet Archive. [Illustration: Book Cover] BEAUTIFUL GARDENS IN AMERICA BOOKS BY LOUISE SHELTON PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS * * * * * BEAUTIFUL GARDENS IN AMERICA. Illustrated. 4to _net_ $5.00 CONTINUOUS BLOOM IN AMERICA. Illustrated. 4to _net_ $2.00 THE SEASONS IN A FLOWER GARDEN. Illustrated. 12mo _net_ $1.00 [Illustration: PLATE I "Mariemont," Newport, R. I. Mrs. Thomas J. Emory _After an autochrome photograph by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] BEAUTIFUL GARDENS IN AMERICA BY LOUISE SHELTON [Illustration] SECOND EDITION NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1916 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS DEDICATED TO THE PRAISE OF THOSE AMERICAN MEN AND WOMEN, OF WHATSOEVER PERIOD, WHO HAVE PLANTED SO BEAUTIFULLY THAT THEIR GARDENS ARE AN INSPIRATION TO OTHERS IN ALL GENERATIONS IN GREEN OLD GARDENS Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight, Married to pleasure, and buried to pain, Hidden away amongst scenes like these Under the fans of the chestnut trees: Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fuller delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. In green old gardens hidden away From sight of revel, and sound of strife, Here have I leisure to breathe and move, And do my work in a nobler way; To sing my songs, and to say my say; To dream my dreams, and to love my love, To hold my faith and to live my life, Making the most of its shadowy day. --VIOLET FANE. CONTENTS PAGE FOREWORD xv CHAPTER I. THE GARDEN AND ITS MEANING 1 II. CLIMATE IN AMERICA 8 III. NEW ENGLAND 13 MAINE 14 NEW HAMPSHIRE AND VERMONT 27 MASSACHUSETTS 37 RHODE ISLAND 79 CONNECTICUT 89 IV. NEW YORK 99 LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK 127 V. NEW JERSEY 155 VI. PENNSYLVANIA 187 VII. MARYLAND 205 VIII. VIRGINIA 219 IX. SOUTH CAROLINA 235 X. GEORGIA AND FLORIDA 247 XI. TENNESSEE AND MISSOURI 255 XII. ILLINOIS AND INDIANA 265 XIII. OHIO 277 XIV. MICHIGAN AND WISCONSIN 287 XV. NEW MEXICO 299 XVI. CALIFORNIA 303 XVII. OREGON AND WASHINGTON 323 XVIII. ALASKA 337 XIX. VANCOUVER ISLAND 340 A FEW GARDEN GATES 347 ILLUSTRATIONS COLOR-PLATES PLATE I "MARIEMONT," NEWPORT, R. I. _Frontispiece_ II } III } "FAIRLAWN," LENOX, MASS. _Facing page_ 42 IV THE AUTHOR'S CHILDHOOD GARDEN 106 V SOUTHAMPTON, L. I. 130 VI "GLEN ALPINE," MORRISTOWN, N. J. 160 VII } VIII } ROLAND PARK, BALTIMORE, MD. 210 _Plates I, V, VII, and VIII were reproduced from photographs colored by Mrs. Herbert A. Raynes, the basis of which were autochrome photographs._ HALF-TONE PLATES PLATE 1 "KENARDEN LODGE," BAR HARBOR, MAINE 2 "BLAIR EYRIE," BAR HARBOR, MAINE 3 } 4 } "HAMILTON HOUSE," SOUTH BERWICK, MAINE 5 } 6 } 7 } 8 } CORNISH, N. H. 9 } 10 } 11 OLD BENNINGTON, VT. 12 } 13 } "WELD," BROOKLINE, MASS. 14 } 15 WELLESLEY, MASS. 16 "HOLM LEA," BROOKLINE, MASS. 17 } 18 } "FAIRLAWN," LENOX, MASS. 19 } 20 } 21 } "BELLEFONTAINE," LENOX, MASS. 22 } 23 "OVERLOCH," WENHAM, MASS. 24 "FERNBROOKE," LENOX, MASS. 25 "CHESTERWOOD," GLENDALE, MASS. 26 } 27 } "RIVERSIDE FARM," TYRINGHAM, MASS. 28 } 29 "NAUM KEAG," STOCKBRIDGE, MASS. 30 "BROOKSIDE," GREAT BARRINGTON, MASS. 31 "ROCK MAPLE FARM," HAMILTON, MASS. 32 BROOKLINE, MASS. 33 LONGFELLOW'S GARDEN, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 34 OLD WITCH HOUSE, SALEM, MASS. 35 "MARIEMONT," NEWPORT, R. I. 36 "THE ELMS," NEWPORT, R. I. 37 "VERNON COURT," NEWPORT, R. I. 38 "VILLASERRA," WARREN, R. I. 39 "WOODSIDE," HARTFORD, CONN. 40 "ELMWOOD," POMFRET, CONN. 41 POMFRET CENTRE, CONN. 42 "BRANFORD HOUSE," GROTON, CONN. 43 POMFRET CENTRE, CONN. 44 } AUBURN, N. Y. 45 } 46 SECTION OF A WILD GARDEN AT TUXEDO PARK, N. Y. 47 "WOODLAND," TUXEDO, N. Y. 48 "CRAGSWERTHE," TUXEDO, N. Y. 49 "BLITHEWOOD," BARRYTOWN-ON-HUDSON, N. Y. 50 } 51 } "WODENETHE," BEACON-ON-HUDSON, N. Y. 52 } 53 } THE AUTHOR'S CHILDHOOD GARDEN, NEWBURGH-ON-HUDSON, N. Y. 54 "ECHO LAWN," NEWBURGH-ON-HUDSON, N. Y. 55 } 56 } "MEADOWBURN," WARWICK, N. Y. 57 "RIDGELAND FARM," BEDFORD, N. Y. 58 SOUTHAMPTON, L. I. 59 } 60 } 61 } "THE ORCHARD," SOUTHAMPTON, L. I. 62 } 63 } 64 } "THE APPLETREES," SOUTHAMPTON, L. I. 65 SOUTHAMPTON, L. I. 66 } 67 } 68 } EAST HAMPTON, L. I. 69 } 70 "MANOR HOUSE," GLEN COVE, L. I. 71 CEDARHURST, L. I. 72 WESTBURY, L. I. 73 "MANOR HOUSE," GLEN COVE, L. I. 74 "SYLVESTER MANOR," SHELTER ISLAND 75 "CHERRYCROFT," MORRISTOWN, N. J. 76 "RIDGEWOOD HILL," MORRISTOWN, N. J. 77 MORRISTOWN, N. J. 78 } 79 } "BLAIRSDEN," PEAPACK, N. J. 80 } 81 "BROOKLAWN," SHORT HILLS, N. J. 82 } 83 } "DRUMTHWACKET," PRINCETON, N. J. 84 } 85 "ONUNDA," MADISON, N. J. 86 "GLEN ALPINE," MORRISTOWN, N. J. 87 "THORNTON," RUMSON, N. J. 88 HIGHLAND, N. J. 89 "ALLGATES," HAVERFORD, PA. 90 } ANDALUSIA, PA. 91 } 92 "EDGECOMBE," CHESTNUT HILL, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 93 "KRISHEIM," CHESTNUT HILL, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 94 } 95 } "WILLOW BANK," BRYN MAWR, PA. 96 "FANCY FIELD," CHESTNUT HILL, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 97 "TIMBERLINE," BRYN MAWR, PA. 98 "BALLYGARTH," CHESTNUT HILL, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 99 "HAMPTON," TOWSON, MD. 100 "EVERGREEN-ON-AVENUE," BALTIMORE, MD. 101 "CYLBURN HOUSE," CYLBURN, BALTIMORE CO., MD. 102 "INGLESIDE," CATONSVILLE, MD. 103 "THE BLIND," HAVRE DE GRACE, MD. 104 } 105 } MONTPELIER, VA. 106 } 107 } 108 } "ROSE HILL," GREENWOOD, VA. 109 } 110 "MEADOWBROOK MANOR," DREWRY'S BLUFF, VA. 111 RICHMOND, VA. 112 } "MAGNOLIA GARDEN," CHARLESTON, S. C. 113 } 114 } 115 } "PRESTON GARDEN," COLUMBIA, S. C. 116 } 117 } 118 } "GREEN COURT," AUGUSTA, GA. 119 } 120 TROPICAL GROWTH, PALM BEACH, FLA. 121 "ROSTREVOR," KNOXVILLE, TENN. 122 LONGVIEW, TENN. 123 "HAZELWOOD," KINLOCH, MO. 124 LAKE FOREST, ILL. 125 "HARDIN HALL," HUBBARD'S WOOD, ILL. 126 } "THE FARMS," MONTICELLO, ILL. 127 } 128 } THE ROCK GARDEN, "ENGLISHTON PARK," LEXINGTON, IND. 129 } 130 "GWINN," CLEVELAND, OHIO 131 } 132 } CLIFTON, CINCINNATI, OHIO 133 } 134 "SHADYSIDE," PAINESVILLE, OHIO 135 } 136 } "INDIAN HILL," MENTOR, OHIO 137 "ORCHARD HOUSE," ALMA, MICH. 138 "GARRA-TIGH," BAY CITY, MICH. 139 "FAIRLAWN," GROSSE POINTS SHORES, MICH. 140 } "HOUSE-IN-THE-WOODS," LAKE GENEVA, WIS. 141 } 142 LAS CRUCES, N. M. 143 } "KIMBERLY CREST," REDLANDS, CAL. 144 } 145 "GLENDESSARY," SANTA BARBARA, CAL. 146 } 147 } "PIRANHURST," SANTA BARBARA, CAL. 148 } 149 ROSS, CAL. 150 PASADENA, CAL. 151 } 152 } 153 } "CAÑON CREST PARK," REDLANDS, CAL. 154 } 155 TYPICAL GROWTH IN CALIFORNIA 156 } 157 } "THORNEWOOD," TACOMA, WASH. 158 } 159 } 160 } SEATTLE, WASH. 161 SECTION OF A ROSE HEDGE BORDERING AN AVENUE IN PORTLAND, ORE. 162 "ROSECREST," PORTLAND HEIGHTS, PORTLAND, ORE. 163 "CLIFF COTTAGE," ELK ROCK, PORTLAND, ORE. 164 "HIGH HATCH," RIVERWOOD, PORTLAND, ORE. 165 } 166 } VICTORIA CITY, VANCOUVER ISLAND, B. C. 167 LONGVIEW, TENN. 168 "KNOCK-MAE-CREE," WESTPORT, CONN. 169 } 170 } "HAMILTON HOUSE," SOUTH BERWICK, MAINE 171 } 172 } "GLEN ALPINE," MORRISTOWN, N. J. 173 EAST HAMPTON, L. I. 174 "GLENDESSARY," SANTA BARBARA, CAL. 175 CLIFTON, CINCINNATI, OHIO. 176 "THORNEWOOD," TACOMA, WASH. TITLE-PAGE: EAST HAMPTON, L. I., ALBERT HERTER, ESQ. From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals. "A garden was wonderful at night--a place of strange silences and yet stranger sound: trees darkly guarding mysterious paths that ran into caverns of darkness; the scents of flowers rising from damp earth heavy with dew; flowers that were weary with the dust and noise of the day and slept gently, gratefully, with their heads drooping to the soil, their petals closed by the tender hands of the spirits of the garden. The night sounds were strangely musical. Cries that were discordant in the day mingled now with the running of distant water, the last notes of some bird before it slept, the measured harmony of a far-away bell, the gentle rustle of some arrival in the thickets; the voice that could not be heard in the noisy chatter of the day rose softly now in a little song of the night and the dark trees and the silver firelight of the stars." --HUGH WALPOLE. FOREWORD Books and magazines written by and for American architects usually show in their illustrations fine imitations of lovely French, English, and Italian formalism and works of art in marble or other stone ornamenting the gardens of great mansions in this country. The object of this book is to present, more particularly, another type of garden, demonstrating the cultured American's love of beauty expressed through plant life rather than in stone; showing the development of his ideal in more original directions, when planning for himself the garden spot in which he is to live rather than when building wholly in imitation of some accepted type of classic art. With but few exceptions, these illustrations are of a class which might be called personal gardens. The attractive features in nearly every view speak so eloquently for themselves that there seems but little need of detailed verbal description of each beautiful spot. In covering all sections of the country, occasion is given for the observation and study of widely varying climatic conditions, the results of which the author has also sought to consider. Some difficulty has been felt in properly ascribing the ownership of a number of the gardens illustrated. As a rule, there is but one recognized director of the garden's welfare--rarely are two members of a household equally interested. While he is by custom acknowledged master of the house, it is oftener she who rules supreme among the flowers. Misnaming the real possessor might be a serious mistake; attributing the ownership to two is superfluous; the benefit, where any doubt existed, has been therefore given to the fair sex, with due apology for possible errors. LOUISE SHELTON. MORRISTOWN, N. J., October 28, 1915. BEAUTIFUL GARDENS IN AMERICA A GARDEN Come not with careless feet To tread my garden's unfrequented ways. No highroad this, no busy clanging street, No place of petty shows and fond displays. Here there are blossoms sweet That shrink and pine from inconsiderate gaze; And here the birds repeat Only to loving ears their truest lays. Hither I can retreat And drink of peace where peace unravished stays. Herein are streams of sorrow no man knows-- Herein a well of joy inviolate flows; Come not with careless feet To soil my garden's sanctuary ways. --ANONYMOUS. I THE GARDEN AND ITS MEANING A world without flowers! What would it be? Among those who know, such a question needs no answer--and we are not seeking a reply from the uninitiated who, for lack of understanding and sympathy, can but gaze at us with wondering pity, when our gardens cause us to overlook so much that to them means life. But is there any life more real than the life in the garden for those who actually take part in its creation and nurture it carefully week by week and year by year? If, owing to this absorbing occupation, we fail to give a full share of ourselves to some of the social avocations of the busy world are we to be pitied for getting "back to the soil" to which we belong? Man was put by the Creator "in the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it," and even after his forced departure therefrom he was bidden to "till the ground," and the reward seems great to us who know the meaning of the signs and wonders continually being revealed in the garden world. In seeking the simpler life which many are now craving, if luxuries are blessings that we could do without, must we count the flower garden a luxury? Not while its beauty is a joy in which others may share, nor when it helps to keep at home our interests which make the real home. There is a luxury that often induces the roaming spirit, and doubtless were there fewer motors there would be still more gardens and incidentally more home life. Yet notwithstanding this temptation to roam, gardens are now on the increase in almost every section of the United States. We have made a brave beginning of which to be justly proud. If only we could live in the world more as we live in the garden, what joy and contentment would be brought into the daily life! In the garden hurry and noise are needless, for perfect system can prevail where each plant, each labor has its own especial time, and where haste is a stranger, quiet reigns. It is in the stillness of the green world that we hear the sounds that make for peace and growth. In the garden, too, we labor faithfully, as best we know how, in following rules that promise good results. Then at a certain time we must stand aside, consciously trusting to the source of life to do the rest. With hopeful eyes we watch and wait, while the mysterious unseen spirit brings life into plant and tree. When something goes wrong, how sublime is our cheerful garden philosophy, as smiling we say: "Just wait until we try next year!" And patiently we try again, and ever patiently, sometimes again and yet again. Our unwritten motto is: "If others can, then why not we?" Even the man who "contends that God is not" shows all this wondrous reliance in the unseen force within his garden. With hands plunged into the cool earth we seem to bury in the magic soil all thoughts that jar till we almost feel ourselves a part of the garden plan; as much in harmony with it as the note of the bird, the soft splash of the fountain, the tints of the flowers and their perfumes. This idea is better expressed in four lines found inscribed on an old garden seat: "The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth." It is not a selfish life--the object in view is not a narrow one. How few would be content to create a beautiful garden if none could see! And our pleasure is not complete until others have shared its sweetness with us. The gardener is developing nature in the simplest and truest way, following the thought of the first great Architect and gladdening the hearts of men with the vision beautiful of the possibilities within plant life. In the flower garden the efforts are for upbuilding, for giving back some of the beauty intended in the Perfect Plan, too often defaced by man's heedlessness. Dating back their beginning some two hundred years in certain Southern States, numerous gardens, beautiful with age, tell the story of the ardent garden lovers of earlier days, who had to send abroad for their green treasures which they planted and carefully tended, hopefully planning for the future. Many such gardens with their choice shrubs and trees still stand as green memorials to those long-ago people who had time and money for this luxury. Since then the hardships following war have brought sad neglect to the beautiful places--the number we can never guess--many of which, however, are now being aroused to fresh life by new owners who appreciate the charm and dignity of an ancient home. Hidden away in some of the old plantations of the South, and scattered over the Eastern States, near Philadelphia, along the Hudson River, and in parts of Massachusetts, the best of the older gardens are found. Beautiful, too, while often beyond reach of the camera, are many of the more modern creations so skilfully and lovingly fashioned by men and women of later generations. It is impossible to do justice in photography to some of them when certain conditions prevent the camera from being placed at a range favorable to getting a view of the larger portions in one photograph. Sometimes they are composed of three or four connecting sections, each bringing a surprised delight to the visitor passing from one to the other, but such an arrangement cannot be satisfactorily portrayed in a picture. One strange reason why some American gardens are not photographed for the public is that occasionally people are found who will not share their blessings with others less fortunate; who jealously keep in seclusion all the wealth of nature's sweetness contained in their garden plot. After all, is not the delight which belongs to a garden but a bit of borrowed glory from the Creator of sunlight, and of the kingdom of flowers? If a garden is worthy of showing to our intimates, can we close it to the stranger who may need even more to breathe inspiration from its peace and loveliness? The foreign custom of opening the fine places to the public on stated days is one that we should freely emulate. And to those who may not come to the gardens, what a boon is photography, especially in color, placing in our very hands the beauty that we crave! The views contained within this book show gardens that were planned, with but few exceptions, by their owners, earnestly laboring to express their sense of the beautiful in these their outdoor homes. And so great is the individuality evinced in most of them that there are hardly two gardens that resemble one another; for the differences in gardens are as many as the endless number of varying characters written in the faces of men. Both are stamped with the spirit behind them. In visiting gardens it is not difficult to distinguish between the ones fashioned by "love's labor" and those made by the practical gardener. More and more we are getting away from the cold, stiff planting of Canna, Coleus, and Salvia. Few of us can tolerate the impression of newness and rigidity in the garden, and as Father Time cannot help us fast enough we try to emulate him by stamping his mark of mellowness in innumerable ways upon the youthful garden. Then Mother Earth is consulted as to her unrivalled way for the grouping of her flower family, and she shows us the close company they keep--hand in hand over the whole meadow--nothing stands quivering alone, grasses and plants blending to fill all spaces. Then above, in the rainbow, we learn the harmony for our color scheme, and unto no nation on earth need we apply for the latest theories dealing with these subjects for the beautifying of our gardens. The more of the nature scheme we bring into them the greater satisfaction will they give. We should build the garden with a setting of fine trees grouped upon the outskirts, otherwise it will seem as incomplete as a portrait without a frame. Half of the charm attached to the beautiful old gardens of Europe lies in the richness of their backgrounds of stately hedges and trees. If comparisons were to be made between such views as those shown in this book and the pictures of English gardens, for instance, the differences would not in every case be favorable to England, although it must be admitted that age has given a dignity and grandeur to many English gardens that could hardly be surpassed. Time, doubtless, will add this dignity to our gardens, but can we not feel that we have already equalled some of the smaller English gardens when we consider the poetical beauty found in most of these illustrations? Unfortunately, except in a few localities, our climate does not encourage the perfect development of the choicest of the evergreen hedge-plants, and yet with time we can produce some moderately fine effects in hedges. We may not hope soon to rival the best of the foreign gardens that have been maturing through generations of continuous care. Favored not only by climate but by riches unknown to the early landowners of our States, the best of the old gardens across the sea stand for the combined dreams of the many minds which gradually evolved them, the loving handiwork of innumerable patient toilers who have successively ministered to them. Just as there are gardens peculiar to other nations, Dutch, French, Italian, etc., might we not give serious consideration to evolving some day a type peculiarly American, inasmuch as it would embody the poetic and artistic sense of our country? Such a result might be attained even should we claim the privilege of our individual liberty, to plant, each one for the expression of his own soul, thus keeping our gardens distinctly variable and original in type, and so ultimately national. II CLIMATE IN AMERICA Few subjects are more bewildering than that of climate in the United States, and its effect on gardens in different sections is an ever interesting study. Replying to the question as to which locality in the East might be said to have the longest continued flowering period, an expert in the Agricultural Department writes: "The question of plant life in relation to climate is a very large one and one about which it is hard to generalize without close study in the various parts of the country. Some little work along these lines is being attempted, but as yet we have been unable to make any report upon it." Correspondence with gardeners in the various States has furnished the brief data given in connection with the following chapters, showing that the local conditions as affecting garden culture are much more encouraging in some places than in others. Not only are there the matters of latitude and altitude to be considered, but often quite as important is the influence of the Gulf Stream in the Atlantic or of the Japan Current in the Pacific Ocean. Again, there is the moist climate by the sea, or the quality of soil, the periodic torrential rainfall of one section, and elsewhere the long months of drought. Generally speaking, our country is, in most parts, a land of sunshine, with usually sufficient rain and moisture to benefit plant life, and while we grumble at our sudden changes in temperature, how few of us realize the blessing of an abundant sunshine pervading the "great outdoors" and incidentally the gardens! Nowhere do flowers grow more luxuriantly, in greater variety, or through a season more prolonged than on the coasts of Oregon, Washington, and California,--soil, moisture, and temperature combining to make gardening a simpler task than it is elsewhere. The shore country of Southern California is a perpetual garden, with a climate almost unrivalled for plants and for humans. North of San Francisco the near approach of the Japan Current produces a climate quite similar to that of England, and with the exception of possibly two months (and even then an occasional Rose may bloom) flowers are found all the year round. This favored section of the Northwest nevertheless is not visited with as much sunshine as is found elsewhere, but its gardens blossom with little assistance save from the frequent rainfall, more welcome to plants than to men. In Kansas and the other flat and fertile States of the Middle West the garden period, on account of the long, dry summers, is usually limited to the weeks from late March to late June. In the more northern temperature of the lake region gardens which flourish all summer are numerous. The Atlantic States have a shorter blooming season than those on the Pacific coast. Throughout the South, east of New Mexico, the warm weather season is as prolonged as on the Pacific coast, and yet in the Southern States garden bloom is checked half-way through the summer by excessive heat and drought (except in the favored mountainous localities), which at least interrupt the continuous succession of flowers. For this reason gardening in the South except in spring, or in high altitudes, is generally discouraged. Although not stated as an indisputable fact, scientifically, we are inclined to believe that the seacoast section of the Maryland peninsula is the locality in the East especially favorable to the most prolonged season of bloom. Lying between sea and bay, this particular district in the latitude for early spring and late frost enjoys also the benefit of surrounding waters, escaping thereby the parching summer climate from which gardens of the interior suffer, to the west and south and to the north, almost as far as Philadelphia. In Maine conditions are different; April and May gardens are conspicuously absent. The flower season generally begins in mid-June and does not much exceed three months, but in that period the bloom is exceptionally luxuriant. The season is necessarily a short one, as it is throughout this latitude westward to Oregon, where after reaching the Coast or Cascade Range there is a change and the climate becomes more like that of England than Maine. Along the Atlantic coast from Maine to New Jersey, where the climate is ideal for flowers, the greatest proportion of Eastern gardens may be found, on the shore and inland as well. So much for the general climatic effects upon flowers of the more populous districts of our vast country. A few lines will suffice to treat the climate question in connection with hedge-plants. While the summer climate in the Southern States has not generally a salutary effect upon the flowers, yet it has favored the best development of Boxwood, Holly, and certain other choice shrubs and trees, which do not thrive well north of Philadelphia. Fine specimens of Boxwood are rare sights in New England, where the more severe winters have from time to time destroyed the top growth. Many old New England gardens show the characteristic Box-edged path, but the shrub is usually not over two feet high, and is likely to remain so unless eventually the winter climate should moderate. Boxwood is seen on the Pacific coast, north of San Francisco, but not to the south, where Cypress is popular. There is little Boxwood in the latitude of New York City, except for edgings, where for tall hedges Privet, Arbor-Vitæ, Hemlock, and Spruce are probably the most reliable evergreens. Arbor-Vitæ is unlikely to live longer than seventy years. Although all of our States are not represented in this volume, these views are taken so generally from almost every section that the climatic conditions describing one State may usually stand as well at least for the States immediately adjoining. The only section of the Union omitted is that part through which run the Rocky Mountains. As a rule, this part of the country is not in its nature open to the cultivation of formal gardens, although its wild flora is remarkable enough to deserve special treatment. In the brief chapters to follow there will be given more detail relating to climate, in order that we fellow gardeners in all parts of the Union may know something more about one another's garden program, our several problems, and our privileges in this outdoor life that we lead. III NEW ENGLAND With dreams of the English gardens ever before them, our Pilgrim fathers and mothers brought flower and vegetable seeds to the new land, and the earliest entries in old Plymouth records contain mention of "garden plotes."[1] John Josselyn, fifty years later, wrote a book called "New England Rarities Discovered," including a list of plants originally brought from old England, mentioning those suitable or not for this climate, and showing that our ancestors had lost no time in planting not only vegetables for the benefit of their bodies but flowers as well for the cheer of their souls. The New England States naturally have the largest representation in this book, owing to the fact that the climate of numerous Western and Southern States causes many of the inhabitants to find summer homes near the North Atlantic seaboard. It is not that the New Englander is a more ardent gardener, but rather that ardent gardeners from elsewhere are tempted by the soil and climate to join the Easterners in creating these flower "plotes," which beautify hundreds of hamlets in this section. On the coast particularly flowers grow most luxuriantly, even within a few hundred yards of the surf, where snug gardens protected by windbreak hedges blossom as serenely as in an inland meadow. Not long ago most people believed that gardening or gardens near the sea were an impossibility; but when they realized the hardiness of certain dense shrubs that make perfect hedges and windbreaks, gardens on the shore sprang rapidly into existence, and we of the inland are apt to envy nature's partiality to seaside flowers. MAINE At Bar Harbor on the island of Mount Desert, Maine, as in other places of this latitude, the season, of course, begins later and ends sooner than near New York City. The flowering period is from five to six weeks shorter at Bar Harbor. However, the wonderful summer climate somewhat atones for this briefer season, and the gardens of Maine can boast of unusual luxuriance, in richness of color and size of plants, with but little heat or prolonged drought to affect their best development. The hardier seeds sown in the open will germinate in mid-May; tender annuals in June; the plants of tender annuals go out soon after June 10. Daffodils appear about May 15, followed by late Tulips; German Iris appears in the week of June 10; Sweet William and Roses in early July; Delphinium in mid-July, and Hollyhocks about July 28. Late Phlox is at its best by mid-August. Thus the plants beginning to bloom near New York City in May and early June do not, on account of the colder spring, appear at Bar Harbor for several weeks to come, when they unite their bloom with the flowers of a later period. The slow-coming spring retards earlier bloom, but has less effect on that of midsummer. The summer residents owning gardens in Maine rarely arrive much before the last of June, and consequently such early bloomers as Tulips, etc., are not seen as often as in the milder climates. In this northern State frost usually destroys the garden by September 15. Not only is it possible to grow all the favorite flowers along the shore, but even on the islands lying off the coast of Maine there are innumerable little gardens, such as those at Isleborough, which revel in the moist sea climate of midsummer and blossom most satisfactorily until frost. At this point it is interesting to contrast the climate of the North Atlantic section with the region directly across the continent along the Pacific coast, where at Vancouver's Island, for instance, plant life enjoys a climate similar to that of England, with a growing season quite as prolonged. There are beautiful gardens at Bar Harbor, on the estates along the shore as well as farther inland. Most of them, screened by fine growths of trees and shrubbery from view of the highway, are equally well protected from sea-winds, blooming luxuriantly in spite of the fact that not very long ago the best authorities believed that gardens on this shore could never prosper. Two of the most noted at Mount Desert are shown in the following pages. At Kenarden Lodge the garden in the clear atmosphere of this northern climate is most beautiful in form and coloring, and its background of distant hills combines to intensify the charm of this famous place, which is in bloom all summer. The centre beds are filled with annuals in prevailing colors of pink, blue, and white, noticeably Snapdragon, Ageratum, Sweet Alyssum, pink Geranium, and Begonia. Planted in masses, these and other dependable annuals blossom as long as needed. The broad green sod paths act as a setting to the delicate hues covering the beds. The perennials are banked against the vine-covered walls. The Blair Eyrie garden on the High Brook Road is equally inviting and contains many other attractive features beyond the limits of this restricted view. Peacefully retired behind its boundaries of trimmed hedge and dense woodland, it must always delight the flower lover. Perennials abound with a good supply of enlivening annuals. Its surroundings of evergreen trees are in strong contrast to the brilliant tones of Phlox, Lilies, Hydrangeas, and Hollyhocks, and this garden as seen from an upper terrace is a blaze of lovely color framed in green. In southern Maine the garden at Hamilton House has no rival in that section of New England. The hand of an artist has wrought a perfect scheme delightfully in accord with an ideal environment; but pictures cannot do it justice. Within the grassy court of the main garden the several small open beds are filled with groups of annuals. The rear beds contain tall-growing perennials mixed with some annuals. There are weeks when the garden is all pink, and again all blue and white. It is surrounded on three sides with most artistic pergolas, from one side of which the view down the Piscataqua River is a picturesque feature. Stone steps on another side lead to an upper garden filled with bloom surrounding a quaint and ancient little building kept as a studio. In isolation, simplicity, and ripeness the atmosphere of the whole place breathes of olden days, and might well be taken as a model for a perfect American garden. Its gates may be seen in a later section. [Illustration: PLATE 1 "Kenarden Lodge," Mrs. John S. Kennedy, Bar Harbor, Maine] [Illustration: PLATE 2 "Blair Eyrie," Bar Harbor, Maine Garden of the late D. C. Blair, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 3 "Hamilton House," South Berwick, Maine. Mrs. George S. Tyson] [Illustration: PLATE 4 End of pergola] [Illustration: PLATE 5 Garden looking east "Hamilton House," South Berwick, Maine. Mrs. George S. Tyson] NEW HAMPSHIRE AND VERMONT Side by side, these twin States have much in common--climate, mountains, and old historical associations included. Owing to the short, cool summers of this latitude and altitude, there may be less attention given to flowers than in other parts of New England. But the few illustrations in the following pages are fine evidences of garden art, at least in the region of Cornish, the abode of artists, and where gardens are plentiful. The season opens about four weeks later than near New York City, and in early September frost lays waste the splendid bloom while still in its prime. Although flowers are slow in appearing, a perfection of growth later makes up for lost time. In fact, climatic conditions are so favorable to summer plants that, once started, the garden tasks are lighter than in warmer climates, where drought and pests are more prevalent. Possibly the most famous of Cornish gardens is that of Charles A. Platt, Esq., whose beautiful gardens in several States are numerous and noted. His own hillside place is a labyrinth of flowers, admirably suiting the environment, spacious and dignified in its rich simplicity. Perfectly in accord also with the atmosphere of this mountain country is the lovely garden of Stephen Parrish, Esq., delightfully unique and suggesting a little English garden. This enclosure of flowers is but a section of a broader plan where pool, grass, and trees are pleasant factors. Mrs. Hyde's garden is a mass of bloom composed chiefly of the longest-lived annuals and giving a charming color effect to this picturesque spot. The best gardens of Vermont, with its still greater area of uplands, are probably those in and around Manchester and Bennington. They are usually of the simplest character, and lovely under the personal care of devoted owners. One worthy of special attention is seen in the view of Longmeadow garden, which is an example of the great value of trees as a background, and a strong argument in their behalf. As a gem needs a setting, so the flowers, in even the most modest planting, are doubly fair when framed in luxuriant green. [Illustration: PLATE 6 Cornish, N. H. Charles A. Platt, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 7 Cornish, N. H. Charles A. Platt, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 8 Cornish, N. H. Mrs. George Rublee _From photographs by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 9 Cornish, N. H. Stephen Parrish, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 10 Cornish, N. H. Mrs. William H. Hyde _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 11 Old Bennington, Vt. Mrs. James A. Eddy] MASSACHUSETTS Probably no other section of the Union contains as many gardens, old and new, as does this fertile State, combining the advantages natural to the altitude of the beautiful Berkshires with the favorable climate of the coast. People representing nearly every State help to form the summer colonies of New England, more especially in Massachusetts. Everywhere the luxuriance of bloom is very marked and most noticeable on the coast, where all plants, especially certain less long-lived annuals like Poppies, Salpiglossis, and Mallows, reach their limit of perfection and continue at their best for an unusual period. In the latitude of Boston the season starts two weeks later than near New York City, and the gardens, beginning in the German Iris period, open about the fifth of June. The Sweet William and its contemporaries follow by late June; the Delphinium period is early July; Hollyhocks come about July 20. Tender annuals can be safely planted out soon after June 1. The garden season in the hill country opens a few days later than at Boston, and in the Berkshires the frost is apt to destroy the garden before September 20. Where the thermometer may drop occasionally to twenty degrees below zero, ample winter covering is necessary, and snow adds its still better protection to the plants during most of the winter months. The average summer heat is not excessive and, although droughts must sometimes be reckoned with, the water supply is generally sufficient. It would be a serious matter to attempt to name the best gardens in this State, for who could judge where such an infinite variety exists? At least some of the best examples in photography can be given, although each view but hints at the fuller beauty to be found in the garden itself. Of the many wonderful gardens in Massachusetts possibly the most remarkable of all is Weld, in Brookline, which is known to gardeners far and wide. There is nothing in America more extensive and more richly planted. The numerous beds are filled with bloom for many weeks, and each bed contains a massing of one variety, whether perennials or annuals, which, when it has finished flowering, is replaced by something of another period. The French features in the garden are prominent and the planting may be considered American in some respects--altogether a most pleasant combination. Of a distinctly opposite type but equally delightful is Holm Lea, near Brookline, and a score of photographs would be necessary to depict this place of flowering shrubs and perennial bloom bordering the winding grass paths leading from one lovely spot to another. An extremely interesting and unusual type in America is the stately green garden at Wellesley, at this time without a rival in its particular style of planting. Because of its frequent appearance in various magazines of the country it is too well known to need further description. Of still another class and very beautiful is one of the most noted gardens in the Berkshires planned entirely by the owner of Fairlawn, Lenox. It is a series of formal gardens, in coloring and setting most perfectly devised. But how useless a photographic description when applied to a combination of gardens spread over one or two acres! Several pools and many old shade-trees play an important part, and its charm is still more enhanced by the wide view of the distant hills fitting so perfectly into the garden scheme. Three fine illustrations of Bellefontaine but feebly suggest the beauty of a place made of splendid gardens, pools, and temple, long shaded grass walks lined with statuary and other features of Roman art, blending with the natural attractions of this estate. Gardens, lawns, and ponds have the rich woodlands as background, the hedges and shrubs are developed maturely, and everywhere there are charming effects in "green life." Most of this work, it is interesting to add, has been accomplished under the direction of the owner. Picturesque indeed are other Lenox gardens, including White Lodge. The latter place is noted for its little white garden enclosed in a tall green hedge, and the main garden, especially in June and August, contains a delicious color scheme. Broad grass steps are another feature of the place. Views were not obtainable in time for this volume. At Fernbrooke is found the garden of an artist and sculptor, a study in color and in garden design most artistically planned, but rambling enough to prevent a connected view in photography. Golden Italian gourds pendent from the pergolas; standard currant bushes bordering a path and covered with red berries as late as September; dwarf fruit trees too, used decoratively, are among the happy points of interest. The scheme of the garden of a famous sculptor at Chesterwood, in Glendale, is not as dependent on flowers as on the well-considered adjustment of garden equipment to the natural beauty of the environment. Sunshine mingling with the shadows of the spreading trees plays its part by giving life and color in changeful tones to the old stone seat and fountain. The vine-covered arch frames a view of the flower-bordered path which fades away into a woodland, and these with other sights gladsome to lovers of such art have given Chesterwood its place in the ranks of beautiful gardens. At Riverside Farm, overhanging the beautiful Tyringham Valley, and possessing possibly the most wonderful of all Berkshire views, is the dainty garden shown in the accompanying illustrations. It is the work of an artist, and truly a place of delight. The garden nestles to the hillside, enclosed in a low stone wall. On one side the sloping hill down which winding rough stone steps descend to the garden; on another side a rustic pergola and pool; the third side a line of old apple trees overhanging the wall; the fourth side contains the simple entrance, and beyond the boundaries on all three sides--the wonderful view. At Naumkeag, Stockbridge, the formal garden full of bloom, which is part of a larger plan, has a wide-spread reputation. It is especially noted for its battlement-cut hedge, and has as an accessory a splendid landscape background, so common to the Berkshires and so desirable to the garden beautiful. "Naumkeag" is the Indian name for Salem, meaning "Haven of Rest." Recently completed at Great Barrington, the spacious garden at Brookside is the best piece of Italian work in this section. The accompanying illustration gives but a faint idea of its size, its flowers, and its many other fine points. The two pictures illustrating the garden at Overloch, Wenham, and at Rock Maple Farm, Hamilton, are still other good examples of the variety and charm of the flower planting of this coast State. Both of these views are unique, and in fact how seldom do we find sameness in gardens! Mr. Longfellow's place at Cambridge, Doctor Weld's at Brookline, and The Witch's Place at Salem are typical of New England--the paths all edged with Box, which shrub, on account of frost blights, has never attained great height. These gardens are just simple, lovable little places filled with shadows and sunshine, some flowers, and the good scent of Box, which latter always seems so especially essential to old gardens. FOOTNOTES: [1] Quoted from "Old Time Gardens," by Alice Morse Earle. [Illustration: PLATE II "Fairlawn"] [Illustration: PLATE III "Fairlawn," Lenox, Mass. Miss Kneeland _From autochrome photographs_] [Illustration: PLATE 12 "Weld," Brookline, Mass. Mrs. Larz Anderson _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 13 "Weld," Brookline, Mass. Mrs. Larz Anderson _From a photograph by Thomas Marr and Son_] [Illustration: PLATE 14 "Weld," Brookline, Mass. Mrs. Larz Anderson _From a photograph by Thomas Marr and Son_] [Illustration: PLATE 15 Wellesley, Mass. H. H. Hunnewell, Esq. _From a photograph by Wurts Bros._] [Illustration: PLATE 16 "Holm Lea," Brookline, Mass. Professor C. S. Sargent _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 17 "Fairlawn," Lenox, Mass. Miss Kneeland _From a photograph by William Radford_] [Illustration: PLATE 18] [Illustration: PLATE 19 "Fairlawn," Lenox, Mass. Miss Kneeland _From photographs by William Radford_] [Illustration: PLATE 20 "Bellefontaine," Lenox, Mass. Giraud Foster, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 21 "Bellefontaine," Lenox, Mass. Giraud Foster, Esq. _From a photograph, copyright, by the Detroit Publishing Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 22 "Bellefontaine," Lenox, Mass. Giraud Foster, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 23 "Overloch," Wenham, Mass. J. A. Burnham, Esq. _From a photograph by Miss M. H. Northend_] [Illustration: PLATE 24 "Fernbrooke," Lenox, Mass. Thomas Shields Clark, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 25 "Chesterwood," Glendale, Mass. Daniel Chester French, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 26 "Riverside Farm," Tyringham, Mass. Mrs. Banyer Clarkson] [Illustration: PLATE 27 "Riverside Farm," Tyringham, Mass. Mrs. Banyer Clarkson _From photographs by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 28 "Riverside Farm," Tyringham, Mass. Mrs. Banyer Clarkson _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 29 "Naum Keag," Stockbridge, Mass. Joseph H. Choate, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 30 "Brookside," Great Barrington, Mass. Mrs. H. Hall Walker _From a photograph lent by Ferruccio Vitali_] [Illustration: PLATE 31 "Rock Maple Farm," Hamilton, Mass. George von L. Meyer, Esq. _From a photograph by Miss M. H. Northend_] [Illustration: PLATE 32 Brookline, Mass. Doctor Stephen Weld _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 33 Longfellow's Garden, Cambridge, Mass. _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 34 Old Witch House, Salem, Mass. _From a photograph by G. A. Spence_] RHODE ISLAND Limited space permits but a suggestion of the various types of planting along the Atlantic coast, which promises to become almost a continuous garden by the sea from New Jersey to Maine. Rhode Island contains some of the most magnificent places in the country, the majority of them situated near bay or sea, where they thrive in congenial environment. The quality of the climate as it affects plant life will be easily realized after reading of the climatic conditions of Massachusetts as well as of those to the south, on Long Island, for instance. The older gardens are found in the vicinity of Providence, while at Narragansett and Newport those of a later period abound. Newport by the sea, more famous than any other American summer resort, naturally possesses the greatest number of gardens on an elaborate scale. The coast at this point is somewhat sheltered, the air is mild, and there is sea moisture so beneficial to flowers. Windbreaks of hedges or walls are used where the winds blow strong off the water. Lovely and lovingly planned is the garden at Mariemont, a poetical spot, overflowing with color and sunshine, yet with shadowy retreats, and the stillness that belongs to an enclosure of grass paths. It might be taken for a bit of foreign garden from any part of the world, and possesses a quality of beauty of which one could never tire. The long, broad path with its brilliant border and distant vista is the central division of a charming plan.[2] Few estates in America are as imposing and as suggestive of the grandeur of an Italian or English country-seat as The Elms, and it is probably among the oldest of Newport's famous places. The illustration is limited to a narrow view of this great, green formal garden in some sections of which flowers are included in rich profusion. Probably no place at Newport is more noted for its beauty than Vernon Court, and, while necessity forces the omission of pictures showing many of its most elaborate features, a view of the stately formal garden is a welcome addition to this collection which aims to present a variety in types of planting in a few large formal gardens, as well as in those which are smaller and more personal. Vernon Court is not a new garden; it is unspoiled by garish accessories, and to the lover of the garden majestic it represents a perfect type. At Warren, near Providence, the place at Villaserra is delightfully located, sloping to a bay. Here is one of the favored gardens where old trees take an important part; in fact, of such consequence are they that the garden was undoubtedly made to the scheme of the trees and the water beyond--a beautiful sanctuary of blossoms and green life, shut in from the discord of the outside world. [Illustration: PLATE 35 "Mariemont," Newport, R. I. Mrs. Thomas J. Emory _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 36 "The Elms," Newport, R. I. Edward J. Berwind, Esq. _From a photograph, copyright by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 37 "Vernon Court," Newport, R. I. Mrs. Richard Gambrill _From a photograph by Alman & Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 38 "Villaserra," Warren, R. I. Reverend Joseph Hutcheson _From a photograph lent by C. A. Platt, Esq._] CONNECTICUT Connecticut gardens are many, both inland and along the shores of the Sound. Those of the hilly western section have the advantage of a somewhat cooler altitude. Otherwise it is unnecessary to give further details as to climatic conditions,[3] as the northern boundary is about a hundred miles distant from northern New Jersey and the temperatures differ but little, although of course every hundred miles northward makes gardening a somewhat simpler proposition, because of slightly cooler conditions as well as a shortened flower season. In a reputed true story of the long-ago settlement of Old Saybrook there is mention of a woman's flower-garden, doubtless the earliest on Long Island Sound. Here the sheltered inlets and bays must have seemed a welcome haven to our Pilgrim fathers from the wind-swept coast of Plymouth, whence they had wandered, probably seeking fertile farmland. The gardens of this State, with some notable exceptions, are mainly those of a simpler type, made and tended by their owners, who living in them, will continue to beautify them more and more as time goes on. These unpretentious creations of flower lovers often show originality not always found in gardens of a more formal design, and might be considered typically American. Following the idea of simplicity, the first two illustrations of this chapter portray the "lovesome spot," where flowers predominate, with nothing to recall the splendor of other lands. A place for the harboring of flowers for the sake of the flowers, and this was surely the thought that brooded over the first New England gardens planted in the early half of the seventeenth century, when American gardens had their beginning. The glimpse through the arched gateway of the garden at Knock-Mae-Cree--in old Irish, Hill of My Heart--(Plate 168), and the curtailed view of the flowery planting in the Woodside garden stimulate a longing further to penetrate into these lovely sanctums. The garden at Elmwood is partly illustrated in the accompanying picture--it is further gracefully adorned with pergola and pool. Liberally designed without being elaborate, it has a charm that is all its own. Of quite another character is the perfect formal garden at Pomfret Center, appealing to the garden lover for its surpassing beauty in flower bloom, enhanced by the graceful architectural lines of the buildings surrounding the enclosure, and giving it the sense of complete privacy. Still another type of garden seen occasionally in America is that at Branford House, a magnificent estate at Groton near New London, and one of the famous places of that popular summer resort. This stately garden suggests some of the foreign gardens familiar to us through travel and books. FOOTNOTES: [2] See also the frontispiece. [3] These climatic conditions are explained in New Jersey chapter. [Illustration: PLATE 39 "Woodside," Hartford, Conn. Walter L. Goodwin, Esq. _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 40 "Elmwood," Pomfret, Conn. Vinton Freedley, Esq. _From a photograph by Miss E. M. Boult_] [Illustration: PLATE 41 Pomfret Centre, Conn. Mrs. Randolph M. Clark _From a photograph by Miss E. M. Boult_] [Illustration: PLATE 42 "Branford House," Groton, Conn. Morton F. Plant, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 43 Pomfret Centre, Conn. Mrs. Randolph M. Clark _From a photograph by Miss E. M. Boult_] IV NEW YORK There are gardens, old and new, around the many wealthy cities of this great State, through the upper section, near Buffalo, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, etc., as well as to the south. It must suffice to give a few of the most picturesque views obtainable, almost all of which belong to places within one hundred miles of New York City. The garden at Auburn offers a vision of flowers in glorious profusion, combined with perfect order, which latter condition is not always easily attainable when plants are allowed a certain amount of freedom. The location of this garden, in western New York not far from Lake Ontario, is in about the latitude of northern Massachusetts--a climate congenial to flowers. A particular type of garden often predominates in some localities on account of the conformation of the land; as, for instance, in a mountainous section like Tuxedo Park, where the places are scattered over hilly woodland country, many of the gardens naturally develop into those of terraces, or else, ideal opportunities have created the rambling wild garden with winding paths, shaded pools, ferns and flowers. A glimpse of one of this kind is to be had in an accompanying illustration--an exquisite bit of semi-cultivated wildness that moves one to wish to see beyond the picture's limits. Among its formal gardens, Tuxedo at present has nothing more imposing than the one at Woodland. The wall-beds contain perennials in mass against the vine-clad background, and the central fountain is framed in broad beds of Roses, in bush and standard form. This garden's stately effects are enhanced by the richly developed forms of clipped evergreens in Boxwood and various Retinosporas, to all of which age, as must ever be the case, lends force and dignity. The Cragswerthe garden, a spacious plan on three connecting terraces, charmingly exemplifies the results obtainable by the exercise of good taste upon desirable opportunities. Each terrace illustrates, in harmony with the whole, a special beauty of its own. The hill gardens usually have also the advantage of a landscape background, as a rule a pleasant feature also in the Mount Kisco region of Westchester County, with its numerous hilltop homes. A garden with a view possesses a setting all its own; one that can hardly be imitated in that particular landscape at least, varying under the changing clouds, and therefore never monotonous. Such also is the opportunity in many Hudson River places, and only those who have lived in the highlands by this most beautiful of American rivers know the charm of the mountainsides, with their deep ravines and river vistas. There is space for but a few of the river gardens in these limited pages. The one at Blithewood, Barrytown-on-Hudson, is a charming example of a more modern garden, beautifully located and planted especially for May, June, and September. A vine-covered brick wall surrounds it on three sides, and a terra-cotta balustrade is the boundary on the river side. Chinese Junipers, not supposedly very hardy, are, however, the well-grown, clipped evergreens in sight. Barrytown is about a hundred miles from New York. Up on the Beacon Mountain the Wodenethe gardens were begun about seventy-five years ago, remaining ever since in the same family, and always celebrated for their beauty, due doubtless to the devoted and skilful care continuously given them. Trees, shrubs, and vines are rich in maturity; the impress of Father Time has so kindly marked the place, that of the older gardens Wodenethe is probably the finest on the Hudson. Not far away there was once another garden. Possibly there is nothing fairer than the dearest memories of childhood--sometimes doubtless wonderfully interwoven with the gossamer-like stuff of which air-castles are made--and so it is with deep satisfaction that the author can dwell upon views of an old garden relying on something more real than semi-dreams. To be able to duplicate this happy place for some other fortunate children would be a joy indeed, and some day the opportunity may be realized while the dream still lives. Nearly three acres of land might be required to contain the broad beds bordered with peach, plum, pear trees and shrubs, and edged with flowers--the great centre spaces filled with vegetables or small fruits. The outer court of this garden, on three sides, was formed by two rows of arching apple trees, as shown in an accompanying illustration. The fourth side was a lane running between an evergreen hedge and a line of Poplar and nut trees. The outer walks were broad, the inner intersecting paths were narrower; the tall planting in the various beds prevented a view from one path to another, and this was half of the garden's fascination to the children who played there in the games of make-believe. Always there was something unexpected awaiting them around the corner. Blissful the chance to become suddenly lost in grape vines, corn, or dense shrubbery when the world seemed to consist of just tree-tops, sunlight, flowers, fruits, and birds! What a contrast to the life of the average fortune-favored child of the present period! Echo Lawn is another lovely place near the river, as old, too, as Wodenethe, extensive in acres, abounding in splendid trees, and full of a beauty and charm peculiarly characteristic of the old places on the Hudson. The gardens, although of a later-date creation, are admirably fitted to the surroundings, and with pools, wall basins, and flower planting, hardly discernible in the illustration, are a rich addition to the noted river places. Twenty miles to the west of the Hudson River is Meadowburn Farm--famous through its owner, the author of "Hardy Garden" books. Two photographs, not hitherto published, must alone represent the acres of bloom on this interesting place. In describing it, eight gardens must be considered rather than _the_ garden. The Evergreen Garden (shown here), the May Flowering Hillside, the Lily and Iris Garden, the Pool Garden, the Perennial Garden, the Cedar Walk, the Vegetable Garden, bordered with flowers, and the Rose Garden. A rare treat for garden lovers who visit there by special arrangement. At Ridgeland Farm, in Westchester County, the owner has shown that the smallest garden possible when fitted to artistic surroundings and filled with harmonious bloom can, as a garden and as a picture, satisfy our craving for the beautiful quite as completely as a subject on a much larger scale. This fair little plot, with its brick paths and gay blossoms, continues in bloom for several months, which, in spite of narrow beds, is always possible in a well-planned and carefully tended garden. New York includes within its borders the climate of all the New England States, and, besides, the atmosphere of its lake shores and the milder sea climate of New York City and Long Island. Between the high altitudes of the Adirondacks on the north and the sea-level of Long Island on the south there is a difference of nearly four weeks in the opening of spring. Within a forty-mile radius of New York City and westward in the same latitude Daffodils appear about April 15; early Tulips and Phlox divaricata the last of April; late Tulips May 10; Lilies-of-the-Valley May 15; German Iris May 22 (florentina alba a trifle earlier); and by May 25 Lupins, Columbine, Pyrethrum hybrid, and Oriental Poppies, etc., arrive; Roses, Peonies, etc., about June 1; Sweet William, Anchusa, and their companions June 5; Campanula medium June 15; Delphinium June 20; Hollyhocks July 1 or a few days earlier. At the eastern end of Long Island Tulips, Lily-of-the-Valley, Roses, shrubs and tree foliage appear about a week later than the same near the city of New York. In our extremely variable climate it is impossible to have fixed dates for the opening of bloom. It must depend upon whether spring is early or late, which sometimes causes a difference of a week or ten days in the appearance of the flowers. Lily-of-the-Valley and German Iris seem less affected by variable springs than other plants. It is perfectly safe near Manhattan Island to plant out tender annuals May 25, and many venture it by May 15. Killing frost may be expected between October 1 and November 1--rarely earlier than October 1. Forty-five miles north of the city of New York, in such higher altitudes as Mount Kisco or Tuxedo Park, the spring opens about a week later. Within this radius of the city the summer thermometer occasionally rises above seventy-eight degrees, and in winter it may average possibly thirty to forty degrees above zero; only a few days know zero weather, and rarely does it drop below. At least once a winter there will come a period of weather as mild as fifty to sixty degrees, when one almost fears the premature appearance of some of the plants. It is on account of the thaws as well as the cold that the plants require a moderate covering to keep the ground as far as possible frozen hard and undisturbed by the sun, as frequent thawing injures the roots. A garden at the other extreme of the State, in the Adirondack Mountains, planted to begin with early Tulips, Phlox divaricata, and others of this period, will make its display about June 1. Lilies-of-the-Valley arrive soon after June 8; German Iris, Lupin, Pyrethrum, Oriental Poppy about June 15; Sweet William and Roses near July 1; Delphinium July 15; Hollyhocks July 25. Tender annuals are planted out about June 10, and a frost after that date is of rare occurrence. The first killing frost of autumn may be expected between the 15th and 20th of September. While the thermometer in summer fluctuates between sixty and eighty degrees, it often falls in winter to thirty degrees below zero. The hardy plants are well protected under the heavy snow covering which is usually the winter condition there. [Illustration: PLATE IV An outer walk The author's childhood garden _From a photograph, colored by H. Irving Marlatt_] [Illustration: PLATE 44 Auburn, N. Y. Mrs. C. D. MacDougall] [Illustration: PLATE 45 Auburn, N. Y. Mrs. C. D. MacDougall _From photographs by Emil J. Kraemer, by courtesy of Wadley & Smythe_] [Illustration: PLATE 46 Section of a wild garden at Tuxedo Park, N. Y. _From a photograph by C. P. Hotaling_] [Illustration: PLATE 47 "Woodland," Tuxedo, N. Y. Henry L. Tilford, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 48 A garden in three terraces "Cragswerthe," Tuxedo, N. Y. Mrs. Samuel Spencer _From photographs by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 49 "Blithewood," Barrytown-on-Hudson, N. Y. Mrs. Andrew C. Zabriskie] [Illustration: PLATE 50 "Wodenethe," Beacon-on-Hudson, N. Y. Mrs. Winthrop Sargent _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 51 "Wodenethe," Beacon-on-Hudson, N. Y. Mrs. Winthrop Sargent _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 52 The centre section] [Illustration: PLATE 53 The outer boundary The author's childhood garden, Newburgh-on-Hudson, N. Y.] [Illustration: PLATE 54 "Echo Lawn," Newburgh-on-Hudson, N. Y. Thaddeus Beals, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 55 The evergreen garden] [Illustration: PLATE 56 A path in the perennial garden "Meadowburn," Warwick, N. Y. Mrs. Helen Rutherfurd Ely] [Illustration: PLATE 57 "Ridgeland Farm," Bedford, N. Y. Mrs. Nelson Williams _From a photograph by F. Seabury_] LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK In considering the gardens belonging to the State of New York, its most favored garden centre is undoubtedly Long Island. Here soil and climate combine to encourage both vegetables and flowers. And on the shores, particularly of the south side and eastern end, the most satisfactory bloom is obtainable as a rule with less trouble than is expended upon the flowers of the interior. Not that Long Island is secure from periods of drought and visitations of rose-bugs, but on the whole the plants weather the obstacles better here than in other places of this latitude. There is a marked softness in the winter climate especially near the sea. Possibly nowhere else except in southern California does the Privet hedge make as remarkable growth as on the south shore, and near the west end there are highly prized specimens of old Box. Southampton, at the eastern end, in proportion to population has probably a greater number of gardens than any town in the State, almost all of them designed and developed by their owners, who have thus delightfully expressed their love for flowers. Most soul-satisfying, unique in many points, and overflowing with bloom all summer is Mrs. Wyckoff's garden at Southampton. Within three hundred yards of the beach it is truly a seaside garden, but the great Privet hedges, fourteen feet high, make perfect windbreaks for the protection of its bloom. Connected by arched openings in the Privet there are other enclosures for various planting schemes, and noticeable is the rather unusual variety of flowers growing in these several lovely gardens. The color grouping in the long, broad beds against the tall Privet background is as perfect as any planting known. The arbors on either side of the garden proper are formed of arches of Dorothy Perkins and Cedar trees alternating--the Cedars are bent and strapped at the top to produce a curve. The effect is both unusual and delightful. In the same place but farther from the sea is another famous garden, at The Orchard, the estate of James L. Breese, Esq. The garden was started about 1905 and is entirely original in design. The artistic sense of the owner is responsible for the dexterous touches which beautify the garden and pergolas. Neither photography nor word-picture could do justice to the exquisite harmony of coloring throughout this wonderful place, where bloom is continuous over a long period. Fashioned in Box-edged parterres after the old-time plan and dear to the heart of Americans is such a place as the sunny Box garden at The Appletrees, so charmingly portrayed in this chapter. There is a sweetness and trimness in its simplicity intermingling with the flowers to make it one of the fairest of garden-plots. We dwell with delight upon the picturesque view of a section of Mrs. Curtis's garden which might well have been taken from an English garden, so closely does it resemble that type which has been our inspiration more especially during the last ten years. In America the walled garden is found to be useful near the sea, and not undesirable in the cooler northern interior, but by many experts it is not advised in a warm climate, where it prevents the free circulation of air within its enclosure, from which condition some plants may suffer. In the near-by hamlet of East Hampton, Mrs. Lorenzo Woodhouse has an ingenious scheme of connecting formal gardens that are as remarkable in conception as they are exquisite in color harmony. In length the plan is considerably greater than the width, and the long vista from end to end presents to the artist's eye a lovely picture of flowers, pool, and arches. Near by, on Huntting Lane, the wild garden belonging to R. Cummins, Esq., is considered the best piece of work of its kind in the country. It is wonderfully composed with natural pools and streams, tea-houses and rustic bridges suggestive of the Japanese art, yet lovelier than the trim Oriental type of water garden because so delightfully wild and overgrown with massive plants, vines, and shrubs, without, however, being disorderly in appearance. It is an especially rare treat in early July at the season of Japanese Iris. At the west end of Long Island, near New York, gardens are almost as plentiful as those in the region of the Hamptons. For lack of space the illustrations of the lovely garden at Manor House, Glen Cove, and the picturesque pool at Cedarhurst must alone represent this section. Later periods of bloom succeed the Tulips at the Manor House, giving continuous color all summer to this charming place. The view of Mr. Steele's garden at Westbury is a fine example of an ideal hillside planting leading to the flower-beds on a lower level. * * * * * Probably the oldest garden in New York State is the one at Sylvester Manor, on Shelter Island, between the shores of Long Island and Connecticut. This charming little flower-plot is reached by a short flight of descending steps. Some of its old Boxwood appears in the illustration of the pool which is a part of the garden scheme. The original owners of Shelter Island were the Manhasset Indians. "In 1651 Nathaniel Sylvester came from England with his young bride, and here they planted the Box, still one of the wonders of the place, and erected the first manor-house with its oak doors and panels and mantels fitted in England, and brick tiles brought from Holland. The present house was built in 1737 with enough of the woodwork of the old house to maintain symmetry in traditions, and stands to-day as it has stood the better part of two centuries, filled with its old furniture, paintings, and curios. Here is kept the cloth of gold left by Captain Kidd and many other things that time and space forbid mentioning." The old homestead has always remained in the family in direct descent. [Illustration: PLATE V At the hour of sunset Southampton, L. I. Mrs. Peter B. Wyckoff _After an autochrome photograph by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 58 Arbor of cedars and roses alternating Southampton, L. I. Mrs. Peter B. Wyckoff _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 59 "The Orchard," Southampton, L. I. James Lawrence Breese, Esq. _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 60 "The Orchard," Southampton, L. I. James Lawrence Breese, Esq. _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 61] [Illustration: PLATE 62 "The Orchard," Southampton, L. I. James Lawrence Breese, Esq. _From photographs, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 63 "The Appletrees," Southampton, L. I. Mrs. Henry E. Coe _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 64 "The Appletrees," Southampton, L. I. Mrs. Henry E. Coe _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 65 Southampton, L. I. Mrs. G. Warrington Curtis] [Illustration: PLATE 66 East Hampton, L. I. Mrs. Lorenzo E. Woodhouse _From photographs by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 67 East Hampton, L. I. Mrs. Lorenzo E. Woodhouse _From a photograph by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 68 The wild garden _From photographs by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 69 The wild garden East Hampton, L. I. Stephen Cummins, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 70 "Manor House," Glen Cove, L. I. Mrs. John T. Pratt _From a photograph by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 71 Cedarhurst, L. I. Samuel Kopf, Esq. _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 72 Westbury, L. I. Charles Steele, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 73 "Manor House," Glen Cove, L. I. _From photographs by The J. Horace McFarland Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 74 Ancient boxwood "Sylvester Manor," Shelter Island _From a photograph by David Humphreys_] V NEW JERSEY It would take much time and long travel to discover the State possessing the greatest number of fine gardens, but there is little risk of misstatement in placing New Jersey as fourth or fifth on the list; New York, including Long Island, in the lead, then Massachusetts, and possibly Pennsylvania or California next. Near the sea the climate is, of course, an especial incentive to flower-growing, and along the Jersey coast, especially in Monmouth County, there are numerous gardens. Many excellent specimens are to be seen at Princeton, Trenton, Short Hills, and Morristown, as well as in the country around Bernardsville, in all of which places garden clubs are rapidly developing the cult. Only about fifty miles separate Trenton, Princeton, and Monmouth Beach, in central Jersey, from Morristown, Short Hills, etc., at the north, so that spring gardens practically begin in both sections at the same time, with possibly not more than three or four days' difference between them. While the south Jersey soil does not always encourage gardening, the northern half of the State may be considered on the whole quite fertile, and the summer temperature is not too hot for flowers. Occasional droughts are to be expected, but the water-supply is usually adequate. In the northern part of the State the usual date for Crocuses is March 25; Daffodils, April 15; Lily-of-the-Valley, May 12; late Tulips, May 10; German Iris, May 22; Oriental Poppy, Columbine, Lupin, and Pyrethrum, May 26; Roses, Peonies, Anchusa, and Sweet William, early June; Delphiniums, June 20; Hollyhocks, July 1. In fact, the climatic condition, as it affects plant life, is very similar throughout the region surrounding New York City--not different enough to require special attention. The beautiful garden at Glen Alpine is one of prolonged bloom from May 22 until frost, and its planting plans are shown in the author's "Continuous Bloom in America." Both English and Italian inspiration commingle in this beautiful spot. Its setting of old trees on three sides, with the upsloping hill to the rear covered with choice blossom trees and evergreens, as well as the ancient hedge, furnish a background in keeping with the dignity of the place. The pergola is only the beginning of an interesting upper shrub and bulb garden with rambling paths. Other views are given in plates 86 and 172. At Cherrycroft, the garden also blooms continuously, and some of its plans are likewise given in the book above-mentioned. The pergola and tea-house lead out to a maze formed by a tall Arbor-Vitæ hedge. Adjoining is a Rose garden, more or less continually in bloom, and near by a garden for cutting-flowers. The outlook over the formal garden, both from house and pergola, is upon a sea of flowers, possibly unequalled in its profusion of bloom. The four beds encircling the pool are first covered with Pansies and English Daisies, each bed containing one large clump of German Iris, edged with Cottage Tulips. For later bloom, white Petunias fill two beds, light pink Petunias the other two beds. Surrounding the rim of the pool there are Campanula medium, alternating with fall-sown Larkspur, the former replaced by Balsam. The four large beds opposite the pool-beds are planted in predominating tones of yellow, blue, pink, and dark red respectively, with white freely intermixed. The beds on the upper level are treated rather similarly. At both Glen Alpine and Cherrycroft nurseries of cold-frames abundantly supply the many annuals and perennials required to fill the broad beds. The prevailing colors required in both gardens are pink, dark red, blues, and yellows. Of the latter, the stronger tones are used only in yellow and blue beds. If there is strict adherence to their planting schemes the richness of their bloom will continue through future seasons. But, alas! how uncertain the fulfilment, when the most necessary flowers may disappoint at the eleventh hour, or the gardeners fail to abide by the plans, especially concerning the color scheme! At Ridgewood Hill the planting is for spring and autumn bloom, and its three-terraced garden is an excellent piece of work, nestling to the hillside with its vista of hills beyond. This lovely nook deserves to rank among the best in terraced gardens. Mrs. Fraser's garden, enclosed within the semicircle of the house and a curving Hemlock hedge, is veritably a gem in lovely color-blending. All the periods of the garden season are represented here, difficult as it is to accomplish continuous bloom in narrow beds. First Pansies and early Tulips, followed by the later ones, flood the little court with wonderfully tinted tones. Then Lupins, Canterbury Bells, Sweet William, Chinese Delphinium and Lilium candidum, followed by Larkspur, Zinnia, Snapdragon, Scabiosa, Salpiglossis, Heliotrope, Ageratum, and compact Petunias, Gladioli, and September hardy Chrysanthemum. Constant ministration to the needs of this garden keeps it in a state of fresh bloom and order. The garden at "Onunda," Madison, attracts many visitors and has long been famous for its beauty and order. It is ablaze with color from May to October. Annuals in richest massing fill all the small beds, and perennials with annuals are closely grouped in the wall beds. The color effect is unusual and the adjoining Rose garden is complete with choicest bloom. The planting at Blairsden, near Peapack, is probably the most perfect in the State. The accompanying pictures give a limited idea of its beauty. The hill covered with wild shrubs sloping to the lake, the formal garden, the water garden and Rose garden, with the long inclined pathway seeming to lead out to space immeasurable into the green Garden of Everyman, combine with the scenery to make it a place of remarkable beauty. The formal garden with vine-covered brick wall is like the villa, Italian in design. The numerous gardens of Short Hills must be represented by one charming glimpse of Brooklawn, an idyllic spot embodying the creative sense of a poet. Its design is quite unusual in the garden world, and perfect in its simplicity. Informal rather than strictly formal, with beds of curving lines and grass paths it may be considered the most original plan in this collection. Old Princeton, with its picturesque university, is additionally favored in possessing gardens worthy of such associations and equalling the best in our country. The one at Drumthwacket is probably more reminiscent of English gardens than any other. The broad beds, profuse in glowing yet orderly bloom, are especially lovely in June. The garden has the benefit of ancient trees as a setting and the richness of its planting combined with the white balustrade lends a noble effect, comparing favorably with many of those abroad. The beautiful water garden, reached by a winding stone stairway, is encircled by willows and forest trees which fill the little lake with green reflections. A winter garden is a luxury so rare that one dwells with keenest pleasure upon the view from Thornton--a most perfect specimen of its kind. This evergreen planting is the central scheme of an elaborate plan and divides the perennial and Rose garden on one side from the "cutting" garden on the other. The best of the evergreens in clipped forms, Barberry with its bright winter berries, Laurel, and Rhododendron foliage unite to enliven the winter scene in this pleasant space, when outside all is gray and lifeless. Mrs. Seabrook's garden belongs to still another distinctly different class, illustrating a planting which appeals strongly to the many Americans who ardently admire simplicity in outdoor art. Here we find a sweet place in which to live in idle hours, with favorite flowers well-kept, a pool, and shaded retreats from summer sun. [Illustration: PLATE VI "Glen Alpine," Morristown, N. J. Mrs. Charles W. McAlpin _From a photograph, colored by Mrs. Herbert A. Raynes_] [Illustration: PLATE 75 "Cherrycroft," Morristown, N. J. Dudley Olcott, Esq. _From an autochrome photograph by Parker Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 76 A three-terraced garden "Ridgewood Hill," Morristown, N. J. Mrs. Frederic H. Humphreys _From a photograph by Parker Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 77 Morristown, N. J. Mrs. George C. Fraser _From a photograph by Parker Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 78 "Blairsden," Peapack, N. J. C. Ledyard Blair, Esq. _Reproduced by courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 79 "Blairsden," Peapack, N. J. C. Ledyard Blair, Esq. _Reproduced by courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 80 "Blairsden," Peapack, N. J. C. Ledyard Blair, Esq. _Reproduced by courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 81 "Brooklawn," Short Hills, N. J. Mrs. Edward B. Renwick _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 82 "Drumthwacket," Princeton, N. J. Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 83 "Drumthwacket," Princeton, N. J. Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 84 "Drumthwacket," Princeton, N. J. Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne _From a photograph, copyright, by Miss Johnston--Mrs. Hewitt_] [Illustration: PLATE 85 "Onunda," Madison, N. J. Mrs. D. Willis James _From a photograph by Parker Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 86 "Glen Alpine," Morristown, N. J. Mrs. Charles W. McAlpin _From a photograph by Parker Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 87 "Thornton," Rumson, N. J. Mrs. J. Horace Harding _From a photograph by Alman & Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 88 Highland, N. J. Mrs. H. H. Seabrook _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] VI PENNSYLVANIA The most zealous advocate of gardening in the early days was William Penn, the original proprietor of the State, who persistently urged his Quaker followers to plant gardens around the homesteads. With numerous old ones and an ever-increasing number of new gardens the State stands among the foremost as a garden centre. In olden times the Quaker ideas against extravagant appearances resulted in the making of simpler places than those built by the people who settled in the Southern States; but these modest Pennsylvania gardens did not suffer the ravages of war, and many of them have lived serenely through the years. Andalusia came into the possession of the family of its present owners in 1795, and a village has gradually grown around the place. The garden is about one hundred years in age, and has been long noted for its trees and hedges, its fruits and old-fashioned flowers. The simplicity of its plan, so characteristic of the early gardens, detracts nothing from its charm, but rather is it filled with picturesque features that are truly American. At Fancy Field the formal garden is made somewhat on the plan of a type of small English garden that is becoming familiar to us through the English prints. This formal view is but one of a group or series of lovely enclosed and connecting gardens, all seemingly bound together by a long pergola bordering their rear;--a most pleasing study, as is also the garden at Edgecombe, with its old Box and perennials, shut in peacefully from the outer world and suggesting the type so dear to the heart of the lady of the olden time. Krisheim was the name given by some early German settlers in 1687 to a locality where is now a famous garden. This beautiful enclosure, in its spring garb, so unique in style, and with an adjoining flower garden, has its place among the best of the many that adorn the State. The garden at Willow Bank is a charming home of flowers, and its attraction is enhanced by the spacious green court surrounding it, giving double privacy to the flowery sanctum within. Typical of some of the splendid newer gardens of the State is the one at Timberline, rich in its background of old trees, gracefully designed and planted. It is one of the best productions of a celebrated architect. The Ballygarth garden, a section of which is shown in this chapter, is beautifully situated on one of the oldest estates near Philadelphia, and is of the kind so evidently the creation of a garden lover. Near Philadelphia the climate is slightly warmer than in north New Jersey, to which spring bloom comes at least a week later. In this vicinity German Iris appears about May 15, Sweet William, May 28, and Delphiniums, June 10, Hollyhocks, June 18. The time of the first frost is as variable as it is elsewhere. Pansies are usually wintered in the open, with a certain amount of covering. Tender annuals are set out about May 10. The soil is mostly fertile enough for good results in the garden. The best-known gardens lie chiefly in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. [Illustration: PLATE 89 "Allgates," Haverford, Pa. Horatio G. Lloyd, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 90 Andalusia, Pa. Mrs. Charles Biddle] [Illustration: PLATE 91 Andalusia, Pa. Mrs. Charles Biddle _From a photograph by C. R. Pancoast_] [Illustration: PLATE 92 "Edgecombe," Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, Pa. Mrs. J. Willis Martin] [Illustration: PLATE 93 "Krisheim," Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, Pa. Dr. George Woodward _From a photograph by J. W. Kennedy_] [Illustration: PLATE 94 The outer court] [Illustration: PLATE 95 The inner garden "Willow Bank," Bryn Mawr, Pa. Mrs. Joseph C. Bright _From photographs by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] [Illustration: PLATE 96 "Fancy Field," Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, Pa. Mrs. George Willing, Jr.] [Illustration: PLATE 97 "Timberline," Bryn Mawr, Pa. W. Hinckle Smith, Esq. _From a photograph by Julian A. Buckly_] [Illustration: PLATE 98 "Ballygarth," Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, Pa. Mrs. B. Franklin Pepper] VII MARYLAND Flower gardens adorn many of the places in Maryland, most of them of the old-fashioned kind so characteristic of the Southern States, and others of a more recent date. The latter, though less elaborate than those of New England, are quite as attractive in the studied simplicity of their design. Conspicuous often are the Ivy-edged paths sometimes replacing the low Box border, and the great growths of Box and rare shrubs, once imported luxuries from old England, speak the prosperity of early days. In the low country of the interior the midsummer climate is humid and hot enough to discourage the flowers of this season, but when certain annuals are kept sufficiently moist and mulched they may pass unscathed through the trying season and join the few fall perennials for several weeks of bloom. Winter protection is not a matter of importance and Pansies need but an ordinary covering of leaves. An extreme of cold, which is rare, might bring disaster to the leaf-covered Canterbury Bell in the open, but this is one of the gambles in garden life. In Maryland, as generally elsewhere in this section, spring and June gardens prevail. The Crocus season opens in early March; Daffodils follow a little later; late Tulips and German Iris come near May 1; Sweet William and Peonies about May 20; and soon after the Delphiniums and Hollyhocks appear. Spring work begins three weeks earlier than in the latitude of Long Island, and frost may finish the persistent Marigold near November 1; but, as elsewhere, by that time green life has had its day, vitality has been spent, and nothing satisfactory can be expected of any but the hardy late Chrysanthemum. There is another region of this State to be separately accounted for that has been more or less overlooked, and where the climate is more inviting to summer gardening. From near Snow Hill, on the narrow peninsula south of Delaware, a resident writes in part: "As to this eastern shore, its flowers, climate, etc., too much cannot be said in its praise. The wonder is that this section has been overlooked by wealthy people seeking homes. With proper planting one can have flowers in the garden ten months of the year. During the winter Holly and other choice evergreens give plenty of color for the lawns." The distance across between the Chesapeake Bay and the sea is about thirty-five miles. Near the shore the place has a climate of its own, and summer gardens need not wilt as they do inland, providing they can at times be moderately sprinkled. Usually the summer climate is pleasant with an evening sea-breeze in hot weather; sometimes a prolonged dry spell causes many things to suffer, but as a rule all sorts of flowering plants succeed--Roses, China Asters, and bulbous plants especially grow to perfection. The illustrations representing Maryland are gathered from the vicinity of Baltimore, the particular garden region of the State. Hampton is the oldest of them all, being an entailed estate and one of two old manor-houses in Maryland still extant. A severe cold snap a few winters past did great damage to the Box, which in consequence had to be cut back, but time, it is hoped, may restore its original form and beauty. The spring view of one of Hampton's gardens was taken recently prior to the period of fullest bloom. This charming Box-edged parterre, with its fine surroundings and associations, is possibly the best-known in the South. Evergreen-on-Avenue is delightfully located on the outskirts of Baltimore, where many old country-seats abound. The lower garden only is discernible in the illustration, showing the dignity and charm of an evergreen garden, relieved by a massing of color in narrow beds which form a setting to the clipped Box and other shrubs. The upper garden is full of bloom and kept chiefly as a place for cutting-flowers. Some of the paths on this estate are edged with broad bands of Ivy. The wild garden at Roland Park is a work of art too intricately devised to be treated satisfactorily by picture or pen. The eye can only absorb and memory retain it, but description will ever fail to present it. At every turn there is a delightful surprise, at every season it is lovely; even January finds it so dressed in evergreen that winter seems far away. A few years ago the hillside was a wooded and abandoned stone-quarry until purchased for the purpose of creating a place of beauty out of chaos. An inspired imagination only could have wrought this miracle. The old Indian name for the Cylburn plantation was Cool Waters; it covers two hundred acres, about five miles beyond Baltimore. Cylburn House is of stone with broad verandas, and stands majestically on a high plateau, surrounded by gardens, shrubbery, and an extensive lawn, which is fringed by a beautiful primeval forest that stretches away on three sides to the valley below. The garden is one of the old-fashioned rambling kind, made lovely with a combination of tall shrubs and flowers and occasional trees. The fair little glimpse of a section of the garden at Ingleside breathes of spring perfume and color, with that indescribable sense of peace pervading especially a little enclosed garden where good taste and harmony prevail. So great is the impression of seclusion produced by the attractive picture that the farmer's cottage in the near background seems almost disconnected from this inviting spot. The four white standard Wistarias are remarkable enough to demand special attention. The beds are early filled with the Tulips of both periods, blooming in company with the Wistaria. Annuals follow, and the place is kept in long bloom under the careful supervision of the owner. At The Blind, Havre de Grace, on the Chesapeake, is a charming and typically Southern garden with ancient Box hedges for a background, and filled with the bloom of many old-fashioned hardy plants and shrubs. The property of two hundred acres is partly under cultivation and partly covered with Holly and ancient trees. Around the gray stone mansion in springtime the place is like a fairy-land, with hundreds of blossoming shrubs and fruit trees. Originally the land belonged to the Stumpp family, who acquired it by grant from one of the early English governors. It is now in the possession of a New Yorker, who keeps it as a shooting-preserve and stock-farm. [Illustration: PLATE VII A rock garden] [Illustration: PLATE VIII A rock garden Roland Park, Baltimore, Md. Mrs. Edward Bouton _After autochrome photographs_] [Illustration: PLATE 99 "Hampton," Towson, Md. Mrs. John Ridgely _From a photograph by Laurence H. Fowler_] [Illustration: PLATE 100 "Evergreen-on-Avenue," Baltimore, Md. Mrs. T. Harrison Garrett _From a photograph by Christhill Studio_] [Illustration: PLATE 101 "Cylburn House," Cylburn, Baltimore Co., Md. Mrs. Bruce Cotten _From a photograph by Art View Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 102 "Ingleside," Catonsville, Md. Mrs. A. C. Ritchie] [Illustration: PLATE 103 "The Blind," Havre de Grace, Md. James Lawrence Breese, Esq.] VIII VIRGINIA Virginia was the first of the States to adopt a luxurious mode of living. Its early men and women, so recently English, were not many of them of the strictly Puritan type, but rather the ease and pleasure loving class, and shortly their fertile plantations, developed by countless slaves, yielded rich results, and Virginia, followed soon by the neighboring States, became famous for homes and gardens on an extensive scale. One of the earliest and best of these estates was Mount Vernon, so well preserved and yet so familiar as not to need an introduction or even a space in this book. Brandon, Westover, Shirley, Berkeley, Castle Hill, and others on the River James, as well as some of the splendid places in the "hill country," have been renovated in recent years and should be considered among the treasures of America. Mr. William du Pont is the fortunate present owner of Montpelier, the home of President Madison, in Orange County, and situated between Charlottesville and Richmond. This splendid garden was planned by Mr. Madison soon after 1794. To quote Mr. Capen:[4] "On the plan of our House of Representatives, it is made in a series of horseshoe terraces leading down to a flat rectangular stretch of ground. The walk from the entrance to the garden passes first under a charming rustic arbor, and then through a dense Box hedge in which some of the bushes have grown so high that their branches form an arch overhead ... and when one emerges from the arch of Box he finds spread before him in panorama the entire garden ... the Box-edged aisle down its centre and every bed in flower.... It must have been a rare garden, for trees and shrubs sent to Mr. Madison by admirers from all over the world were jealously guarded and nurtured." At Rose Hill the terraced garden, with its distant view of hills and valley, is among the best-known places of this section. Here the flowers, most carefully tended, bloom considerably during the period from April to October, which is unusually prolonged for a Southern garden. Flowering plants and clipped evergreens border the broad, grassy terraces and an air of simple stateliness pervades this charming Virginia garden. Delightful indeed is the spacious formal garden at Meadowbrook Manor, on the James River. So cleverly arranged is the combination of trees and flowers that the latter do not suffer from near association with the trees--many of which are evergreens combining with the Box border to gladden the winter garden with summer green, and giving the livable, homey sense to this lovely enclosure in summer-time. In the old days the property was known as Sequin and belonged to relatives of Sir Thomas Gates of the same name. Upon this land in 1619 were operated the first iron-works in the country. Characteristic of the gardens of the older period is the lovely view of the garden on the Valentine place overgrown and ripe as only a garden can be that has lived through the years; unpretentious, yet richer in that mellowed growth than the most costly planting of modern date. In Virginia, mountains cover a part of the State, and the temperature necessarily varies according to locality. The climate, at least of Albemarle County, brings out the Crocuses in February or early March; winter Jessamine in early February, sometimes January; Daffodils in mid-March; Lily-of-the-Valley and Cottage Tulip early in April; German Iris in mid-April. Roses and Sweet William appear in early May; Delphinium in late May; Hollyhocks in early June; Phlox, July 1. And thus before midsummer's heat many of the best hardy perennials have come and gone. While summer bloom in the highlands is not necessarily destroyed by hot weather, unless unusual drought occurs, yet the autumn garden is apt to be a more refreshing sight with its fresh crop of Roses, the late Chrysanthemum, Cosmos, and indefatigable Zinnia. Of course to the south, and where altitude is lacking, the somewhat higher temperature will more or less alter these garden dates. FOOTNOTES: [4] "Country Homes of Famous Americans." [Illustration: PLATE 104 Ancient boxwood Montpelier, Va. Mrs. William du Pont _Reproduced by permission of Doubleday, Page & Co. From "Country Homes of Famous Americans"--Oliver B. Capen_] [Illustration: PLATE 105 Montpelier, Va. Mrs. William du Pont _Reproduced by permission of Doubleday, Page & Co. From "Country Homes of Famous Americans"--Oliver B. Capen_] [Illustration: PLATE 106 Montpelier, Va. Mrs. William du Pont] [Illustration: PLATE 107 Montpelier, Va. Mrs. William du Pont] [Illustration: PLATE 108 "Rose Hill"] [Illustration: PLATE 109 "Rose Hill," Greenwood, Va. Mrs. W. R. Massie] [Illustration: PLATE 110 "Meadowbrook Manor," Drewry's Bluff, Va. Mrs. Thomas F. Jeffress] [Illustration: PLATE 111 Richmond, Va. Garden of Mann S. Valentine, Esq. _From a photograph by Jessie Tarbox Beals_] IX SOUTH CAROLINA There are few new gardens in South Carolina, but an untold number of old ones deserving to be revived. Around Charleston, especially, old-time mansions, quaint walls, and gateways abound that are an inspiration to lovers of graceful antiquities. To restore an abandoned garden must be indeed a joy to one with enough imagination to recreate flower places fitted to the surroundings. The illustrations in this chapter give some idea of the richness of the early gardens laid out by the wealthy owners of many generations past. Magnolia-on-the-Ashley, considered by some as one of the world's most beautiful sights, especially in springtime, is the most famous place in the State. It is owned by Colonel Drayton Hastie, who inherited it from his grandfather, the Reverend Mr. Drayton, an Episcopalian minister, in whose family it had remained since the latter part of the seventeenth century. In the days of the Reverend Mr. Drayton it was discovered that the garden had been laid out over land containing extremely valuable phosphate deposits, but neither he nor his descendants would have the place disturbed for the sake of an increased fortune, and the garden continues as it was, the delight in early spring of visitors from all over the world. To quote one who resides near by: "The garden first came into notice about a hundred years ago. In spite of all the cultivation, it still suggests the heart of the forest, with the old Oak and gray moss and wild flowers mingling with Cherokee Roses, Jessamine, etc. These Magnolia gardens are not only wonderfully beautiful, but, I believe, quite unique. The great show is not Magnolias, or even the Camellias, although they are lovely--but the Azaleas, which grow in such profusion and variety of shades that one loses all sense of individual plant and flowers and perceives only glowing, gleaming masses of color veiled by festoons of gray moss, giving one a delicious feeling of unreality, almost enchantment. In Owen Wister's 'Lady Baltimore' there is a beautiful description of Magnolia. The coloring on the post-cards is not in the least exaggerated." Live Oaks over two centuries old draped with gray moss suspended from the branches! This wonderful growth is not an uncommon sight in the Southern States. Columbia, the capital, has the famous Preston garden, and for many generations this beautiful property remained in the families of the Hamptons and Prestons. By a marriage a century ago the Hampton estate came into the possession of the Prestons, and for many years the stately garden with its aged Box and shade trees, its choice shrubs and plants, has been an object of veneration to garden lovers. A descendant writes: "There is no interest of importance attached to the past history of the Preston place, except that it has sheltered quite well known persons in its day, Henry Clay, Thackeray, and Miss Martineau among others, for its owner had acquaintances among prominent people in this country as well as abroad, and delighted in showing them hospitality when they happened in his neighborhood." After the war it shared the fate of almost all the other Southern estates that could no longer be maintained as in former years, and finally became a woman's college, and once more receives the needed care. In the low coastal country, including Charleston, spring opens in February with Camellias, Daffodils, and bulbs. German Iris appears at Charleston soon after March 15, Phlox in June. Delphinium and Hollyhock and some others do not thrive in this section. The flowers that are carried over for autumn bloom are hardy Chrysanthemum, with Cosmos, Salvia, Marigolds, and Zinnias, and a few others able under care to resist the summer heat. Frost may come by November 15, but in winter thin ice forms only about three times, with the thermometer at twenty-five degrees. White Camellias sometimes begin to blossom at Christmas time. Such is the climate of this level. In the higher regions of the State climatic conditions are somewhat different and the summer heat is not as extreme. [Illustration: PLATE 112 Azalea, Magnolia, and Camellia bloom "Magnolia Garden," Charleston, S. C. Colonel Drayton Hastie _From a photograph by The Carolina Arts and Crafts, Inc._] [Illustration: PLATE 113 Live oaks, with gray moss suspended from branches "Magnolia Garden," Charleston, S. C. Colonel Drayton Hastie _From a photograph by The Carolina Arts and Crafts, Inc._] [Illustration: PLATE 114 "Preston Garden," Columbia, S. C. _From a photograph by Lyle & Escobar_] [Illustration: PLATE 115 "Preston Garden"] [Illustration: PLATE 116 "Preston Garden," Columbia, S. C. _From photographs by Lyle & Escobar_] X GEORGIA AND FLORIDA Summer gardens, on account of the climate, are not attempted in the States of the far South; but as popular winter and spring resorts the grounds at these seasons about the villas and hotels are adorned with Palms, Roses, and other plants adapted to the climate. Charming spring gardens in formal designs are found in Georgia, where, because of its somewhat cooler climate and better soil, there are a greater number of private estates than in Florida. The former State doubtless suffered more than any other in the Civil War and, consequently, enforced neglect of the old gardens brought ruin to most of them. At present some of the finest places in Georgia are delightfully located outside of the larger towns, and many gardens, some new and others renewed after a half-century of oblivion, adorn the home grounds of those who are so fortunate as to reside here at the most favored seasons. The illustrations of the gardens at Green Court are fair samples of the extensive planting in many places. Spring bulbs begin to open in this lovely spot by the middle of February, Camellias often come in January, German Iris appears the middle of March, Delphiniums in April. In Georgia the summer heat finishes most of the bloom, and few would venture with autumn flowers. "The Roses, however, when well tended, rest during summer to bloom gloriously again in October and until the time of light frost, which comes in December." The interior of the larger garden at Green Court, surrounded with its splendid outer court, is more spacious than the glimpse through the gateway would suggest. The charm of this enclosure, like Southern hospitality, is a combination of bountifulness and grateful simplicity. Green Court deserves to stand as a representative garden of its State. With an almost similar climate the adjoining State of Alabama has its gardens also, but, unfortunately, photographs are not now available. Palms of every description are the characteristic plants of Florida. The State is generally flat and open, but in the north the country is more wooded, often wild and swampy, with picturesque winding little rivers meandering to the coasts. The conditions in the populous districts of Louisiana and Texas are so similar to Florida, where gardens are concerned, that it is unnecessary to use further space in describing plant life in these States. [Illustration: PLATE 117 The outer court surrounding the main garden "Green Court," Augusta, Ga. Mrs. H. P. Crowell] [Illustration: PLATE 118 A glimpse into the inner garden "Green Court," Augusta, Ga. Mrs. H. P. Crowell] [Illustration: PLATE 119 "Green Court," Augusta, Ga. Mrs. H. P. Crowell _From a photograph by A. H. Chaffee_] [Illustration: PLATE 120 Tropical growth, Palm Beach, Fla. _From a photograph by Brown Brothers_] XI TENNESSEE AND MISSOURI From Tennessee the following description of its garden life is agreeably presented: "Here in the South interest in this subject is always increasing. We have many old and beautiful gardens full of sentiment. The mistress of the place is always head gardener, and in no instance does she relinquish her position to another. I am filled with enthusiasm in garden matters, and would preach the gospel of the garden to all women." Daffodils appear in February, Lilies-of-the-Valley and Cottage Tulips in mid-April, German Iris soon after. The droughts of midsummer may injure but not necessarily destroy the flowers. The winter thermometer occasionally falls to twenty degrees above zero in the cooler districts, and such plants as Snapdragon and Campanula medium are more safely wintered in a slat-frame. But winter once over the tender annuals can be put out as early as April 25. These conditions apply almost equally to the neighboring States of Kentucky and North Carolina, having as well their records for old-time gardens. The planting at Rostrevor speaks delightfully for the many others belonging to this section of the South. This garden, filled with Lilies and other blossoms, shows that the Southern woman is as truly a flower lover as were they who planted the early gardens in the days before the war. What more tantalizing to the garden devotee than the glimpse beyond the gates of Longview garden as illustrated in this chapter, and again in a later section? Such views as these, so exceedingly artistic in themselves, suggest a still more lovely interior, at present withheld because adequate photographs are lacking. In Missouri, as in Kansas and elsewhere in the Middle West, there is great variableness of climate from year to year, and never is it an ideal district for _summer_ flower gardens. While much attention is being given to shrubbery and perennial beds bordering the lawn, there are few actual gardens, formal or otherwise. The discouragements of a trying summer climate limit the bloom in most of the places to the flowers of spring and June. Early flowering plants and bulbs, German Iris, Foxglove, Canterbury Bells, Columbine, Peonies, Lilium candidum, Roses, and Hollyhocks, give considerable satisfaction. But many other perennials are not at all permanent. To quote an experienced amateur gardener: "The climate of Kansas City, Missouri, is subject to every eccentricity, and at times is very trying. One of my experiences was a four or five inch snow-storm on the 3d of May after a month of warm spring weather, when German Iris and many other things were in full bloom, and Peonies in bud. Everything was mashed down and then it froze. Often when Peonies have been in bloom torrential rains have nearly ruined them. The greatest trouble with the summer garden is the extreme heat and dryness of the air. The earth can be kept moist around the plants, but many things wither in the dry air. With the greatest care a garden of annuals might be kept looking fairly well through July and August, but I am glad to get away from mine early in July." The climate of these adjoining Middle States is practically the same throughout, with possibly even more sunshine than in the eastern States. "In May and June there are frequent heavy showers, but rarely all-day rains. In the later summer and autumn cloudy days are exceptional. The eastern side of Missouri is said to be slightly cooler than the western part; Kansas City averages a somewhat higher summer temperature than Washington, D. C., which is in the same latitude. Spring bulbs and many spring perennials appear three weeks earlier than near New York City." The gardens usually look spent by September, but in the cooler sections, with an extra amount of summer care, there may be still seen flowers sufficient to adorn a garden during some weeks of autumn. The garden at Hazelwood, near St. Louis, is laid out with curving grass paths and broad beds. The bright display begins with Daffodils, and the beds retain rich bloom into the middle of June. In September, after good care, Marigolds, Zinnias, Snapdragon, Cosmos, hardy Asters, Chrysanthemum, and Helenium are the autumn decorations. Frost usually finishes everything about October 15. The winter temperature is often ten degrees below, and the tender plants, like Foxglove and Pansies, are more safely wintered under slat-frames covered with straw, and Larkspurs should have a light covering of leaves. Surely the gardens that are faithfully tended through such changes and chances of climate as found in this section bespeak the highest degree of devoted patience. [Illustration: PLATE 121 "Rostrevor," Knoxville, Tenn. Mrs. William C. Ross _From a photograph by James E. Thompson_] [Illustration: PLATE 122 Longview, Tenn. Mrs. James E. Caldwell _From a photograph by G. C. Dury Co. Reproduced by permission of the author of "Your Garden and Mine"_] [Illustration: PLATE 123 "Hazelwood," Kinloch, Mo. Mrs. Samuel W. Fordyce] XII ILLINOIS AND INDIANA Illinois, with its claim to countless fine estates, includes a plentiful share of gardens, and more especially in the lake region, where luxuriant growths of trees tell of congenial soil and climate. As a background the great lake stretches like a sea beyond many of the beautiful flower-borders, which bloom almost as richly as those near the distant ocean. Unfortunately some of the finest plantings are not illustrated in this book, which is limited to gardens of a formal design, and the type characteristic of Illinois is mostly informal, as so frequently seen in America,--an arrangement which does not lend itself satisfactorily to photography. In such a plan the flowers are usually massed in long, broad beds bordering the lawn, the front lines are laid in irregular curves, with trees and shrubs for the background. Groups of shrubs with other beds are sometimes used to break a wide stretch of lawn, and make a rambling and delightful sort of garden scheme. But in photography detail is lost when the camera is at sufficient distance to include more than a small section of such a design. For this reason pictures can never do full justice to the flower planting on such notable places as those of Albert N. Day, Esq., Lake Forest; Wm. C. Egan, Esq., Egandale, Highland Park; George Higginson, Esq., Meadow Farm; and W. G. Hibbard, Esq., both at Winnetka, and many others. The spring display of late Tulips at Highland Park and Lake Forest is especially remarkable. Masses of Darwins and Cottage varieties in perfect color blending are planted everywhere, in the woods, in shrubbery, and in borders. The illustration of the formal garden at Lake Forest, owned by Harold McCormick, Esq., gives a vivid idea of the form and finish of this charming place, which must always stand among the best of middle West gardens, well favored in the beauty of its surrounding trees and generously planted with perennials and shrubs. It has the charm of individuality rather uncommon to large gardens, and stands for that welcome type which seeks to be itself. Hardin Hall garden, with the great lake as a background, has recently joined the ranks of beautiful American gardens. Every new garden is as a jewel added to the crown of its State, and this little gem in planting is noted throughout the North Shore. Stepping-stones in the grass lead to another green enclosure, designed on a less formal plan,--the whole scheme being most artistically conceived. The climate near the lake is slightly cooler than in other localities, spring opening from one to two weeks later than inland. The difference in time of spring bloom on this shore and near New York City is only about a week. The climate on the lake front is especially variable. The country is a flat upland broken with wooded ravines. Out in central Illinois, in Piatt County, there are fifteen thousand acres belonging to a famous estate beyond Monticello. The Farms contains delightful gardens on an extensive scale, quite English in design, and as far as possible in keeping with the Georgian architecture of the house. Juniper Hibernica is freely used over the main garden, enriching with its deep evergreen tones the broad expanse of flower-bordered beds. The walls are covered with Chinese Wistarias, Japanese Honeysuckle, trained peach trees, nectarines, pears, and plums. Monticello is in the latitude of Philadelphia; the blooming dates almost correspond, but frost destroys a trifle earlier. The highest summer thermometer rarely reaches one hundred degrees, sometimes dropping in winter to twenty-seven degrees below. Tender annuals can usually be planted out after May 15. Mulching and watering is necessary to preserve the summer bloomers. Famous in the annals of southern Indiana is the large estate at Lexington known as Englishton Park, and for six generations the property of the English family. Problems of insufficient rain, poor soil, and rocky ground have been overcome by most scientific measures, and now a pool filled with Lilies and bordered with water-loving plants is a feature of a wonderful rock garden abundantly and tastefully planted with the perennials most suitable for rocks or for moisture. The Rose garden near by and long path leading to the house, bordered with beds of perennials, are further delightful tributes to the devoted labor of one who has spent much time on this, her gladdest task. [Illustration: PLATE 124 Lake Forest, Ill. Harold McCormick, Esq. _From a photograph by Julian A. Buckly_] [Illustration: PLATE 125 "Hardin Hall," Hubbard's Wood, Ill. Mrs. John H. Hardin] [Illustration: PLATE 126 "The Farms"] [Illustration: PLATE 127 "The Farms," Monticello, Ill. Robert Allerton, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 128 The rock garden, "Englishton Park"] [Illustration: PLATE 129 The rock garden, "Englishton Park," Lexington, Ind. Mrs. W. E. English] XIII OHIO The difference is slight between the climate of Ohio and other States of its latitude in the East and middle West. While there is no mountainous region, northern Ohio has the advantage of a great lake as its border. On a line with central Connecticut, the temperature of Cleveland is similarly favorable to flower growing, and garden enthusiasts are increasing. Like most of the Middle States, the country is rather flat and the soil fertile as a rule. But, except on the lake shore, the gardens suffer more or less from the hot weather and scarcity of moisture. In the northern half of Ohio spring bulbs appear simultaneously with those in northern New Jersey, and the later plants follow in the same succession. The southern half of Ohio is in the latitude of Maryland and its climatic conditions are almost similar. The spring and June gardens in the middle West give the best satisfaction. The climate is variable, as it is elsewhere throughout the country. One charming illustration conveys some idea of the garden at Gwinn, which is eight miles from Cleveland, and undoubtedly the most notable in this State. By early April the spring garden blooms with Hepatica, Crocus, Chionodoxa, Scilla, Sundrops, Pansy, English Daisy, Spring Beauty, Bloodroot, Trillium, Cypripedium, Violet, Tulip, Hyacinth, and Daffodil, followed soon by many later garden favorites. Sufficient water is supplied to carry the bloom safely through midsummer and September, and year by year the beauty of this garden is increasing with the maturing of its trees and shrubbery, and all that tends to complete the dignity of so noble a design. So artistically wrought are all the various features contributing to the beauty of the Clifton garden that choice of illustrations is made difficult when selection is limited to so few. This fact explains the omission of the little flower garden which even though charming must give place to the accompanying remarkable views. Not far from Cleveland Shadyside, on the lake, is another place of interest to flower lovers, and here a small formal garden has been recently completed in addition to the older water garden. This delightful spot is worthy of particular attention not only on account of the variety of plants adorning its banks, but for its picturesque setting as well. Indian Hill offers a glimpse of a fair little garden, with no suggestion of display; a vine-covered bower surrounded with flowers,--a creation of simple loveliness. [Illustration: PLATE 130 "Gwinn," Cleveland, Ohio. William G. Mather, Esq. _From a photograph by Julian A Buckly_] [Illustration: PLATE 131 A picturesque spot in Mrs. Taft's garden] [Illustration: PLATE 132 A corner in the pergola Clifton, Cincinnati, Ohio. Mrs. Samuel H. Taft] [Illustration: PLATE 133 The water garden Clifton, Cincinnati, Ohio. Mrs. Samuel H. Taft] [Illustration: PLATE 134 The water garden "Shadyside," Painesville, Ohio. Mrs. H. P. Knapp] [Illustration: PLATE 135 "Indian Hill"] [Illustration: PLATE 136 "Indian Hill," Mentor, Ohio. Mrs. John E. Newell] XIV MICHIGAN AND WISCONSIN Favored indeed are the gardens of these States, which border on the Great Lakes, some five hundred and eighty feet above sea-level. The country in most parts is fertile and flat, with a climate superior to that of New England in summer, and winters equally as cold. To quote our well known garden friend, Mrs. Francis King, of Alma, in central Michigan: "We have a very fine summer climate, most favorable to gardening; no humidity whatsoever, but dry and bracing, and while a short summer, a merry one for flowers. We must plan for a late spring, and frost is due in early September; but when we have learned these things it is very simple to arrange for them. Our rainfall is usually sufficient, and we practically never suffer from the heat. Hardy Chrysanthemums need a very sheltered position in winter. At Detroit, one hundred and fifty miles southeast of Alma, the trees are in spring foliage almost ten days earlier, partly owing to the distance southward and partly to the warming influence of Lake St. Clair." The garden at Orchard House, Alma, so vividly described in "The Well-Considered Garden," is too familiar to most gardeners to need description. Briefly, the planting over the large space is all balanced in predominating colors of rose, lavender, white, and palest yellow. Gray foliage and white flowers are freely used, and through the entire summer there is not one week when the whole garden is not gay with flowers from June until frost. To the northeast of Alma is the lovely garden at Garra-tigh, where Daffodils bloom, as in Alma, three weeks later than near the city of New York. Bay City is in the latitude of Portland, Maine, and central Oregon. This attractive garden shows the effective combination of flowers and trees so well arranged that the trees are not detrimental to the vigor of the plants, and the sunny garden space is doubly radiant by contrast, lying within the trees' encircling shadows. Garra-tigh is the Gaelic for House with the Garden. Near Detroit, at Fairlawn, Grosse Pointe Shores, on Lake St. Clair, where the country is flat and fertile, there is another delightful place of interest noted for the abundance of flowers covering several acres of land. The accompanying photograph was made in early September, when the best of the bloom had passed. In June and July the place is a glory with Lilies, Columbine, and Delphinium that are counted in hundreds, and earlier there are Tulips and Daffodils by the thousands. Behind the broad borders that edge the walks vegetables grow in great quantities. Early Tulips come the first week of May, late Tulips about May 20. Climate and soil combine to simplify the gardening tasks in this productive country. The House in the Woods, on Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, has a beautiful garden so well planned that it seems like an outdoor room to this charming villa. The planting scheme is moderate, easily maintained, and yet with beds broad enough to include without difficulty the plants for a long, continuous bloom. Opposite the house the picturesque studio, standing out against the wooded background, borders the garden on this side so that it lies within an enclosed court. [Illustration: PLATE 137 "Orchard House," Alma, Mich. Mrs. Francis King] [Illustration: PLATE 138 "Garra-tigh," Bay City, Mich. Mrs. William L. Clements] [Illustration: PLATE 139 "Fairlawn," Grosse Pointe Shores, Mich. Mrs. Benjamin S. Warren] [Illustration: PLATE 140 Studio from main house] [Illustration: PLATE 141 Court from studio terrace "House-in-the-Woods," Lake Geneva, Wis. Frederic Clay Bartlett, Esq.] XV NEW MEXICO The mountainous States of the West, from Montana to New Mexico, from Colorado almost to the Pacific, have a climate of their own, varying naturally according to latitude. A resident of Las Cruces, New Mexico, writes: "The first killing frost is usually to be expected from the 7th to the 25th of October, very often it is much later, and we have had tomatoes till December with the slightest possible protection. Many flowers in a sheltered position bloom in winter, such as Calendula, Violets, Wallflowers, and Pansies. The highest ordinary summer thermometer is ninety-two to ninety-eight degrees. The lowest usually in winter is fifteen degrees--occasionally it has gone down to fifteen or twenty degrees below zero, but that is most exceptional. The climate is extremely dry. Most of New Mexico is at a high altitude--we are about three thousand eight hundred feet above sea-level here. "As some plants blossom through the winter, it is hard to say when the garden begins to bloom. But about the middle of March we have Crocuses, followed the 1st of April by Jonquils, Narcissus, Tulips, and other bulbs, also German Iris, Lilac, Periwinkles, Cornflower, Mignonette. In the mountains near-by the California Poppies bloom at the same time. Then about mid-April come Tea Roses--and at the end of April or soon after the Peonies and Sweet Peas. The 1st of May or a little later Honeysuckles, Phlox, Snapdragon, Zinnias, and annual Larkspurs appear. Almost everything that is not extremely tender can be wintered in open ground without protection. Tender annuals should be planted out about the end of March. I transplanted some things last year the end of April, and the noonday sun was too much for them, though I shaded them for some time. We plant seeds of Pansies, Asters, Sweet Peas, etc., in the fall for best results." The garden at Mr. Barker's mountain home is delightfully fitted to its surroundings, where nature is supreme and all else studied simplicity. Flowers revel in their freedom without the restriction of conventional beds. Flowers, nature, and the simple life of the Southern hills is the message from this distant home. [Illustration: PLATE 142 Las Cruces, N. M. Percy W. Barker, Esq.] XVI CALIFORNIA The garden section of this State extends the length of its coast, and possibly fifty miles inland, and much is conveyed in a few words when it is described as one garden throughout this whole region. In the hill country mountains are admirable settings to tropical gardens, and from there to the sandy shores a delectable climate with prevailing westerly sea-winds encourages phenomenal growth of the choicest plants. Southern California is particularly blessed with a clear, dry, and balmy climate. Quoting an authority in Santa Barbara: "There is practically no frost in southern California; in the north there is some. There are flowers in our gardens at all times of the year. Tulips bloom in February and March; Daffodils, German Iris, and other hardies from February to May; also Lilies-of-the-Valley, which latter are more scarce on account of the dryness of the atmosphere. From March till autumn there is bloom from Sweet William, Phlox, and many others of their kind, while Geranium, the common Marguerite, and Heliotrope grow all the year around and become large bushes. Roses cover the tops of some villas; Cosmos, California Poppy, Zinnia, Nasturtium, and Stock are among the favorite annuals; and all, whether hardy or tender, may be planted out in March when the winter rains are over. Some of the favorite exotic shrubs used for their bloom are the Acacias, Genista, etc., Solanums, and Choisia Ternata." Quite common are the great Poinsetta plants and the soft, trailing Bougainvillea, with its exquisite red matching in tone the color of our autumn leaves. Boxwood is little used in this climate. Toward San Francisco and northward it is found in greater quantity. To the south it is replaced by Myrtus communis nanus, Myrtus microphylla, Veronica Andersonii for low hedges; Monterey Cypress, Eugenia myrtifolia, different species of Ligustrum (Privet), which are all evergreen here, Duranta Plumerii, and others. The highest temperature in Santa Barbara for a few days in fall is about eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit and the lowest in winter is forty degrees for a few days. The summers are very cool. The climate of Santa Barbara is quite similar to Sorrento, Italy, only better. The farther north on the coast the more rain. In Santa Barbara there is sunshine continually, except for the brief period of rain in winter. The warmest months are August, September, and October. From May to August there are fogs at night along the coast which keep the temperature down during the day. In this paradise of sunshine and flowers are found a bewildering number of wonderful subjects for photography, some of which must give an idea of the favored vegetation of California. At Kimberly Crest, as in the other views, most conspicuous is the brilliant clearness of the atmosphere. This beautiful country-seat is a sample of many which are built more or less on a similar plan, and especially noted for their profusion of choicest shrubs, trees, and flowering plants. At Glendessary is found one of California's favorite gardens, where the strong sunshine is moderated by the plentiful use of trees so carefully arranged that the shadows do not disturb the growths of flowers, which bloom abundantly throughout this lovely place. The flower garden at Piranhurst, named for Saint Piran, an Irish saint, is exceedingly picturesque. The wonderful Greek Theatre, with its wings of tall, clipped Cypress, is without a rival in this country. The design was modelled after one at the Villa Gori, in Italy. This remarkable planting, together with the Roses and other flora in the adjoining garden, combine to make it one of the most famous places on the coast. The owner of Piranhurst is also possessor of the garden at Ross, partly shown in the view of a fountain, with its hill background covered with massively grouped Hydrangeas and Rose vines. Perfectly complete in every detail is the lovely pool in Doctor Schiffman's garden. It seems more a product of the Old World across the sea, while fitting so happily into the tropical atmosphere of Pasadena. The marvellous growth of Banksia and Cherokee Roses, the field of Marguerites, and the background of snow-peaked mountains, all so characteristic of California, belong to Cañon Crest Park, an estate well known to many travellers. Wonderful, too, are the Palms that overarch the driveway, and beautiful the gardens and panorama beyond. The Cactus planting of a San Diego garden is an interesting study in the horticulture of California--this most favored State of the great Union. [Illustration: PLATE 143 "Kimberly Crest"] [Illustration: PLATE 144 "Kimberly Crest," Redlands, Cal. Mrs. J. A. Kimberly] [Illustration: PLATE 145 "Glendessary," Santa Barbara, Cal. Mrs. R. C. Rogers _From a photograph by Brock-Higgins_] [Illustration: PLATE 146 The Greek Theatre--the stage] [Illustration: PLATE 147 The Greek Theatre--the boxes "Piranhurst," Santa Barbara, Cal. Mrs. Henry Bothin] [Illustration: PLATE 148 "Piranhurst," Santa Barbara, Cal. Mrs. Henry Bothin] [Illustration: PLATE 149 Ross, Cal. Mrs. Henry Bothin] [Illustration: PLATE 150 Pasadena, Cal. Rev. Mr. Schiffman _From a photograph, copyright, by Detroit Publishing Co._] [Illustration: PLATE 151 "Cañon Crest Park"] [Illustration: PLATE 152 "Cañon Crest Park," Redlands, Cal. Mrs. Daniel Smiley] [Illustration: PLATE 153 "Cañon Crest Park"] [Illustration: PLATE 154 "Cañon Crest Park," Redlands, Cal. Mrs. Daniel Smiley] [Illustration: PLATE 155 A Cactus garden, Riverside, Cal. Typical growth in California _From a photograph by Brown Brothers_] XVII OREGON AND WASHINGTON In this coast region of the Northwest, shrubs, trees, and vines develop rapidly and give sooner to the garden the appearance of completeness than is the case in the drier climates. An authority from Portland says: "The growing season is long, lasting from March 1 to November 1, and in the places where lawns are well kept they are green throughout the entire winter. At this period, however, the grass does not grow enough to require clipping. Several shrubs, such as the Laurestinus, remain in foliage throughout the entire winter. Usually a few belated Roses are found on the bushes as late as Christmas, not the perfect blooms of summer, by any means, but sufficiently good-looking to adorn a vase in the drawing-room. The freezing weather would ordinarily come in January and be very limited in duration." In February the spring bulbs, Daffodils and Forsythia, appear. At Tacoma and throughout the coast section of Washington the climate differs but slightly from that of Portland, Oregon, the latter having probably less rain and mist, but the whole coast is ideal for flowers. The summer is the dryest season, when gardens will require some sprinkling but not to the extent necessary in most portions of the country. Another authority states that in this northwest coast district it is clear 43 per cent of the year between sunrise and sunset. On an average, 80 clear days, 122 partly clear days, 163 cloudy days. A day which is up to three-tenths cloudy is classed as clear. A day four-tenths to seven-tenths cloudy is classed as partly clear. Days in excess of four-tenths cloudy classed as cloudy. Near Tacoma, among majestic surroundings of forest and lake, with Mount Tacoma as a background, are the famous gardens of Thornewood, rich in flowers and shrubs and splendid garden architecture. Trees and hedges will wither and die, but the "everlasting hills" and the silver waters of American Lake will form a perpetual background to this beautiful place, built in 1880 and standing as the pioneer great garden of the State. Gardens even in the cities are becoming numerous, and attached to many fine residences the planting, though now in its youth, promises to add great adornment in the near future to these municipalities of the Northwest. Mr. Merrill's spacious place in Seattle, partly shown in two small views, illustrates the delightful possibilities of a town garden. The Rose hedge and lovely Rose garden at Rose Crest are typical of hundreds of others in Portland. The hedges are usually made up of Madame Caroline Testout Roses, the most popular sort there; in fact, Portland's official emblem. By June 1, along the curbing of the avenues, there are miles of Roses in bloom, and, as may be imagined, the effect is very pleasing. The climate of western Oregon is quite similar to favored portions of England, but has the advantage of more sunshine. The variety of vegetation is almost endless. Plants native to England will grow here that will not thrive in other parts of the United States, and the gardening tasks are simple in comparison to the toil necessary where gardens are subject to greater extremes of heat, cold, drought, and similar problems. Cliff Cottage and High Hatch, both about six miles south of Portland, on the Willamette River, possess gardens in their beginning, both interestingly planned and already known to garden lovers even beyond the limits of that State. The Cliff Cottage garden is designed in four terraces, with a rich background of primeval trees. Dwarf fruit trees and vegetables fill the beds that are all bordered with flowers. The stone stairway leading to the several terraces is in keeping with the natural surroundings of a wooded hillside. Rock planting is also a feature. The landscape in the distance is a beautiful outlook. High Hatch has a combination of upper and lower garden, partly in a rock garden, spread out over considerable undulating land with winding gravel paths and stone stairs connecting the various parts. A wide white stone balustrade divides the broad lawn from the gardens below, and a fine growth of aged pines completes the adornment of the place. [Illustration: PLATE 156 "Thornewood," Tacoma, Wash. Mrs. Chester Thorne] [Illustration: PLATE 157 "Thornewood"] [Illustration: PLATE 158 "Thornewood," Tacoma, Wash. Chester Thorne, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 159 Seattle, Wash. Robert Merrill, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 160 Seattle, Wash. Robert Merrill, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 161 Section of a Rose hedge bordering an avenue in Portland, Ore.] [Illustration: PLATE 162 "Rosecrest," Portland Heights, Portland, Ore. Mrs. F. I. Fuller] [Illustration: PLATE 163 A garden in three terraces "Cliff Cottage," Elk Rock, Portland, Ore. Peter Kerr, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 164 A rock garden leading to formal garden "High Hatch," Riverwood, Portland, Ore. Thomas Kerr, Esq.] XVIII ALASKA _Last_, but not least, comes Alaska; even if last to arrive on the map of the Union, yet not least in size of territory or in flowers, and with still another condition of climate to be considered. Alaskan gardens are as yet but tiny modest plots against the gray log cabins, suggesting the homes of our Pilgrim fathers on the milder New England coast so long ago, and as we think of the stone and marble pergolas in modern New England, there comes the suggestion: "Then why not Alaska likewise some day?" To those who think of Alaska only as a land of snow and ice, descriptions of its flower-surrounded log cabins seem like impossible dreams. Quoting from Reverend Mr. Lumpkin's paper: "In coming into Alaska, you first awake to the beautiful reality in Skagway. This is the point where the White Pass road is taken to make connection with the river boats for the interior. Your eyes rest upon the wonderful fulfilment of the flowers and your crag-weary soul is refreshed. "Every growing thing in Alaska seems to exemplify the Alaskan spirit, and that is to make the very best of bad conditions, and to make the very most of the many good ones. With the dark winters and short summers, every ray of sunshine has to be used, and when in the summer the sun shines all day and nearly all night for three months, there is no time for loafing in flower land. "Just take a walk down through Fairbanks in July and you will begin to think that wonders will never cease. You will see flowers, that at home you had to coax and nurse into growth, here in radiant, luxuriant masses. The Pansies are unusually large, whole borders of them, and paths bordered with beds a foot wide, filled to the edges with changeable velvet. Sweet Peas grow up to the tops of the fences, and then, if no further support is given them, over they go, back to the ground again. All summer the Nasturtiums climb nearer and nearer the roofs of the cabins, and bloom and bloom in sheer delight. Some paths are bordered with Poppies, big stately red and white, and white and pink ones, or the golden California beauties. These natives of warmer climes seem perfectly at home in the Northland. Asters scorn hothouses and grow in profusion wherever they are planted, and wherever they are they are beautiful. They are as large as the Chrysanthemums the Easterner delights in, and of all the various changes of colors. By them, perhaps, will be Dahlias as large and rich as any you have ever seen. The more beauty-loving and flower-loving the owner of the garden, the longer you will stay to look and wonder. Candytuft, Sweet Alyssum, and Mignonette will greet you from their accustomed places on the borders of beds of flowers, and you will almost smile at them as at some old-time friend. Then you will see where some daring gardener has bordered the beds with Phlox or Snapdragon, and you will feel compelled to admire the result. "Never have I seen such Begonias. The flowers are like Camellias, and the colors exquisite. Shades of pale yellow to deep yellow, pale pink to deep pink, and the pure white. The Geraniums, too, grow to giant size, and seem to be ever-blooming. One really is tempted to feel the stalks of some of them before it can be believed that they are not two plants tied together. There was a Geranium in one of the small towns which filled the window of a store. "Many cabins have five or more baskets hanging from the eaves. Imagine gray log cabins with birch baskets filled with blue Lobelias; flame-colored Nasturtiums climbing to the roof, beds of velvet Pansies, borders of crimson Poppies leading to the gate, where golden California Poppies make way for you to pass, and beyond, the distant Alaskan mountains, snow-covered and glistening in the sun. Imagine one cabin, and then think of streets of them; change your flower colors as you will, as a child changes his kaleidoscope, and you will have some idea of Alaska flower land."[5] FOOTNOTES: [5] From _The Alaskan Churchman_. XIX VANCOUVER ISLAND The lure of the far-famed gardens of the island so close to our shores is enticing enough to make a happy excuse for giving the space of a page to one of its smaller gardens. In the heart of this fair garden, in the country of the Englishman, at the end of this book on American gardens, the author, though a proud American, unhesitatingly admits that usually it is the Englishman who has inspired us to make gardens as nearly as possible like those of the mother country. Is it the old blood that is stirring within us, the common bond of past associations and brotherhood so often expressed in our physical resemblances as well as in many of our ideals? The garden in the accompanying illustrations shows a beautiful combination of flowers with picturesque old trees. The climate of this favored place is even more delightful and balmy than that of the mainland, and the charm of the great Pacific is doubly felt along these quiet shores. The untravelled may picture it as isolated and forsaken, but rather is it just enough retired to be apart without loneliness; and, except, in a few cities, excluding the turmoil of the world, yet hospitably open to the friendly passer-by. There is more sunshine here than in England, although the climates are very similar. On Vancouver Island there are the four distinct, well-defined seasons; the temperature is more like that of Portland than of Tacoma. The island is generously covered with vegetation, and when its native wild flowers are considered, in addition to the gardens in rich cultivation, it may well be called a garden island. [Illustration: PLATE 165 Victoria City, Vancouver Island, B. C.] [Illustration: PLATE 169 Victoria City, Vancouver Island, B. C.] A FEW GARDEN GATES [Illustration: PLATE 167 Longview, Tenn. Mrs. James E. Caldwell _From a photograph by G. C. Dury & Co. Reproduced by permission of the author of "Your Garden and Mine"_] [Illustration: PLATE 168 "Knock-Mae-Cree," Westport, Conn. Mrs. William Curtis Gibson _From a photograph by Brown Brothers_] [Illustration: PLATE 169] [Illustration: PLATE 170 "Hamilton House," South Berwick, Maine. Mrs. George S. Tyson] [Illustration: PLATE 171] [Illustration: PLATE 172 "Glen Alpine," Morristown, N. J. Charles W. McAlpin, Esq.] [Illustration: PLATE 173 East Hampton, L. I. Mrs. Theron G. Strong] [Illustration: PLATE 174 "Glendessary," Santa Barbara, Cal. Mrs. R. C. Rogers] [Illustration: PLATE 175 "Clifton," Cincinnati, Ohio. Mrs. Samuel H. Taft] [Illustration: PLATE 176 "Thornewood," Tacoma, Wash. Chester Thorne, Esq.] 
31265	----	[Illustration: AUNT HANNAH AND SETH A STORY OF SOME PEOPLE AND A DOG. BY JAMES OTIS] [Illustration: "'HI, LIMPY!' A SHRILL VOICE CRIED."] [Illustration: _Aunt Hannah And Seth By James Otis Author of "How Tommy Saved the Barn" etc. New York Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. Publishers_] Copyright, 1900, by THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--AN ADVERTISEMENT, 1 II.--THE COUNTRY, 20 III.--AUNT HANNAH, 39 IV.--THE FLIGHT, 58 V.--AN ACCIDENT, 76 VI.--SUNSHINE, 95 AUNT HANNAH. CHAPTER I. AN ADVERTISEMENT. A SMALL boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the New York approach to the Brooklyn Bridge on a certain June morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. Seth Barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as Limpy Seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. Such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "Hi, Limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as Seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. Seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "Out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "Goin' to give up business?" "I got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' Snip a chance to run in the park. The poor little duffer don't have much fun down at Mother Hyde's while I'm workin'." "You might sell him for a pile of money, Limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "Teddy Dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "Look here, Tim, do you think I'd sell Snip, no matter how much money I might get for him? Why, he's the only relation I've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "It costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "What of that? He thinks a heap of me, Snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as I would if anything happened to one of us." "Yes, I reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! It's a pity, Limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "Snip has what milk he needs----" "An' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "What of that?" Seth cried sharply. "Don't I tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! I'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why I couldn't feed him." "A dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. I ain't countin' but that Snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as Teddy Dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "He's a heap better'n I am, Tim Chandler! Snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." As if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "There, look at that! If you didn't have any folks, Tim Chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "He ain't really yours," Tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "What's the reason he ain't? Didn't I find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't I kept him in good shape ever since? Of course he wasn't mine at first; but I'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! If you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like Snip. You ought'er see him when I come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! It seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! I tell you, Tim, Snip loves me just like I was his mother!" Master Chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "There's Pip Smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" Tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "He's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. He allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." Seth gave more attention to the caresses Snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until Tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "He's yellin' for you, Seth! What's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" Perhaps Tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had Master Smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited Pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "What kind of a game have you been up to, Limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. Seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "Anything gone wrong?" Tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "I don't know what he means," Seth replied, and Pip shouted wildly: "Listen to him! You'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all I can find out!" "Who?" Seth demanded, grown restive under Pip's accusing gaze. "You, of course!" "But I haven't been up to any game." "You can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause I've got it down here in black an' white." "Got what down?" Tim asked impatiently. "If there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "Seth Barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," Pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "Listen to this, Tim Chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game Limpy's been playin'!" Then, with a tragical air, Master Smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "INFORMATION WANTED of a boy calling himself Seth Barrows. Said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in Jersey City three years ago. He then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one Richard Genet. A liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. Address Symonds & Symonds, Attorneys-at-law." As he ceased reading, Master Smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met Seth's bewildered gaze. "Sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "But I don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "What does it mean?" Seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at Tim and Pip. "Mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "I reckon you can answer that better'n we could. When the bank on Broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for I saw it with my own eyes." "But I haven't been breakin' into any bank!" Seth wailed, hugging Snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "Then what's that advertisement there for?" and Master Smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "How do I know?" Now it was Tim's turn to gaze at Seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that Snip's master had committed some terrible crime. The lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. Although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. He knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. There was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of New York would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. The number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until Seth and Snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. Therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. Seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. When little Snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to Seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. Leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in Snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. A blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but Seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with Snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. Once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, Seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "See here, Seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. If you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "I haven't done a thing, an' you know it, Tim Chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "Then what's the notice about?" Tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "I don't know any more'n you do." "Where's the lead nickel Mickey Dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" Teddy Dixon asked sharply. Seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping Snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. Withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "It's gone!" Seth cried shrilly. "It's gone; but I'll cross my throat if I knew I was passin' it!" Snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, Seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "That settles the whole business," Teddy Dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "You shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" Seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. From that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of Seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "You've got to skip mighty quick," Tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "Where'll I go?" Seth cried tearfully. "They know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "You can bet I wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "If we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, I don't see how anybody could find you!" "But where'd I go?" Seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "Anywhere. Here's Snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." Seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. They held a hurried consultation, while Seth stood caressing Snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then Teddy and Tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. Seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of Broadway, Tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "You fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. Wait here, an' me an' Teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of Seth." This injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "You'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," Seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "It can't be helped," Teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "We ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. Keep your eye on Snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." Even if Seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. Tim and Teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. Had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. Seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and Snip were being forced. He understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. Finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, Teddy paid the passage money, and Seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as Tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. Now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, Seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "The minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," Teddy said impressively, clutching Seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "We'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "But what am I to do afterward?" Seth asked helplessly. "There ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. You're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "Snip an' I will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while I'm hidin'?" "How much have you got now?" "'Bout fifty cents." Tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "You'll need it all, an' I can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." Teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to Seth's expostulations, save as he said: "We're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. If you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way I reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' I stand ready to do all I can towards keepin' you away from him." "Look here, fellers," Seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "I don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. Where can Snip an' I go? We've got to earn our livin', an' I don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "That's easy enough," and Tim spoke hopefully. "The city is a fool alongside the country, an' I'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. When we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. Pip Smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' I've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." Seth shook his head doubtfully. Although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by Pip Smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "You'll strike it rich somewhere," Teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. I'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps I'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." The conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and Seth, with Snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "Keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from New York that the detectives can't find you," Tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, Snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. Tim and Teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. Then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "I wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for Seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." And Tim replied sadly: "If a feller stuck me with a counterfeit I'd think I had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape I'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' I ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if Pip Smith does think it's sich a soft snap." Then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how Seth had fared at the outset of his flight. CHAPTER II. THE COUNTRY. SETH had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. Neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. If it had been possible for Snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. Instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in Seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. The little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but Seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "I don't dare to stop yet a while, Snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when I'm locked up in jail." A big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. Then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here Seth halted irresolutely. He had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. He was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." No person could be seen in either direction, and Seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. For the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed Snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "You must wait a spell longer, Snippey dear," he muttered. "We may have to run for it, an' I mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. It would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' I'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows I wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." Then Seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. Two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "How many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. She looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "I don't know the price of them. This shop isn't mine; I'm tendin' it for a friend." "Then you can't sell things?" and Seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "Oh, dear, yes, that's what I'm here for; but I never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth I don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. Do you know what they are worth?" "The bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." The lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "It seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "Have you got anything else to eat?" "That candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "I'll take five cents' worth of cakes," Seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. The amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant Snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "What a dear little dog! Did he come with you?" "Yes, ma'am," Seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress Snip: "We're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes I'll thank you." "Dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to Snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "How far are you going?" "I don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "Got friends out this way, I take it?" "Well,--yes--no--that is, I don't know. Won't you please hurry?" The woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed Snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for Seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. Seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing Snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. His first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "They haven't caught up with us yet, Snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "If they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." Having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "We can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. It was not difficult for a boy tired as was Seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time Snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. It was most refreshing to Seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. Save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. Then Snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and Seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. There was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. The birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of Snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. The sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon Seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while Snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "It's almost sunset, Snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. It's fine, I know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but I don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. Besides, who knows but there are bears? We must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as Pip Smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." The fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of Tim and Teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. He had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and Snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. After a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, Seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "We'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to Snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. He did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to Snippey's alarm, and Seth hurried on at full speed. "That wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "We'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" Ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." Seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. Three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "If Pip Smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, Snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." Master Snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. Seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. He began to fear that he might get himself and Snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. No light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to Seth than any he had seen. "If the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. It can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." The barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. He could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. Promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, Seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with Snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. The fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. Many hours later the shrill barking of Snip awakened Seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. The rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. Seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny Snip. "Is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to Seth, painful pause. "Who--what animal? Oh, you mean Snip? Why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. He always barks when strange folks come near where I am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. Do you own this barn?" "Yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the Morses, an' there are none left now except Gladys an' me." "I hope you won't be mad 'cause I came in here last night. I counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder I kept right on sleepin'." "Have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that Snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "I didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. Well, to tell the truth, I was afraid I'd be driven away, same's I had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "Aunt Hannah! Aunt Hannah!" It was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at Snip: "I wish you would hold your dog, little boy. That is Gladys, an' she's so reckless that I'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." Seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a June wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "Oh, Aunt Hannah! Why, where in the world did that little boy--What a perfectly lovely dog! Oh, you dear!" This last exclamation was called forth by Master Snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "Don't, Gladys! You mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." The warning came too late. Gladys already had Snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "You poor, foolish Aunt Hannah! To think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! Isn't he a perfect beauty? I never saw such a dear!" The little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. She feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. There was just a tinge of jealousy in Seth's heart as he gazed at Snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. It seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. Gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of Aunt Hannah's anxiety. She admired Snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into Seth's possession. The boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "Put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," Seth said, without replying to her question. Then Snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. He sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with Seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. Gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch Snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." Not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to Seth, and by this time Aunt Hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like Snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "Of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and Gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while I am milking." Then it was that Seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing Snip's note of defiance and warning. Gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to Seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while Aunt Hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "There's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to Seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "Don't you think Snippey would like some milk?" "I'm certain he would," Seth replied promptly. "He hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." A moment later Master Snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since Seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. The fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. The walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. The floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. A large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "Well, if this is a farmer's house I wouldn't wonder if a good bit of Pip Smith's yarn was true," Seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. He was alone in the kitchen. Snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and Gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "Folks that live like this must be mighty rich," Seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "It ain't likely Snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' I expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. I reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. I wonder if that little bit of a woman expects I'll pay for breakfast?" CHAPTER III. AUNT HANNAH. WITH a broken comb, which he used upon Snip's hair as well as his own, Seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. On either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. The little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. Surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then Pip Smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "It must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," Seth said to himself. "It would please Snip way down to the ground; but I mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." Then Aunt Hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. Seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "Bless your heart, my child, I ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that I've done as much or more every day since I was Gladys's age." "But that's no reason why I shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause Snip an' me slept in the barn. Besides, I'd like to say to the fellers that I'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if I ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "Then you came from the city?" "Yes, an' I never got so far out in the country before. Say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" And as Aunt Hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, Seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. After placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to Gladys: "It's time White-Face was taken to pasture, child." "Do you mean the cow?" Seth asked. "Yes, dear." "Why can't I take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "Unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. It's only across the road over yonder." Seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which Aunt Hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. Only once before had Seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and Pip Smith had travelled over to the Erie Yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. It surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but Seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. She shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as Aunt Hannah had been of Snip. Once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from Snip, who probably fancied Seth stood in need of his protection. "Why did you jump so?" Gladys asked merrily. Seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "I reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "And you are really afraid of poor old White-Face? Why, she's as gentle as Snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." Then Gladys stepped boldly forward, and Snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "Now, you are just as foolish as your master," Gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. Then it was that Snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and Seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "I want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but I never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. I s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "Some cows are ugly, I suppose," Gladys replied reflectively, taking Snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when White-Face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but Aunt Hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. She's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. There, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. By the time we get back breakfast will be ready. Did you walk all the way from the city?" There was no necessity for Seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of Snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. The morning meal was prepared, and as Gladys drew out a chair to show Seth where he should sit, Aunt Hannah asked anxiously: "What does the dog do while you are eating?" "You'll see how well he can behave himself," Snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. Much to Seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, Gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. It caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with Snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. Then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "Where are you going, my boy?" "That's what I don't just know," Seth replied, after a short pause. "Pip Smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when Snip an' I had to come away, I thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "Haven't you any parents, or a home?" Aunt Hannah asked in surprise. "I don't s'pose I have. I did live over to Mr. Genet's in Jersey City; but he died, an' I had to hustle for myself." "Had to what?" Aunt Hannah asked. "Why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. There ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' I don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause I can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "Did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "Well, sometimes. You see I ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' Snip an' I had a room down to Mother Hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. We could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "I suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "Well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. Perhaps some time I could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then I'd been all right, you know." "Why did you come into the country?" "You see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" Seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left New York so unceremoniously. Perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. Neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. Aunt Hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "Do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "I don't know anything about it, 'cause you see I never was in the country before," Seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "Pip Smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. If I could always have such a bed as I got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "But you slept in the barn!" Gladys cried. "Yes; it was nicer than any room Mother Hyde's got. Don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "The farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but I don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "I might strike something," Seth said reflectively. "At any rate, Snip an' I'll have to keep movin'." "Then you have no idea where you're going?" And Aunt Hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "I wish I did," Seth replied with a sigh, and Gladys said quickly: "You can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "Perhaps I might come across a barn, same's I did last night." "And grow to be a regular tramp?" "I wouldn't be one if I was willin' to work, would I? That's all Snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." Aunt Hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. Snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and Seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. Gladys began removing the dishes from the table, Aunt Hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts Seth managed to ask: "How much will I have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "Why, bless your heart, my boy, I wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "But we must pay our way, you know, though I ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. I don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "You needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. Gladys an' I aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as I would like to see it." Seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. It was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when Aunt Hannah and Gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. It is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. Then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. It was Aunt Hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from Gladys: "It is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. But how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "I am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, Aunt Hannah. With three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "He can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as I see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. I have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "Surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "I believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, I'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time I hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." Seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. Until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and Snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. There was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. He stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "A feller who would bother a good woman like Aunt Hannah deserves to be kicked. She's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but I ain't goin' to play mean with her. It's lucky I happened to hear what was said, else I'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me I might." At that moment Snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "It's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," Seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "How would it be if I should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? I ought'er do it, Snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family I've got. An' that's where I'm mighty mean! You'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." Snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and Seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "I can't do it, little man, I can't do it! You must stick to me, else I'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. We'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. It must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." Then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by Aunt Hannah, and Snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until Gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "I'll take good care of him," she called to Seth, as Snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "I'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but I believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," Seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat Gladys laughed merrily. Then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when Aunt Hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "It looks very neat," she said approvingly. "I never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! Last spring I hired William Dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "Have I earned the breakfast Snip and I ate?" Seth asked, pleased with her praise. "Indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. When we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' I don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "It was the very nicest breakfast I ever had, Miss--Miss----" "You may call me 'Aunt Hannah,' for I'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. Would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "Indeed I would!" was the emphatic reply, and then Seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "That is, I would if I could; but Snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." Aunt Hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "You an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what I'm not able to attend to now I've grown so old. Why did you leave the city, my child?" Had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" Seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "I'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which Aunt Hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "I'd like to tell you, but I can't," he repeated. "I don't believe you are a bad boy, Seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. The lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "Perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. Gladys declares, an' I've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. I don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and Snip as members of the family." Seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "Would you rather go away?" Aunt Hannah asked in surprise. "No, I wouldn't!" Seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "I'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, Snip an' I can't stay to bother you. We'll leave when he comes back." "Listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. We will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after I have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." Then Gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged Snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and Aunt Hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving Seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "I never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" CHAPTER IV. THE FLIGHT. NEITHER Gladys nor Snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and Seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that Aunt Hannah had said. A very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. It seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. As the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left New York was first told; and once Aunt Hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. He believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. So long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "I'll come back when I'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe I didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when I passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "It would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time Snip could have!" Then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "I'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "I reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but I couldn't get along without him!" Gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. She and Snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing Seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "If you jump like that I shall begin to think you are as nervous as Aunt Hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "She insists that between Snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, Seth, that I've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. I had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two Dean boys and Malvinia Stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "I believe Snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," Seth replied gloomily. "I never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. If I wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "Of course he'll stay," Gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "Aunt Hannah and I have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. You two are to live here; Snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of New York. What do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "I'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." And Seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet Miss Gladys' startled gaze. "Wait till you've talked with Aunt Hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "We've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "I have talked with her," Seth replied gloomily. "We'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "I'd like to know why"; and now Gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "Neither you nor Snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much I know to a certainty." "I believe you, but it can't be done." And the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. Gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking Snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. During the remainder of the forenoon neither Aunt Hannah, Gladys, nor Snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. Seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to Aunt Hannah's instructions. This time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. Not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her Heavenly Father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. Aunt Hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to Seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. Perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left New York, Seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. Nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but Gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with Snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. Then Aunt Hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. Therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. Immediately after the meal had been brought to a close Seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. When she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and Snip were fugitives. Some of the neighbors called upon Aunt Hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that Gladys and Snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. His hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then Aunt Hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "I declare you have done as well as any man I could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread Seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "William Dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. You have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "I'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "Of course I could do such work quicker after I'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "I didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. We'll see to that in the morning. I must go after White-Face now, or we shall have a late supper. Have you seen anything of Gladys?" "She hasn't been here. Say, why can't I get the cow?" "I suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "I reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." And Seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that Aunt Hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. It did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since Gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. He led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "Is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as Aunt Hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "You've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "Sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. We poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." Seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "Don't you think I could do that?" he asked timidly. "I dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "Would you be willin' to let me try?" "Of course you shall," and Aunt Hannah got up quickly from the stool. "Be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." Seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although White-Face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. Then Aunt Hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished Seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as Gladys and Snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. Bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again Aunt Hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. While they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "You are to stay here until morning, Seth, and then we will have another talk. I'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. You are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper I guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." Understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, Seth took Snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "You've been mighty good to us, Miss--Aunt Hannah, an' I hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "You've done that this afternoon," Gladys cried laughingly. "Aunt Hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. All hands, including Snip, will have a share in the planting, and I wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." Seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed Aunt Hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "You won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and Seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. After undressing, and when Snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, Seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. There was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "I hope Aunt Hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" Then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. Never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! There were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. Snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. The chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the Morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. Weary, as Seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. Perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as Aunt Hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. It is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe Seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. More than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell Aunt Hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. To his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. Then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. Crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. And then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking Snip in his arms. The dog was sleeping soundly, and Seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "It's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. You'll be sorry not to see Gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as I shall, 'cause I know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." Then he opened the door softly, still holding Snip in his arms. Not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. It was as if he and Snip were the only occupants of the house. Seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since Aunt Hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. With his hand on Snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, Seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both Aunt Hannah and Gladys must be aroused. In trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing Snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and Seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. He was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. Never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. The descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. Once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. The key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. The moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from New York; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. He saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. A cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "Where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than Aunt Hannah. Seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. He had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "Where are you going, Seth dear?" "I wasn't--I had to run away, Aunt Hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "Why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "I was afraid you and Gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps I couldn't stick to what I'd agreed on." "Do you really want to leave us, Seth?" "Indeed I don't, Aunt Hannah! I'd give anything in this world if I could stay, for this is the very nicest place I ever was in. Oh, indeed, I don't want to go away!" "Then why not stay?" "I can't! I can't, 'cause I'd have to tell----" Seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in Snip's silky hair. "Is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" And the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. Seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "Then go right back to bed. You shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile I will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." CHAPTER V. AN ACCIDENT. FILLED with shame and confusion, Seth made no resistance when Aunt Hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. He was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while Snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." Seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. He could only realize that Aunt Hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. He wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "Of course she'll tell Gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe I'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. Seth was awakened next morning by Aunt Hannah's voice, as she called gently: "It's time to get up, my dear. The sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." Snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and Seth heard the little woman say to him: "I really believe Gladys was in the right when she said I would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. Do you want a saucer of milk?" "She won't talk so pleasantly when I get there," Seth said to himself. "I'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if I was a thief!" The lad soon came to know Aunt Hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. When he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "You see I'm beginning to depend on you already, Seth. Gladys isn't up yet, and I've left White-Face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. The grass is wet with dew, an' I'm gettin' so old that I don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." Seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. When the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. His one desire was to avoid coming face to face with Aunt Hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work Gladys came out in search of Snip. Seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. Just then Snip was of far more importance in the eyes of Aunt Hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "Come in an' wash your face, my dear. Breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." Seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. Had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. Aunt Hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. Seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. The little woman asked that her Father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. When the morning meal had come to an end Gladys was eager Seth should join her and Snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "We've only to plant the garden," Aunt Hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." Seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and Gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. Until noon the three, with Snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as Aunt Hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." Seth did not join Gladys and Snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. Twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from New York, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "I couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. There was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. During three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. Seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. He had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. Gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and Snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet Seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "It's no use, Snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "I can't stay an' not tell Aunt Hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. If I could talk to her in the dark, when I couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. We must have it out mighty soon, for I can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." He was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade Aunt Hannah and Gladys good-night. The moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and Seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. Having repeated to Snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. Only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, Snip following close behind, barking shrilly. Once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. The room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay Aunt Hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. It needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell Seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. Like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when Dud Wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. He pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "Don't get scared! We can't put the fire out with water; but I'll soon smother it." "You needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! It would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "I'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "There is no fire here now." And Aunt Hannah threw back the rugs, despite Seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "For mercy's sake, save the house! It's the only home I ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if I lost it!" Before she had ceased speaking Seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for Aunt Hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. Not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. The little woman remained upon the floor where Seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "Never mind me until the fire is out." "There is no more fire, an' I'm bound to mind you! Are you hurt?" "It doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet I can't use either ankle or wrist. Of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." Seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why Gladys did not make her appearance. The first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "What can I do? Oh, what can I do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for Gladys. "Don't waken her!" Aunt Hannah cried warningly. "If you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "Ain't she in the house?" Seth asked nervously. He feared Aunt Hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. He failed to observe that Snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and Seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "You mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," Aunt Hannah said soothingly. "But for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "But you can't get up!" Seth wailed. "That wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if I never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "But I'm not going to lie here. Surely you can help me on to the couch." "Tell me how to do it," Seth cried eagerly, and at that moment Gladys appeared in the doorway. "Lean over so that I may put my arms around your neck," Aunt Hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "She fell an' hurt herself," Seth said hurriedly to Gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. And then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "If you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to Gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. Aunt Hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. Then Gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, Aunt Hannah had been grievously burned. "Yes, I'm in some pain," she said in reply to Seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved I have no right to complain. Get some flour, Gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps Seth will run over to Mrs. Dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "Where does Mis' Dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when Gladys replied: "It's the first house past the grove where Snip and I went this afternoon!" Seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay Aunt Hannah for having given shelter to him and Snip, lending speed to his feet. The Dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, Seth ran back to help Gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. Aunt Hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "Mis' Dean is comin' right away. What can I do?" "Nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "You have been of such great service to me this night that I can never repay you." "Please don't say that, Aunt Hannah," Seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "If I could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think I was so awful bad." "I believe you to be a good boy, Seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. Even then," she added with a smile, "I fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." The arrival of Mrs. Dean put an end to any further conversation, and Seth was called upon to aid in carrying Aunt Hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "I am as well off in my own bed, Sarah Dean. Don't treat me as if I was a child who didn't know what was best." "You are goin' into the foreroom, Hannah Morse, an' that's all there is about it. That bed hasn't been used since the year your brother Benjamin was at home, an' I've always said that if anything happened to you, an' I had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. We'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "You can bet she does!" Seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from Mrs. Dean's mouth. When the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, Seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; Gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and Snip was ordered into the shed. Aunt Hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to Gladys' chamber, and then Mrs. Dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. Seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by Mr. Dean, and here Gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "How is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "Her hands and arms are burned very badly. Why, Seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and Mrs. Dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "That's 'cause she's so good. If I was like her I needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after I died. It would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see Aunt Hannah!" "She'd have burned to death but for you." "That ain't so, Gladys. I didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "She's just been telling Mrs. Dean that you saved her life, and the house." "Did she really?" Seth cried excitedly. "Did she say it in them very same words?" "Aunt Hannah made it sound a good deal better than I can. She said God sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "Wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" Seth asked quickly. "I've heard Mother Hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "Aunt Hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for I never heard a thing till Snippey came into my room barking." "I hope I did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "Don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "Perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "And since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "I hope so." "Why, Seth Barrows, how wicked you are!" "No, no, Gladys, I didn't mean I hoped she'd have burned to death; but I hoped I really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when I tell her." "Tell her what?" "Why Snip an' I had to run away from New York." "Is it something you're ashamed of?" Gladys asked quickly and in surprise. Seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. Gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "I don't believe it. Aunt Hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "Did Aunt Hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" And Seth rose to his feet excitedly. "I hope you don't think I'd tell a lie?" "Of course I don't, Gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--Aunt Hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder I had hard work to believe it." "She said to me those very same words----" "What ones?" "That you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." Then, suddenly, to Gladys' intense surprise, Seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. CHAPTER VI. SUNSHINE. MRS. DEAN had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that Gladys and Seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. At midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that Aunt Hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, Gladys, in obedience to Mrs. Dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but Seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "Somethin' that I could do might turn up, an' I count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "Snip an' I'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" So eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve Aunt Hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. With the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when Mrs. Dean came out from the foreroom. "Well, I do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Hannah Morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n I expected. I wish my William could take a few lessons from you." "I didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," Seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "If the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "You're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when I tell Hannah Morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." Seth did not venture to look up lest Mrs. Dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "Is Aunt Hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "I allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. At first I was afraid she'd broken some bones; but Mrs. Stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. It seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. The wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." Then Mrs. Dean questioned Seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. Then Gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after Seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. Mr. Dean came over to milk White-Face, and Seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if Aunt Hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as Mrs. Dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. The old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that Mr. Dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the Morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. Very proud was Seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and Gladys ran to tell Aunt Hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. During the next two days either Mrs. Dean or Mrs. Stubbs ruled over the Morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time Seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. Gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that Aunt Hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and Seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. The neighbors sent newspapers and books for Gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed Seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as Aunt Hannah herself would have done. Then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. He had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. It was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and Gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to Seth: "Aunt Hannah thinks I ought to run out of doors a little while because I have stayed in the house so long. There isn't the least bit of need; but I must go, else she'll worry herself sick. She says you can sit with her, an' I'll take Snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than I am." Just for a moment Seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that Aunt Hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. Gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. With Snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and Seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. Aunt Hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. The bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and Seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "I knew you would be forced to come when Gladys went out, and that was why I sent her. We two--you an' I--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." Seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed Aunt Hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave New York, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "I ought'er----" He stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "You have saved the old home, an' my life as well, Seth. Even if I had hesitated at making you one of the family, I could not do so now, after owing you so much." "Don't talk like that, Aunt Hannah! Don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" Seth cried tearfully. "It's the other way, an' Snip an' I are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. Wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "Ever since you got hurt I've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' I promised Snip an' myself that I'd do it the very first chance. If it----" "There is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. I have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "We shall have to go; but I'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause I know you think I was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what I've done." "My dear boy," and Aunt Hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "I never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "An' that's jest the truth. Now don't say a word till I've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." Then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, Seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by Teddy and Tim. "I didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but I reckon I'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause I couldn't afford to lose so much money. Of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if I should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let Gladys take care of poor little Snippey?" "Come here an' kiss me, Seth," Aunt Hannah said softly. "I wish I could put my hand on your head! And you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "You poor little child! If you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. The good Book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from God. But I'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. Do you know, Gladys read your story in the paper before I sent her for a walk, and that is why I wanted to be alone with you." Seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and Aunt Hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "Take up the newspaper lying on the table. I told Gladys to fold it so you might find the article I wanted you to read." Seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "Can you read, dear?" "Not very well, 'cause I have to spell out the big words." "Hold it before my eyes while I make the attempt. There isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, I hope." Seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, the well-known attorneys of Pine Street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. Several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in San Francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one Seth Barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. All the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in Jersey City, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. His age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "It is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in New York City; but Messrs. Symonds & Symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. As has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. The boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. The moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." It was not until Aunt Hannah had concluded that Seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "Do you suppose the Seth Barrows told about there can be me?" "Of course, my dear. Isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "But there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, Aunt Hannah! There's a big mistake somewhere." "Do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in California?" "Indeed I don't. I thought Snip was all the relation I had in the world." "Why did the man in Jersey City allow you to live with him?" "I don't know. I had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause I was too small." "Well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "I don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but I'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from New York because of an advertisement. The money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "I wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," Seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "Now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. I'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. I've sent for Nathan Dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." Then Mrs. Dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and Seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. Gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "What did Aunt Hannah say to you?" "Why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "Because I read that story in the newspaper. Then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said I'd better ask Mr. Dean to come over this afternoon. I couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because Mrs. Dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. Did you tell her why you and Snippey ran away?" "Of course I did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance I had to speak with her alone, though I made sure she'd send me away." Then Seth repeated that which he had told Aunt Hannah, and while he was thus engaged Mr. Dean entered the house. During the two days which followed, Gladys and Seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when Aunt Hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. Then it was that Mr. Dean returned from New York, and came to make his report. There was no longer any question but that it was really Seth's uncle who had lately died in San Francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. It appeared, according to Mr. Dean's story, as learned from Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, that Daniel Barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying Richard Genet of Jersey City a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. Mr. Genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom Seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. There were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. Aunt Hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end Mr. Dean had several conferences with Symonds & Symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. There is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the Morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell Aunt Hannah, Seth, Gladys, and Snip after the inheritance was paid. That they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in Aunt Hannah's home? And in the days to come, when Father Time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, Seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and Snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. THE END. 
38438	----	THE MELODY OF EARTH AN ANTHOLOGY OF GARDEN AND NATURE POEMS FROM PRESENT-DAY POETS SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY MRS. WALDO RICHARDS [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1918 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY GERTRUDE MOORE RICHARDS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published March 1918_ TO MY DEAR SISTER A LOVER OF GARDENS FOREWORD How many of us are conscious of the subtle melodies, "through which the myriad lispings of the earth find perfect speech"? Our poets are listeners; their ears are tuned to the magic call of secret voices that we who are not singers may never hear. They capture the "Melody" in chalices of song, and their message is: that whosoever will bend his ear to earth, may hear from field and furrow, from the many-bladed grass and the soft-petalled flowers--in the soughing of the pine tree or the rustle of leaves--an immortal music that revivifies the soul. In the quiet tilled spots of earth, from time immemorial, men have sown rare seeds of poetic thought that have flowered into song. Amiel wrote in his _Journal_: "All seed-sowing is a mysterious thing whether the seed fall into earth or into souls; man is a husbandman, and his work rightly understood is to develop life, to sow it everywhere." The poets are our seed-sowers, and _their_ work is to develop life and to enrich it. They are never happier than when writing about gardens and the growing things of earth--at once their symbol and their solace. In turn gardens have in the poets their happiest interpreters. Here I have culled and gathered together songs and poems that reflect the melody and harmony of Nature's forces. In these days of the world's travail, let us seek inspiration and content within the delightful confines of these Gardens of Poetry. GERTRUDE MOORE RICHARDS _March_, 1918 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Mrs. Richards tenders her sincere thanks to the publishers and poets who have so generously accorded their permission to use copyrighted poems: To the American Tract Society for "Seeds" and "The Philosopher's Garden," John Oxenham, from _Bees in Amber_. To Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. for "The Mocking-Bird," Frank L. Stanton, from _Songs of the Soil_. To the Baker & Taylor Co. for "June Rapture" and "The Rose," Angela Morgan, from _The Hour has Struck, and Other Poems_ and _Utterance, and Other Poems_. To The Biddle Press for "The Old-fashioned Garden" and "Poppies," John Russell Hayes, from _Collected Poems_. To the Bobbs-Merrill Company for "Thoughts fer the Discuraged Farmer," James Whitcomb Riley, from _Complete Works_. To Edmund A. Brooks, Minneapolis, for "Daffodils" and "From a Car-Window," Ruth Guthrie Harding, from _The Lark went Singing, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Burns & Oates and to Alice Meynell (Mrs. Wilfrid Meynell) for "To a Daisy" and "The Garden" from _Collected Poems_; for "Rosa Mystica," Katharine Tynan (Mrs. Henry Albert Hinkson), from _The Flower of Peace_. To The Century Co. for "Larkspur," James Oppenheim, from _War and Laughter_; for "The Tilling," Cale Young Rice, from _Trails Sunward_; for "The Haunted Garden," Louis Untermeyer, from _Challenge_. To Messrs. Constable & Co. for "For These," Edward Thomas (Edward Eastaway), from _An Annual of New Poetry_. To _Country Life_ (London) and to Mrs. Gurney personally for "The Lord God planted a Garden" and "A Garden in Venice," by Dorothy Frances Gurney, from _Poems_. To Messrs. Thomas Y. Crowell Company for "Love planted a Rose," Katharine Lee Bates, from _America, and Other Poems_; for "An Exile's Garden," Sophie Jewett, from _Collected Poems_. To Messrs. J. M. Dent & Sons for "The Spring Beauties," Helen Gray Cone, from _The Chant of Love, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. for "In a Garden," Livingston L. Biddle, from _The Understanding Hills_. To Messrs. George H. Doran Company for "The Cricket in the Path," "Herb of Grace," and "Rain in the Night," Amelia Josephine Burr, from _In Deep Places_ and _Life and Living_; for "A Song in a Garden," "Shade," and "The Poplars," Theodosia Garrison, from _The Dreamers, and Other Poems_; for "Trees," Joyce Kilmer, from _Trees, and Other Poems_; for "June," Douglas Malloch, from _The Woods_; for "Where Love is Life," Duncan Campbell Scott, from "The Three Songs" in _Lundy's Lane, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co. for "A Prayer," "The Butterfly," and "Before Mary of Magdala came," Edwin Markham, from _The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems_ and _The Shoes of Happiness, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Duffield & Co. for "The sweet caresses that I gave to you," Elsa Barker, from _The Book of Love_; for "What heart but fears a fragrance?" ("Zauber Duft"), Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi, from _Gabrielle, and Other Poems_; for "Spring," Francis Ledwidge, from _Songs of the Fields_; for "The White Peacock," William Sharp, from _Songs and Poems_. To Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co. for "The South Wind," Siegfried Sassoon, from _The Old Huntsman, and Other Poems_; for "The Tree," Evelyn Underhill, from _Theophanies_. To Messrs. H. W. Fisher & Co. for "A Dream," "The Autumn Rose," "Fireflies," and "An Evening in Old Japan," Antoinette De Coursey Patterson, from _Sonnets and Quatrains_ and _The Son of Merope, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Harper & Brothers for "Roses in the Subway," Dana Burnet, from _Poems_; for "The Wild Rose," and "If I were a Fairy," Charles Buxton Going, from _Star-Glow and Song_; for "The Cardinal-Bird," Arthur Guiterman, from _The Laughing Muse_; for "Wild Gardens," Ada Foster Murray, from _Flowers of the Grass_; for "The Message," Helen Hay Whitney, from _Sonnets and Songs_. To Hearst's International Library Company for "Stairways and Gardens" and "My Flower-Room," Ella Wheeler Wilcox, from _World Voices_. To Mr. William Heinemann for "The Cactus," Laurence Hope, from _Stars of the Desert_; for "The July Garden," R. E. Vernède, from _War Poems, and Other Verses_; for "A Garden-Piece," Edmund Gosse, from _Collected Poems_. To Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. for "The Cloister Garden at Certosa," Richard Burton, from _Poems of Earth's Meaning_; for "The Furrow," Padraic Colum, from _Wild Earth, and Other Poems_; for "The Three Cherry Trees," Walter de la Mare, from _The Listeners, and Other Poems_; for "A Late Walk," "Asking for Roses," "The Pasture," and "Putting in the Seed," Robert Frost, from _A Boy's Will_, _North of Boston_, and _A Mountain Interval_; for "Joe-Pyeweed," Louis Untermeyer, from _These Times_. To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for "The Blooming of the Rose" and the selection from "Under the Trees," Anna Hempstead Branch, from _The Heart of the Road_ and _The Shoes that Danced, and Other Poems_; for "Spring Patchwork" and "The Flowerphone," Abbie Farwell Brown, from _A Pocketful of Posies_ and _Songs of Sixpence_; for "The Morning-Glory" and "Jewel-Weed," Florence Earle Coates, from _Collected Poems_; for "Nightingales" and "A Breath of Mint," Grace Hazard Conkling, from _Afternoons of April_; for "The Golden-Rod," Margaret Deland, from _The Old Garden, and Other Verses_; for "A Roman Garden," Florence Wilkinson Evans, from _The Ride Home_; for "Cobwebs," Louise Imogen Guiney, from _Happy Ending_; for "Planting," Robert Livingston, from _Murrer and Me_; for "Primavera," George Cabot Lodge, from _Poems and Dramas_; for "Ever the Same," "Charm: To be said in the Sun," and "But we did walk in Eden," Josephine Preston Peabody, from _The Singing Leaves_ and _The Singing Man_; for "At Isola Bella" ("A White Peacock"), Jessie B. Rittenhouse, from _The Door of Dreams_; for "The Goldfinch," Odell Shepard, from _A Lonely Flute_; for "Daisies" and "Witchery," Frank Dempster Sherman, from _Poems_; for "Grandmother's Gathering Boneset," Edith M. Thomas, from _In Sunshine Land_. To Mr. B. W. Huebsch for "Song from 'April,'" Irene Rutherford McLeod, from _Songs to Save a Soul_. To Messrs. George W. Jacobs & Co. for "Vestured and veiled with twilight," Rosamund Marriott Watson, from _The Heart of a Garden_. To Mr. R. U. Johnson (publisher) for "Como in April," Robert Underwood Johnson, from _Collected Poems_. To Mr. Mitchell Kennerley for "A Song to Belinda," Theodosia Garrison, from _Earth Cry_; for "In a Garden," Horace Holley, from _Divinations and Creations_; for "Afternoon on a Hill," "The End of Summer," and "A Little Ghost," Edna St. Vincent Millay, from _Renascence, and Other Poems_; for "Welcome," John Curtis Underwood, from _Processionals_; for "Ære Perennius," Charles Hanson Towne, from _A Quiet Singer_. To Mr. Alfred A. Knopf for "The Rain" and "The Ways of Time," William H. Davies, from _Collected Poems_. To The John Lane Company (New York) for "Loveliest of Trees," A. E. Housman, from _A Shropshire Lad_; for "May is building her House," and "I meant to do my work to-day," Richard Le Gallienne, from _The Lonely Dancer_; for "The Joy of the Springtime," and "The Time of Roses," Sarojini Naidu, from _The Bird of Time_ and _The Broken Wing_; for "Heart's Garden," Norreys Jephson O'Conor, from _Celtic Memories_; for "Serenade," Marjorie L. C. Pickthall, from _The Lamp of Poor Souls_; for "There is Strength in the Soil," Arthur Stringer, from _Open Water_; for "Midsummer blooms within our quiet garden ways," "It was June in the garden," and "Within the garden there is healthfulness," Emile Verhaeren, from _The Sunlit Hours_ and _Afternoon_; for "In a Garden of Granada," Thomas Walsh, from _Gardens Overseas_; for "The Garden of Mnemosyne," Rosamund Marriott Watson, from _Collected Poems_; for "Eden-Hunger," William Watson, from _Retrogression, and Other Poems_; for "Spring Planting," Helen Hay Whitney, from _Herbs and Apples_. To Messrs. Little, Brown & Co. for "To a Weed," Gertrude Hall, from _The Age of Fairy Gold_; for "The Green o' the Spring," Denis A. McCarthy, from _Voices from Erin_; for "The Baby's Valentine," Laura E. Richards, from _In my Nursery_. To Messrs. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company for "God's Garden," Richard Burton, from _Dumb in June_. To Mr. David McKay for "The Blossomy Barrow" and "Da Thief," Thomas Augustine Daly, from _Madrigali_; for "A Soft Day," W. M. Letts, from _Songs from Leinster_. To The Macmillan Company for "Old Homes," Madison Cawein, from _Poems_; for "Up a Hill and a Hill," Fannie Stearns Davis, from _Myself and I_; for "In the Womb," A. E. (George William Russell), from _Collected Poems_; for "To the Sweetwilliam," Norman Gale, from _Collected Poems_; for "Roses," Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, from _Battle, and Other Poems_; for "Rest at Noon" and "The Hummingbird," Hermann Hagedorn, from _Poems and Ballads_; for "The Mystery," Ralph Hodgson, from _Poems_; for "The Dandelion" and "With a Rose, to Brunhilde," Vachel Lindsay, from _General William Booth enters into Heaven, and Other Poems_ and _A Handy Guide for Beggars_; for "A Tulip Garden," "Fringed Gentians," and "The Fruit Garden Path," Amy Lowell, from _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed_ and _The Dome of Many-coloured Glass_; for "It may be so: but let the unknown be" and "Drop me the Seed," John Masefield, from _Lollingdon Downs, and Other Poems_; for "Samuel Gardner," Edgar Lee Masters, from _The Spoon River Anthology_; for "Go down to Kew in lilac-time" (selection from "The Barrel-Organ"), Alfred Noyes, from _Poems_; for "The Messenger," James Stephens, from _Songs from the Clay_; for "The Champa Flower" and "The Flower-School," Rabindranath Tagore, from _The Crescent Moon_; for "Indian Summer," "Alchemy," "The Fountain," "Barter," and "Wood Song," Sara Teasdale, from _Rivers to the Sea_ and _Love Songs_; for "The Message," George Edward Woodberry, from _Poems_; for "The Song of Wandering Aengus," W. B. Yeats, from _Poems_. To Mr. Elkin Mathews and to Mr. Rowland Thirlmere personally for "A Shower," from _Polyclitus, and Other Poems_. To the Manas Press, Rochester, N.Y., for "November Night" and "Arbutus," Adelaide Crapsey, from _Verses_. To Messrs. John P. Morton & Co., Louisville, Ky., for "Conscience," Margaret Steele Anderson, from _The Flame in the Wind_. To Mr. Thomas Bird Mosher for "Beyond," "As in a Rose-Jar," and "My soul is like a garden-close," Thomas S. Jones, Jr., from _The Voice in the Silence_ and _The Rose-Jar_; for "A Seller of Herbs," "The Garden at Bemerton," and "April Weather," Lizette Woodworth Reese, from _A Handful of Lavender_; for "Frost To-night," Edith M. Thomas, from _The Flower from the Ashes_; for "In an Oxford Garden" and "Old Gardens," Arthur Upson, from _Octaves in an Oxford Garden_ and _Collected Poems_. To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for "In an Old Garden," Madison Cawein, from _Moods and Melodies_; for "If I could dig like a Rabbit," Rose Strong Hubbell, from _If I could Fly_; for "The Anxious Farmer," Burges Johnson, from _Rhymes of Home_; for "In an August Garden," "Amiel's Garden," and "The Garden," Gertrude Huntington McGiffert, from _A Florentine Cycle_. To The Reilly & Britton Co. for "Results and Roses," Edgar A. Guest, from _Heap o' Livin'_. To Mr. Grant Richards for "Loveliest of Trees," A. E. Housman, from _A Shropshire Lad_. To Mr. A. M. Robertson (San Francisco) for "How many flowers are gently met," George Sterling, from _The Testimony of the Sun, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "Miracle," L. H. Bailey, from _Wind and Weather_; for "Four O'Clocks" and "Homesick," Julia C. R. Dorr, from _Poems and Last Poems_; for "Tell-Tale," Oliver Herford, from _Overheard in a Garden_; for "In the Garden" and "The Deserted Garden," Pai Ta-Shun (Frederick Peterson), from _Chinese Lyrics_ (Kelly & Walsh, Hongkong); for "The Child in the Garden," Henry van Dyke, from _Collected Poems_. To Messrs. Sherman, French & Co. for "The Trees," Samuel Valentine Cole, from _The Great Gray King, and Other Poems_; for "Her Garden," Eldredge Denison, from _Ballads and Lyrics_; for "Moth-Flowers," Jeanne Robert Foster, from _Wild Apples_; for "The Little God," Katharine Howard, from _The Little God, and Other Poems_; for "Cloud and Flower," Agnes Lee, from _The Sharing, and Other Poems_; for "The Dials" and "The Secret," Arthur Wallace Peach, from _The Hill Trails_; for "A Garden Prayer" and "In Memory's Garden," Thomas Walsh, from _The Prison Ships, and Other Poems_; for "Prayer" and "With memories and odors," John Hall Wheelock, from _Love and Liberation_. To Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson for "A Song of Fairies," by Elizabeth Kirby, from _The Bridegroom_. To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co. for "Trees," "The Garden of Dreams," and "An April Morning," Bliss Carman, from _April Airs_; for "The Whisper of Earth," Edward J. O'Brien, from _White Fountains_; for "The Dews" and "Clover," John Banister Tabb, from _Lyrics_. To Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, for "The Golden Bowl," Mary McMillan, from _The Little Golden Fountain, and Other Poems_. To Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company for "A Mocking-Bird" and "The Early Gods," Witter Bynner, from _Grenstone Poems_; for "The Proud Vegetables" and "Iris Flowers," Mary McNeil Fenollosa, from _Blossoms from a Japanese Garden_. To Mr. T. Fisher Unwin for "Autumnal," Richard Middleton, from _Poems and Songs_. To Messrs. James T. White & Co. for "Flowers of June," James Terry White, from _A Garden of Remembrance_; for "Song of the Weary Traveller," Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff, from _Narcissus, and Other Poems_. To the _Atlantic Monthly_ for "April Rain," Conrad Aiken; for "Yellow Warblers," Katharine Lee Bates; for "Safe," Robert Haven Schauffler; for "The Lilies," George Edward Woodberry. To the _Century Magazine_ for "Order," Paul Scott Mowrer. To the _Christian Science Monitor_ for "Family Trees," Douglas Malloch. To the _Churchman_ for "The Faithless Flowers," Margaret Widdemer. To _Contemporary Verse_ for "The Road to the Pool," Grace Hazard Conkling; for "The Night-Moth," Marion Couthouy Smith. To the _Craftsman_ for "The Scissors-Man," Grace Hazard Conkling. To the _Delineator_ for "In my Mother's Garden," Margaret Widdemer. To _Everybody's Magazine_ for "Years Afterward," Nancy Byrd Turner. To _Harper's Monthly Magazine_ for "Progress," Charlotte Becker; for "Oh, tell me how my garden grows," Mildred Howells; for "A Song for Winter," Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer. To the _Independent_ for "Blind," Harry Kemp; for "The Dusty Hour-Glass," Amy Lowell; for "A Midsummer Garden," Clinton Scollard. To the _Los Angeles Graphic_ for "A White Iris," Pauline B. Barrington. To _Lyric_ for "July Midnight," Amy Lowell. To _Munsey's Magazine_ for "A Puritan Lady's Garden," Sarah N. Cleghorn; for "Spring Song," William Griffith; for "The Fountain," Harry Kemp. To _Mushrooms_, published by The John Marshall Company, for "Idealists," Alfred Kreymborg. To _Others: A Magazine of New Verse_ for "Reflections" ("Chinoiseries"), Amy Lowell; for "Lord, I ask a Garden," R. Arevalo Martinez. To the _New York Sun_ for "A Colonial Garden," James B. Kenyon. To the _New York Times_ for "Grace for Gardens," Louise Driscoll; for "The Welcome," Arthur Powell. To _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ for "Spring Song," Hilda Conkling; for "A Lady of the Snows," Harriet Monroe; for "The Magnolia," José Santos Chocano, translated by John Pierrepont Rice. To _Punch_ for "Lavender," W. W. Blair Fish. To _St. Nicholas_ for "Velvets," Hilda Conkling; for "When Swallows Build," Catherine Parmenter. To _Scribner's Magazine_ for "Her Garden," Louis Dodge; for "The Path that leads to Nowhere," Corinne Roosevelt Robinson. To the _Touchstone_ for "Dawn in my Garden," Marguerite Wilkinson. To the _Yale Review_ and to Mr. Brian Hooker personally for "Ballade of the Dreamland Rose" from _Poems_; also to the _Yale Review_ for the selection from "Earth," John Hall Wheelock. * * * * * Personal acknowledgment is also made to the following poets and individual owners of copyrights:-- To Miss Zoë Akins for "The Snow-Gardens." To Mr. William Stanley Braithwaite and to Mr. Fletcher personally for "Spring," John Gould Fletcher, printed in the _Poetry Review_. To M. G. Brereton for "The Old Brocade" from _A Celtic Christmas_. To Miss Abbie Farwell Brown for "The Wall" in manuscript. To Mrs. Grace Hazard Conkling for "The Rose" in manuscript. To Mr. Miles M. Dawson for "The Thistle" from _Songs of the New Time_. To Violet Fane (Lady Curie) for "To a New Sun-Dial" from _Collected Poems_. To Mrs. Mary McNeil Fenollosa for "Birth of the Flowers." To Mr. Arthur Guiterman for "Tulips" and "Columbines" in manuscript. To Miss Mary R. Jewett for "Flowers in the Dark," Sarah Orne Jewett, from _Verses_ (privately printed). To Rev. Arthur Ketchum for "The Spirit of the Birch" in manuscript. To Miss Hannah Parker Kimball for "Sun, Cardinal, and Corn Flowers" from _Soul and Sense_. To Mr. William Lindsey for "Two Roses" from _Apples of Istakhar_. To Catherine Markham (Mrs. Edwin Markham) for "A Garden Friend." To Mr. Lloyd Mifflin for "Draw closer, O ye Trees" from _The Flying Nymph, and Other Verse_. To Miss Angela Morgan for "The Awakening" in manuscript. To E. Nesbit (Mrs. Hubert Bland) for "Baby Seed Song." To Mr. Shaemas O Sheel for "While April Rain went by" from _The Light Feet of Goats_ (The Franklin Press). To Mr. Clinton Scollard for "The Crocus Flame," and "Sunflowers," from _Ballads Patriotic and Romantic_; for "In the Garden-Close at Mezra" and "In an Egyptian Garden" from _The Lutes of Morn_. To Mrs. Emily Selinger for "Over the Garden Wall." To Mrs. May Riley Smith for "Sorrow in a Garden" in manuscript. To the estate of Frank L. Stanton for "Sweetheart-Lady." To Mr. Charles Wharton Stork for "Boulders" in manuscript, and for "Color Notes," printed in _Lippincott's Magazine_. To Mr. Charles Hanson Towne for "A White Rose." To Katharine Tynan (Mrs. Henry Albert Hinkson) for "The Choice," published by Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson in _The Poems of To-day_, an anthology. To Mr. Frederic A. Whiting for his own poems "A Rose Lover" and "A Wonder Garden" in manuscript and for "Kinfolk" by Kate Whiting Patch. To Mr. Clement Wood for "Rose-Geranium" from _Glad of Earth_. To Mr. Henry A. Wise Wood for "The Joy of a Summer Day." NOTE With very few exceptions only the poets who are writing to-day, or who have written within a period of ten years, are represented in this collection; and certain favorite poems peculiarly suited to the spirit of this book which chanced to be included in _High Tide_ may be missed here. G. M. R. CONTENTS WITHIN GARDEN WALLS Earth _John Hall Wheelock_ 2 The Furrow _Padraic Colum_ 3 "There is strength in the soil" _Arthur Stringer_ 4 In the Womb "_A. E._" 4 Putting in the Seed _Robert Frost_ 5 The Whisper of Earth _Edward J. O'Brien_ 6 "Within the garden there is healthfulness" _Emile Verhaeren_ 6 In a Garden _Horace Holley_ 7 A Shower _Rowland Thirlmere_ 8 The Rain _William H. Davies_ 9 The Dews _John B. Tabb_ 9 Sonnet _John Masefield_ 10 Charm: To be said in the Sun _Josephine Preston Peabody_ 11 The Dials _Arthur Wallace Peach_ 12 To a New Sundial _Violet Fane_ 13 The Fountain _Harry Kemp_ 14 THE PAGEANTRY OF GARDENS The Birth of the Flowers _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_ 18 The Welcome _Arthur Powell_ 19 The Joy of the Springtime _Sarojini Naidu_ 20 Spring _John Gould Fletcher_ 20 Primavera _George Cabot Lodge_ 21 The Green o' the Spring _Denis A. McCarthy_ 22 An April Morning _Bliss Carman_ 23 "With memories and odors" _John Hall Wheelock_ 24 April Rain _Conrad Aiken_ 25 While April Rain went by _Shaemas O Sheel_ 25 Spring _Francis Ledwidge_ 26 April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 27 Daffodils _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ 28 The Crocus Flame _Clinton Scollard_ 28 The Early Gods _Witter Bynner_ 30 A Tulip Garden _Amy Lowell_ 30 Tulips _Arthur Guiterman_ 31 A White Iris _Pauline B. Barrington_ 32 May is building her House _Richard Le Gallienne_ 33 The Magnolia _José Santos Chocano_ 34 "Go down to Kew in lilac-time" _Alfred Noyes_ 35 Beyond _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._ 36 June _Douglas Malloch_ 36 June Rapture _Angela Morgan_ 37 Columbines _Arthur Guiterman_ 39 The Morning-Glory _Florence Earle Coates_ 40 The Blossomy Barrow _T. A. Daly_ 40 Larkspur _James Oppenheim_ 42 The July Garden _Robert Ernest Vernède_ 43 "Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways" _Emile Verhaeren_ 44 Poppies _John Russell Hayes_ 45 The Garden in August _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_ 46 Sun, Cardinal, and Corn Flowers _Hannah Parker Kimball_ 48 Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_ 48 The End of Summer _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 49 A Late Walk _Robert Frost_ 50 Color Notes _Charles Wharton Stork_ 50 The Golden Bowl _Mary McMillan_ 51 The Autumn Rose _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_ 52 Indian Summer _Sara Teasdale_ 53 "Frost to-night" _Edith M. Thomas_ 54 November Night _Adelaide Crapsey_ 55 The Snow-Gardens _Zoë Akins_ 55 A Song for Winter _Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer_ 57 WINGS AND SONG "I meant to do my work to-day" _Richard Le Gallienne_ 60 The Hummingbird _Hermann Hagedorn_ 61 Spring Song _William Griffith_ 62 Nightingales _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 63 The Goldfinch _Odell Shepard_ 63 Kinfolk _Kate Whiting Patch_ 65 A Mocking-Bird _Witter Bynner_ 65 The Cardinal-Bird _Arthur Guiterman_ 66 Yellow Warblers _Katharine Lee Bates_ 67 Witchery _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 68 The Spring Beauties _Helen Gray Cone_ 68 The Mocking-Bird _Frank L. Stanton_ 69 The Messenger _James Stephens_ 71 Fireflies _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_ 72 July Midnight _Amy Lowell_ 72 The Cricket in the Path _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 73 Rest at Noon _Hermann Hagedorn_ 74 Order _Paul Scott Mowrer_ 75 The Night-Moth _Marion Couthouy Smith_ 75 The Butterfly _Edwin Markham_ 76 The Secret _Arthur Wallace Peach_ 77 THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY The Garden _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_ 80 Old Homes _Madison Cawein_ 81 A Puritan Lady's Garden _Sarah N. Cleghorn_ 82 The Old-fashioned Garden _John Russell Hayes_ 83 A Colonial Garden _James B. Kenyon_ 86 In my Mother's Garden _Margaret Widdemer_ 87 To the Sweetwilliam _Norman Gale_ 88 Rose-Geranium _Clement Wood_ 90 Four O'Clocks _Julia C. R. Dorr_ 91 Asking for Roses _Robert Frost_ 92 The Old Brocade _M. G. Brereton_ 93 Stairways and Gardens _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_ 94 Old Mothers _Charles Ross_ 95 PASTURES AND HILLSIDES Song from "April" _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ 98 The Road to the Pool _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 99 The Wild Rose _Charles Buxton Going_ 99 Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 100 The Joys of a Summer Morning _Henry A. Wise Wood_ 101 South Wind _Siegfried Sassoon_ 102 To a Weed _Gertrude Hall_ 102 The Pasture _Robert Frost_ 104 The Thistle _Miles M. Dawson_ 104 Clover _John B. Tabb_ 105 Wild Gardens _Ada Foster Murray_ 106 The Dandelion _Vachel Lindsay_ 107 Joe-Pyeweed _Louis Untermeyer_ 108 To a Daisy _Alice Meynell_ 109 A Soft Day _W. M. Letts_ 110 Arbutus _Adelaide Crapsey_ 111 Jewel-Weed _Florence Earle Coates_ 111 The Wall _Abbie Farwell Brown_ 112 Boulders _Charles Wharton Stork_ 114 Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 115 The Golden-Rod _Margaret Deland_ 116 The Path that leads to Nowhere _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 117 LOVERS AND ROSES The Message _George Edward Woodberry_ 120 "Where love is life" _Duncan Campbell Scott_ 121 The Time of Roses _Sarojini Naidu_ 122 Love planted a Rose _Katharine Lee Bates_ 123 The Garden _Alice Meynell_ 123 Cloud and Flower _Agnes Lee_ 124 Progress _Charlotte Becker_ 125 "But we did walk in Eden" _Josephine Preston Peabody_ 125 A Garden-Piece _Edmund Gosse_ 126 "How many flowers are gently met" _George Sterling_ 127 With a Rose, to Brunhilde _Vachel Lindsay_ 127 "My soul is like a garden-close" _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._ 128 A Dream _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_ 129 The Rose _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 130 Prayer _John Hall Wheelock_ 130 In a Garden _Livingston L. Biddle_ 131 A Song of Fairies _Elizabeth Kirby_ 131 A Song to Belinda _Theodosia Garrison_ 132 Sweetheart-Lady _Frank L. Stanton_ 133 Heart's Garden _Norreys Jephson O'Conor_ 133 A Rose Lover _Frederic A. Whiting_ 134 Sonnet _Elsa Barker_ 135 A Song in a Garden _Theodosia Garrison_ 135 "It was June in the garden" _Emile Verhaeren_ 136 Two Roses _William Lindsey_ 138 Roses _Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_ 138 Her Garden _Louis Dodge_ 139 Ære Perennius _Charles Hanson Towne_ 139 Ever the Same _Josephine Preston Peabody_ 140 The Message _Helen Hay Whitney_ 141 Tell-Tale _Oliver Herford_ 142 Da Thief _T. A. Daly_ 143 Results and Roses _Edgar A. Guest_ 145 UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH Miracle _L. H. Bailey_ 148 The Awakening _Angela Morgan_ 149 Shade _Theodosia Garrison_ 150 Selection from "Under the Trees" _Anna Hempstead Branch_ 151 A Garden Friend _Catherine Markham_ (_Mrs. Edwin Markham_) 152 A Lady of the Snows _Harriet Monroe_ 153 The Tree _Evelyn Underhill_ 153 "Loveliest of trees" _A. E. Housman_ 155 The Spirit of the Birch _Arthur Ketchum_ 156 Family Trees _Douglas Malloch_ 156 Idealists _Alfred Kreymborg_ 158 "Draw closer, O ye trees" _Lloyd Mifflin_ 159 Trees _Bliss Carman_ 160 The Trees _Samuel Valentine Cole_ 162 The Poplars _Theodosia Garrison_ 164 Trees _Joyce Kilmer_ 165 THE LOST GARDENS OF THE HEART As in a Rose-Jar _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._ 168 In an Old Garden _Madison Cawein_ 169 The Garden of Dreams _Bliss Carman_ 169 Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_ 170 The Ways of Time _William H. Davies_ 172 A Midsummer Garden _Clinton Scollard_ 172 The White Rose _Charles Hanson Towne_ 173 A Haunted Garden _Louis Untermeyer_ 174 The Dusty Hour-Glass _Amy Lowell_ 176 The Song of Wandering Aengus _W. B. Yeats_ 177 The Three Cherry Trees _Walter de la Mare_ 178 Old Gardens _Arthur Upson_ 179 The Blooming of the Rose _Anna Hempstead Branch_ 179 The Garden of Mnemosyne _Rosamund Marriott Watson_ 181 Ballade of the Dreamland Rose _Brian Hooker_ 181 The Flowers of June _James Terry White_ 183 In Memory's Garden _Thomas Walsh_ 183 Serenade _Marjorie L. C. Pickthall_ 184 "What heart but fears a fragrance?" _Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_ 185 Years Afterward _Nancy Byrd Turner_ 186 Autumnal _Richard Middleton_ 186 "Oh, tell me how my garden grows" _Mildred Howells_ 188 Her Garden _Eldredge Denison_ 189 The Little Ghost _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 190 Roses in the Subway _Dana Burnet_ 191 THE GARDEN OVER-SEAS A Garden Prayer _Thomas Walsh_ 194 In the Garden-Close at Mezra _Clinton Scollard_ 195 The Cactus _Laurence Hope_ 195 The White Peacock _William Sharp_ 196 At Isola Bella _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ 198 The Fountain _Sara Teasdale_ 199 The Champa Flower _Rabindranath Tagore_ 200 In an Egyptian Garden _Clinton Scollard_ 201 Evening in Old Japan _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_ 202 Reflections _Amy Lowell_ 203 In the Garden _Pai Ta-Shun_ 204 The Deserted Garden _Pai Ta-Shun_ 204 A Roman Garden _Florence Wilkinson Evans_ 205 Como in April _Robert Underwood Johnson_ 207 An Exile's Garden _Sophie Jewett_ 207 The Cloister Garden at Certosa _Richard Burton_ 208 A Garden in Venice _Dorothy Frances Gurney_ 209 In a Garden of Granada _Thomas Walsh_ 210 Amiel's Garden _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_ 211 Eden-Hunger _William Watson_ 212 The Garden at Bemerton _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 212 In an Oxford Garden _Arthur Upson_ 213 THE HOMELY GARDEN "Grandmother's gathering boneset" _Edith M. Thomas_ 216 A Breath of Mint _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 217 A Seller of Herbs _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 218 Lavender _W. W. Blair Fish_ 219 Dawn in my Garden _Marguerite Wilkinson_ 221 The Proud Vegetables _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_ 221 The Choice _Katharine Tynan_ 223 Thoughts fer the Discuraged Farmer _James Whitcomb Riley_ 225 Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_ 226 SILVER BELLS AND COCKLE SHELLS Planting _Robert Livingston_ 230 Spring Patchwork _Abbie Farwell Brown_ 231 Baby's Valentine _Laura E. Richards_ 232 Baby Seed Song _E. Nesbit_ 234 Rain in the Night _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 235 A Little Girl's Songs--I, Spring Song; II, Velvets (By a Bed of Pansies) _Hilda Conkling_ (_six years old_) 236 When Swallows Build _Catherine Parmenter_ (_eleven years old_) 238 Spring Planting _Helen Hay Whitney_ 239 If I could dig like a Rabbit _Rose Strong Hubbell_ 239 The Little God _Katharine Howard_ 240 Daisies _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 241 The Anxious Farmer _Burges Johnson_ 242 Over the Garden Wall _Emily Selinger_ 243 The Flowerphone _Abbie Farwell Brown_ 244 The Faithless Flowers _Margaret Widdemer_ 245 The Flower-School _Rabindranath Tagore_ 246 Iris Flowers _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_ 247 If I were a Fairy _Charles Buxton Going_ 249 Fringed Gentians _Amy Lowell_ 250 The Scissors-Man _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 250 THE GARDEN OF LIFE God's Garden _Richard Burton_ 254 "The Lord God planted a garden" _Dorothy Frances Gurney_ 255 The Lilies _George E. Woodberry_ 255 Barter _Sara Teasdale_ 256 Sonnet _John Masefield_ 257 The Tilling _Cale Young Rice_ 258 Safe _Robert Haven Schauffler_ 259 Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_ 260 Moth-Flowers _Jeanne Robert Foster_ 262 Alchemy _Sara Teasdale_ 262 Flowers in the Dark _Sarah Orne Jewett_ 263 Welcome _John Curtis Underwood_ 264 The Child in the Garden _Henry van Dyke_ 265 A Wonder Garden _Frederic A. Whiting_ 266 From a Car-Window _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ 267 Song of the Weary Traveller _Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff_ 267 Cobwebs _Louise Imogen Guiney_ 268 Blind _Harry Kemp_ 269 Herb of Grace _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 270 Before Mary of Magdala came _Edwin Markham_ 270 Conscience _Margaret Steele Anderson_ 273 Rosa Mystica _Katharine Tynan_ 273 The Mystery _Ralph Hodgson_ 275 The Rose _Angela Morgan_ 275 For These _Edward Thomas_ (_Edward Eastaway_) 276 Samuel Gardner _Edgar Lee Masters_ 277 Seeds _John Oxenham_ 278 "Lord, I ask a Garden" _R. Arevalo Martinez_ 279 My Flower-Room _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_ 280 "Vestured and veiled with twilight" _Rosamund Marriott Watson_ 282 The Fruit Garden Path _Amy Lowell_ 283 Wood Song _Sara Teasdale_ 284 A Prayer _Edwin Markham_ 284 The Philosopher's Garden _John Oxenham_ 285 Index of Titles 287 Index of Authors 297 * * * * * WITHIN GARDEN WALLS EARTH _Grasshopper, your fairy song And my poem alike belong To the deep and silent earth From which all poetry has birth; All we say and all we sing Is but as the murmuring Of that drowsy heart of hers When from her deep dream she stirs: If we sorrow, or rejoice, You and I are but her voice._ _Deftly does the dust express In mind her hidden loveliness, And from her cool silence stream The cricket's cry and Dante's dream: For the earth that breeds the trees Breeds cities too, and symphonies, Equally her beauty flows Into a savior or a rose._ * * * * * _Even as the growing grass Up from the soil religions pass, And the field that bears the rye Bears parables and prophecy. Out of the earth the poem grows Like the lily, or the rose; And all that man is or yet may be, Is but herself in agony Toiling up the steep ascent Towards the complete accomplishment When all dust shall be, the whole Universe, one conscious soul._ * * * * * _Yea, and this my poem, too, Is part of her as dust and dew, Wherein herself she doth declare Through my lips, and say her prayer._ JOHN HALL WHEELOCK THE FURROW Stride the hill, sower, Up to the sky-ridge, Flinging the seed, Scattering, exultant! Mouthing great rhythms To the long sea beats On the wide shore, behind The ridge of the hillside. Below in the darkness-- The slumber of mothers-- The cradles at rest-- The fire-seed sleeping Deep in white ashes! Give to darkness and sleep: O sower, O seer! Give me to the Earth. With the seed I would enter. O! the growth thro' the silence From strength to new strength; Then the strong bursting forth Against primal forces, To laugh in the sunshine, To gladden the world! PADRAIC COLUM "THERE IS STRENGTH IN THE SOIL" There is strength in the soil; In the earth there is laughter and youth. There is solace and hope in the upturned loam. And lo, I shall plant my soul in it here like a seed! And forth it shall come to me as a flower of song; For I know it is good to get back to the earth That is orderly, placid, all-patient! It is good to know how quiet And noncommittal it breathes, This ample and opulent bosom That must some day nurse us all! ARTHUR STRINGER IN THE WOMB Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil: Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies: The horse waits patient: from his lowly toil The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes. The unbudding hedgerows dark against day's fires Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim Over the unregarding city's spires The lonely beauty shines alone for him. And day by day the dawn or dark unfolds And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see How in her womb the mighty mother moulds The infant spirit for eternity. "A. E." (GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL) PUTTING IN THE SEED You come to fetch me from my work to-night When supper's on the table, and we'll see If I can leave off burying the white Soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) And go along with you ere you lose sight Of what you came for and become like me, Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs. ROBERT FROST THE WHISPER OF EARTH In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches Soften to the south wind, bending to the rain. From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain. Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, Little crying wind-sounds come before the King. Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne. EDWARD J. O'BRIEN "WITHIN THE GARDEN THERE IS HEALTHFULNESS" Within the garden there is healthfulness. Lavishly it gives it us In light that cleaves To every movement of its thousand hands Of palms and leaves. And the good shade where it accepts, After long journeyings, Our steps, Pours on the weary limb A force of life and sweetness like Its mosses dim. When the lake is playing with the wind and sun. It seems a crimson heart Within, all ardent, has begun To throb with the moving wave; The gladiolus and the fervent rose, Which in their splendor move unshadowèd, Upon their vital stems expose Their cups of gold and red. Within the garden there is healthfulness. EMILE VERHAEREN IN A GARDEN I stood within a Garden during rain Uncovering to the drops my lifted brow: O joyous fancy, to imagine now I slip, with trees and clouds, the social chain, Alone with nature, naught to lose or gain Nor even to become; no, just to be A moment's personal essence, wholly free From needs that mold the heart to forms of pain. Arise, I cried, and celebrate the hour! Acclaim serener gladness; if it fail, New courage, nobler vision, will survive That I have known my kinship to the flower, My brotherhood with rain, and in this vale Have been a moment's friend to all alive. HORACE HOLLEY A SHOWER You may have seen, when winds were high, That hesitant buds would not unfold In garden-borders chill and dry, Bright with the Easter-lilies' gold. Then, suddenly, would come a shower-- The big breeze veering to the west-- And happier music filled the bower Above the thrush's hidden nest: The elm-tree's inconspicuous bloom Vanished amidst her little leaves; In box and bay a fragrant gloom Inspired the wren's recitatives: The woods assumed their delicate green And spoke in songs that brought you bliss: Ay, and your withered heart has been Quickened on such a day as this! ROWLAND THIRLMERE THE RAIN I hear leaves drinking Rain; I hear rich leaves on top Giving the poor beneath Drop after drop; 'Tis a sweet noise to hear These green leaves drinking near. And when the Sun comes out, After this Rain shall stop, A wondrous Light will fill Each dark, round drop; I hope the Sun shines bright; 'Twill be a lovely sight. WILLIAM H. DAVIES THE DEWS We come and go, as the breezes blow, But whence or where Hath ne'er been told in the legends old By the dreaming seer. The welcome rain to the parching plain And the languid leaves, The rattling hail on the burnished mail Of the serried sheaves, The silent snow on the wintry brow Of the aged year, Wends each his way in the track of day From a clouded sphere: But still as the fog in the dismal bog Where the shifting sheen Of the spectral lamp lights the marshes damp, With a flash unseen We drip through the night from the starlids bright, On the sleeping flowers, And deep in their breast is our perfumed rest Through the darkened hours: But again with the day we are up and away With our stolen dyes, To paint all the shrouds of the drifting clouds In the eastern skies. JOHN B. TABB SONNET It may be so; but let the unknown be. We, on this earth, are servants of the sun. Out of the sun comes all the quick in me, His golden touch is life to everyone. His power it is that makes us spin through space, His youth is April and his manhood bread, Beauty is but a looking on his face, He clears the mind, he makes the roses red. What he may be, who knows? But we are his, We roll through nothing round him, year by year, The withering leaves upon a tree which is Each with his greed, his little power, his fear. What we may be, who knows? But everyone Is dust on dust a servant of the sun. JOHN MASEFIELD CHARM: TO BE SAID IN THE SUN I reach my arms up, to the sky, And golden vine on vine Of sunlight showered wild and high, Around my brows I twine. I wreathe, I wind it everywhere, The burning radiancy Of brightness that no eye may dare, To be the strength of me. Come, redness of the crystalline, Come green, come hither blue And violet--all alive within, For I have need of you. Come honey-hue and flush of gold, And through the pallor run, With pulse on pulse of manifold New largess of the Sun! O steep the silence till it sing! O glories from the height, Come down, where I am garlanding With light, a child of light! JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY THE DIALS With fingers softer than the touch of death The sundial writes the passing of the day, The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray, The gleaming moments vanish in a breath. But sunny hours alone the sundial names; All unrecorded are the midnight spans And vain within the dusk the watcher scans The marble face; thereon no record flames. So on eternal dials that God may hold, And those more humble in the human heart, No bitter deeds their passing hours impart; Kind deeds alone are marked in fadeless gold! ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH TO A NEW SUNDIAL Oh, Sundial, you should not be young, Or fresh and fair, or spick and span! None should remember when began Your tenure here, nor whence you sprung! Like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd, I would have had you sadly tow'r Above this world of leaf and flower All ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd; Ambassador of Time and Fate, In contrast stern to bud and bloom, Seeming half temple and half tomb, And wholly solemn and sedate; Till, one with God's own works on earth, The lake, the vale, the mountain-brow, We might have come to count you now Whose home was here before our birth. But lo! a priggish, upstart thing-- Set here to tell so old a truth-- How fleeting are our days of youth-- _You_, that were only made last spring! Go to!... What sermon can you preach, Oh, mushroom--mentor pert and new? We are too old to learn of you What you are all too young to teach! Yet, Sundial, you and I may swear Eternal friendship, none the less, For I'll respect your youthfulness If you'll forgive my silver hair! VIOLET FANE THE FOUNTAIN I thought my garden finished. I beheld Each bush bee-visited; a green charm quelled The louder winds to music; soft boughs made Patches of silver dusk and purple shade-- And yet I felt a lack of something still. There was a little, sleepy-footed rill That lapsed among sun-burnished stones, where slept Fish, rainbow-scaled, while dragon-flies, adept, Balanced on bending grass. All perfect? No. My garden lacked a fountain's upward flow. I coaxed the brook's young Naiad to resign Her meadow wildness, building her a shrine Of worship, where each ravished waif of air Might wanton in the brightness of her hair. So here my fountain flows, loved of the wind, To every vagrant, aimless gust inclined, Yet constant ever to its source. It greets The face of morning, wavering windy sheets Of woven silver; sheer it climbs the noon, A shaft of bronze; and underneath the moon It sleeps in pearl and opal. In the storm It streams far out, a wild, gray, blowing form; While on calm days it heaps above the lake,-- Pelting the dreaming lilies half awake, And pattering jewels on each wide, green frond,-- Recurrent pyramids of diamond! HARRY KEMP THE PAGEANTRY OF GARDENS THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS _God spoke! and from the arid scene Sprang rich and verdant bowers, Till all the earth was soft with green,-- He smiled; and there were flowers._ MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA THE WELCOME God spreads a carpet soft and green O'er which we pass; A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen-- And that is Grass. Delightful music woos the ear; The grass is stirred Down to the heart of every spear-- Ah, that's a Bird. Clouds roll before a blue immense That stretches high And lends the soul exalted sense-- That scroll's a Sky. Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; Their jubilee Extols brave Captains and their quests-- And that is Sea. New-leaping grass, the feathery flute, The sapphire ring, The sea's full-voiced, profound salute,-- Ah, this is Spring! ARTHUR POWELL THE JOY OF THE SPRINGTIME Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence, The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam, The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes, The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden Watching the petals of gladness unclose? Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret, The bliss at the core of your magical mirth, That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth, That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom The roots of delight in the heart of the earth? SAROJINI NAIDU SPRING At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise." At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth." And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes Sank below the white horizon at the north. At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst;" At the fourth hour, all the earth was still: Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill. At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown, At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died. At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours. But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER PRIMAVERA Spirit immortal of mortality, Imperishable faith, calm miracle Of resurrection, truth no tongue can tell, No brain conceive,--now witnessed utterly In this new testament of earth and sea,-- To us thy gospel! Where the acorn fell The oak-tree springs: no seed is infidel! Once more, O Wonder, flower and field and tree Reveal thy secret and significance! And we, who share unutterable things And feel the foretaste of eternity, Haply shall learn thy meaning and perchance Set free the soul to lift immortal wings And cross the frontiers of infinity. GEORGE CABOT LODGE THE GREEN O' THE SPRING Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to see the sunshine, 'Tis fine to feel its glow; 'Tis fine to see the buds break On boughs that bare have been-- But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green! Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to hear the brooks sing As on their way they go; 'Tis fine to hear at mornin' The voice of robineen, But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green! Sure, here in grim New England The spring is always slow, An' every bit o' green grass Is kilt wid frost and snow; Ah, many a heart is weary The winther days, I ween But oh, the joy when springtime comes An' brings the blessed green! DENIS A. MCCARTHY AN APRIL MORNING Once more in misted April The world is growing green. Along the winding river The plumey willows lean. Beyond the sweeping meadows The looming mountains rise, Like battlements of dreamland Against the brooding skies. In every wooded valley The buds are breaking through, As though the heart of all things No languor ever knew. The golden-wings and bluebirds Call to their heavenly choirs. The pines are blued and drifted With smoke of brushwood fires. And in my sister's garden Where little breezes run, The golden daffodillies Are blowing in the sun. BLISS CARMAN "WITH MEMORIES AND ODORS" With memories and odors The wind is warm and mild; The earth is like a mother Where leaps the unborn child. The grackles flock returning Like rain-clouds from the south. And all the world lies yearning Toward summer, mouth to mouth. How soft the hills and hazy Seen through the open door!-- The crocus shines, a virgin, White from the grassy floor. The children whirl around in a ring, And laugh and sing, and dance and sing: But the blackbird whistles clear, O clear, "The Spring, the Spring!" JOHN HALL WHEELOCK APRIL RAIN Fall, rain! You are the blood of coming blossom, You shall be music in the young birds' throats, You shall be breaking, soon, in silver notes; A virgin laughter in the young earth's bosom. Oh, that I could with you reënter earth, Pass through her heart and come again to sun, Out of her fertile dark to sing and run In loveliness and fragrance of new mirth! Fall, rain! Into the dust I go with you, Pierce the remaining snows with subtle fire, Warming the frozen roots with soft desire, Dreams of ascending leaves and flowers new. I am no longer body,--I am blood Seeking for some new loveliness of shape; Dark loveliness that dreams of new escape, The sun-surrender of unclosing bud. Take me, O Earth! and make me what you will; I feel my heart with mingled music fill. CONRAD AIKEN WHILE APRIL RAIN WENT BY Under a budding hedge I hid While April rain went by, But little drops came slipping through, Fresh from a laughing sky: A-many little scurrying drops, Laughing the song they sing, Soon found me where I sought to hide, And pelted me with Spring. And I lay back and let them pelt, And dreamt deliciously Of lusty leaves and lady-blossoms And baby-buds I'd see When April rain had laughed the land Out of its wintry way, And coaxed all growing things to greet With gracious garb the May. SHAEMAS O SHEEL SPRING The dews drip roses on the meadows Where the meek daisies dot the sward. And Æolus whispers through the shadows, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord!" The golden news the skylark waketh And 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled; Attend ye as the first note breaketh And chrism droppeth on the world. The velvet dusk still haunts the stream Where Pan makes music light and gay. The mountain mist hath caught a beam And slowly weeps itself away. The young leaf bursts its chrysalis And gem-like hangs upon the bough, Where the mad throstle sings in bliss O'er earth's rejuvenated brow. ENVOI Slowly fall, O golden sands, Slowly fall and let me sing, Wrapt in the ecstasy of youth, The wild delights of Spring. FRANCIS LEDWIDGE APRIL WEATHER Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, For here is April weather! The daffodils beneath the trees Are all a-row together. The thrush is back with his old note; The scarlet tulip blowing; And white--ay, white as my love's throat-- The dogwood boughs are glowing. The lilac bush is sweet again; Down every wind that passes, Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; The bees are in the grasses. And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, And Care is but a feather; And every lad his love can win, For here is April weather. LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE DAFFODILS There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain: Who buried Love, all spent and still? There flames the first gay daffodil. Go, Love's alive on yonder hill, And yours for asking, joy and pain, There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain! RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING THE CROCUS FLAME The Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold O'er the awakening wold. What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, What token of re-birth, Of tender vernal mirth, Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold? Under the kindling panoply which God Spreads over tree and clod, I looked far abroad. Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seer As when the dying year, With rime-white sandals shod, Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier. Of some rathe quickening, some divine Renascence not a sign! And yet, and yet, With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred, And one lone bird An unexpected jet Of song projected through the morning blue, As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew. And so I gathered heart, and cried again: "O earth, make plain, At this matutinal hour, The triumph and the power Of life eternal over death and pain, Although it be but by some simple flower!" And then, with sudden light, Was dowered my veilèd sight, And I beheld in a sequestered place A slender crocus show its sun-bright face. O miracle of Grace, Earth's Easter answer came, The revelation of transfiguring Might, In that small crocus flame! CLINTON SCOLLARD THE EARLY GODS It is the time of violets. It is the very day When in the shadow of the wood Spring shall have her say, Remembering how the early gods Came up the violet way. Are there not violets And gods-- To-day? WITTER BYNNER A TULIP GARDEN Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye Of purple batteries, every gun in place. Forward they come, with flaunting colors spread, With torches burning, stepping out in time To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime Parades the army. With our utmost powers We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. AMY LOWELL TULIPS Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows, Coming while breezes of April are cold, Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees you Thrusting your spears through the redolent mold. Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers, Drink! ere the pageant of Spring passes by! Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals, Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky! Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans, Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares, Nodding so solemn by fountain and column, What is the talk of your weighty affairs? Pollen and honey (for such is your money),-- Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,-- Prospects of growing,--what colors are showing,-- News of rare tulips from over the sea? Loitering near you, how often I hear you, Just ere your petals at twilight are furled, Laugh through the grasses while Evelyn passes, "There goes the loveliest flower in the world!" ARTHUR GUITERMAN A WHITE IRIS Tall and clothed in samite, Chaste and pure, In smooth armor,-- Your head held high In its helmet Of silver: Jean D'Arc riding Among the sword blades! Has Spring for you Wrought visions, As it did for her In a garden? PAULINE B. BARRINGTON MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, And, spinning all day at her secret looms, With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall She pictureth over, and peopleth it all With echoes and dreams, And singing of streams. May is building her house of petal and blade; Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made, With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, travelling green things strayed. Her windows the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing, The thresholds of the four winds are. May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea! out of winter's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's. RICHARD LE GALLIENNE THE MAGNOLIA Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, Perfect and bright is the magnolia born; White as a flake of foam upon still water, White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn. Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned Of Grecian marble in an age remote. Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned, As when a woman bares her rounded throat. There is a tale of how the moon, her lover, Holds her enchanted by some magic spell; Something about a dove that broods above her, Or dies within her breast--I cannot tell. I cannot say where I have heard the story, Upon what poet's lips; but this I know: Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow. JOSÉ SANTOS CHOCANO (_Translated by John Pierrepont Rice_) "GO DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC-TIME" Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!). The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London. The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed _tu-whit_, _tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London. For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:-- _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)._ ALFRED NOYES BEYOND I wonder if the tides of Spring Will always bring me back again Mute rapture at the simple thing Of lilacs blowing in the rain. If so, my heart will ever be Above all fear, for I shall know There is a greater mystery Beyond the time when lilacs blow. THOMAS S. JONES, JR. JUNE I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming! Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming; I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings, And felt a softness in the air half Summer's and half Spring's. I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing-- I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing; The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red, For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread. I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming, For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming. I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here-- The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year! DOUGLAS MALLOCH JUNE RAPTURE Green! What a world of green! My startled soul Panting for beauty long denied, Leaps in a passion of high gratitude To meet the wild embraces of the wood; Rushes and flings itself upon the whole Mad miracle of green, with senses wide, Clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast, As one who finds a long-lost love at last. Billows of green that break upon the sight In bounteous crescendos of delight, Wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hills To where the sun its highest rapture spills; Cascades of color tumbling down the height In golden gushes of delicious light-- God! Can I bear the beauty of this day, Or shall I be swept utterly away? Hush--here are deeps of green, where rapture stills, Sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk; Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet, Wherein a million hidden pulses beat. Look! How the very air takes fire and thrills With hint of heaven pushing through her husk. Ah, joy's not stopped! 'Tis only more intense, Here where Creation's ardors all condense; Here where I crush me to the radiant sod, Close-folded to the very nerves of God. See now--I hold my heart against this tree. The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me. There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veins That does not sting me with ecstatic pains. No twig or tracery, however fine, Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine. Praised be the gods that made my spirit mad; Kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch. Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate; Gave me so often agony for mate; Tore from my heart the things that make men glad-- Praised be the gods! If I at last, by such Relentless means may know the sacred bliss, The anguished rapture of an hour like this. Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must; Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust, But keep me thus aquiver and awake, Enamoured of my life for living's sake! _This were the tragedy_--that I should pass, Dull and indifferent through the glowing grass. And this the reason I was born, I say-- That I might know the passion of this day! ANGELA MORGAN COLUMBINES Late were we sleeping Deep in the mold, Clasping and keeping Yesterday's gold-- Hoardings of sunshine, Crimson and gold; Dreaming of light till our dream became Aureate bells and beakers of flame,-- Splashed with the splendor of wine of flame. Raindrop awoke us; Zephyr bespoke us; Chick-a-dee called us, Bobolink called us,-- Then we came. ARTHUR GUITERMAN THE MORNING-GLORY Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart? To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while? Thy silence answers: "Life was mine! And I, who pass without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief. "In its first radiance I have seen The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night? I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!" FLORENCE EARLE COATES THE BLOSSOMY BARROW Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall. You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want' To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'. I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place, But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace"; Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all, An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall. Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day, An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away; He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees land An' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand! I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gat Som' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?" "O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said, An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed. Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor, But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door, Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed, An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red, Smile out from da vina so pretty an' green Dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine. I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?" An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal! I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng; I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!" Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall. T. A. DALY LARKSPUR Blue morning and the beloved, The hill-garden and I ... Blue morning and the beloved, Leaning, laughing and plucking, Plucking wet roses ... (She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, Song, sun, And still morning air.) I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue And held it, A blossom against the sky ... And heaven opened out In one small flower-face ... And the beloved, Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, Lifted her face With eyes of china-blue. (She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: Light, dew, And laughter of my love.) JAMES OPPENHEIM THE JULY GARDEN It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze; And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!" So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing At clusters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down. And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells-- And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon The blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden And what is half so lovely as my garden in July? ROBERT ERNEST VERNÈDE "MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS" Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays; Gay flower petals strew --Pearl, emerald and blue-- The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass; The pools are clear as glass Between the white cups of the lily-flowers; The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please. The air is pearly, iridescent, pure; These profound and radiant noons mature, Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light; Familiar roads to distances invite Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun. Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, No other garden with such grace and power; And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower. EMILE VERHAEREN POPPIES O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days, The season's emblems ye, As nodding lazily Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, And soothe the tired gazer's sense With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed With tender ruby glow. Not any flowers that blow Can match the glory of your gleaming red; Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew. Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, And bright the velvet vest On the nasturtium's breast; Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, And bright the coreopsis' eye;-- But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well; Your glorious crimson tide The mossy walk beside Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; And walking there we gladly bless Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness. JOHN RUSSELL HAYES THE GARDEN IN AUGUST From corn-crib by the level pasture-lands To knoll where spruce and boulders hide the road I know it like a book, and when my heart Is waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds, I come here till it gently blooms again. For gardens yield rich fruits that will outlast The autumn and the winter of the soul, Richest to him who toils with loving hands. 'Tis delving thus we learn life's secrets told But to those favored few who dig for them. The Garden is an intimate and keeps In touch with us, yet hath its own high moods, And doth impose them on the mind of man To shame his pettiness. So do I love Its shimmering August mood keyed to the sun, A harlequin of color, birds and bloom. Nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blaze By vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burn In scarlet shadow of Jerusalem-cross; Beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid rule Barbaric marigolds; chrysanthemums Outshine gladioli, and sunflowers flaunt Their crests of gold beneath the giant gourds. Within the arbor, script forgot, I muse, While gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and fro To mark the silences, and butterflies Flit in and out like some bright memory, And blinding poppies kindle slow watch-fires Before the golden altar of the sun. A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sits With finger on her lips as if she heard The steps of Autumn echo on the hill. A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreams Of timid crocus thrust through drifted snow. GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT SUN, CARDINAL, AND CORN FLOWERS Whence gets Earth her gold for thee, O Sunflower? Her woven, yellow locks so fine Must go to make that gold of thine. And whence thy red beside the stream, O Cardinal-flower? She pricks some vein lies near her heart That thy rich, ruddy hue may start. And whence thy blue amid the corn, O Corn-flower? Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee, The glories of her work to see. HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL SUNFLOWERS My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons. When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky, Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate. Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through. CLINTON SCOLLARD THE END OF SUMMER When poppies in the garden bleed, And coreopsis goes to seed, And pansies, blossoming past their prime, Grow small and smaller all the time, When on the mown field, shrunk and dry, Brown dock and purple thistle lie, And smoke from forest fires at noon Can make the sun appear the moon, When apple seeds, all white before, Begin to darken in the core, I know that summer, scarcely here, Is gone until another year. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY A LATE WALK When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of the withered weeds Is sadder than any words. A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rustling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. ROBERT FROST COLOR NOTES The brown of fallen leaves, The duller brown Of withered moss Stubble and bared sheaves, And pale light filtering down The fields across. The gray of slender trees, The softer gray Of melting skies. What sobering ecstasies One drinks on such a day With chastened eyes! CHARLES WHARTON STORK THE GOLDEN BOWL I stand upon the broad and rounded summit Of a high hill In the full golden flood of an October day Nearing to twilight. Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes. Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, Nearer a hawthorn tree Drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green grass. I stand with head thrown back, Seeing and breathing deep, My arms stretched out, in my two hands I hold a golden bowl. Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow lustre of its hollow sphere, Fruits like great gems, A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, A cluster of grapes-- Amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, And on them lies a rose. Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul, Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, Topped with the rosy spray of grace, A rose, As though dropped to me from the sky above, A crowning thing, Love, I lift and hold you out, An offering, And close my eyes. MARY MCMILLAN THE AUTUMN ROSE A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose, Haunting my garden that you once loved well: Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close, And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell Your loveliness was fairer than a dream! But now your pride of beauty is all gone, And like some poor sad penitent you seem, Whose drooping head but hides a visage wan And wasted by the coldness of the world. Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, Within your petals lies a tear impearled; I hear you to my garden say good-bye. A sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow Hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow? ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON INDIAN SUMMER Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under the moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer. Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless. Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them. SARA TEASDALE "FROST TO-NIGHT" Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will. Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still." Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,--the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along. In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ..." Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. EDITH M. THOMAS NOVEMBER NIGHT Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall. ADELAIDE CRAPSEY THE SNOW-GARDENS Like an empty stage The gardens are empty and cold; The marble terraces rise Like vases that hold no flowers; The lake is frozen, the fountain still; The marble walls and the seats Are useless and beautiful. Ah, here Where the wind and the dusk and the snow are All is silent and white and sad! Why do I think of you? Why does your name remorselessly Strike through my heart? Why does my soul awaken and shudder? Why do I seem to hear Cries as lovely as music? Surely you never came Into these pale snow-gardens; Surely you never stood Here in the twilight with me; Yet here I have lingered and dreamed Of a face as subtle as music, Of golden hair, and of eyes Like a child's ... I have felt on my brow Your finger-tips, plaintive as music ... O Wonder of all wonders, O Love-- Wrought of sweet sounds and of dreaming!-- Why do you not emerge From the lilac pale petals of dusk, And come to me here in the gardens Where the wind and the snow are? Beauty and Peace are here-- And unceasing music-- And a loneliness chill and wistful, Like the feeling of death. Like a crystal lily a star Leans from its leaves of silver And gleams in the sky; And golden and faint in the shadows You wait indistinctly,-- Like a phantom lamp that appears In the mirror of distance that hovers By the window at twilight-- You have come--and we stand together, With questioning eyes-- Dreaming and cold and ghostly In an empty garden that seems Like an empty stage. ZOË AKINS A SONG FOR WINTER Speak not of snow and cold and rime Now they prevail. Would you have joy in winter-time, Think of the pale New green that comes, of blossoming lilacs think, Larkspur, and borders of the fringèd pink. And sing, if winter grants you heart to sing, Of summer and of spring. Would you secure some happiness In frosty hours, Trust to the eye external less Than to the powers Of inward sight that even now may show Opaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glow Of daybreak on the glades where thrushes sing In summer and in spring. Gaze not on fettered lake and brook And sullen skies, But in your happy memory look Where beauty lies As once it was, as it shall be again When sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain, And sing, as must who would in winter sing, Of summer and of spring. MRS. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER WINGS AND SONG "I MEANT TO DO MY WORK TO-DAY" _I meant to do my work to-day-- But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree And a butterfly flitted across the field, And all the leaves were calling me._ _And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- So what could I do but laugh and go?_ RICHARD LE GALLIENNE THE HUMMINGBIRD Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away! Hi! little rover, stop and stay. Merry, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag! Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier-- Was ever a bee merrier, airier? Wings folded so, a second or two-- Was ever a crow more solemn than you? A-whirr again over the garden, away! Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay? Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss! What do you know that we humans miss? In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, In the rose's palace, what do they tell (When the door you bob in, airily) That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?-- Fearing the crew of chatter and song, And tell to you of the chantless tongue? Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the sting Masked in gay dress and whirring wing? Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff! What need to sing? Here's music enough. A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through! Hi! little rover, fair travel to you. Sweet, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag! HERMANN HAGEDORN SPRING SONG Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood song with the ancient thrill. Gossiping on the countryside, Spring and the wandering breezes say God has thrown heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day. WILLIAM GRIFFITH NIGHTINGALES At sunset my brown nightingales Hidden and hushed all day, Ring vespers, while the color pales And fades to twilight gray: The little mellow bells they ring, The little flutes they play, Are soft as though for practising The things they want to say. It's when the dark has floated down To hide and guard and fold, I know their throats that look so brown, Are really made of gold. No music I have ever heard Can call as sweet as they! I wonder if it _is_ a bird That sings within the hidden tree, Or some shy angel calling me To follow far away? GRACE HAZARD CONKLING THE GOLDFINCH Down from the sky on a sudden he drops Into the mullein and juniper tops, Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold. Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, Then with a flash of bewildering wings Dazzles away up and down, and he sings Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies Bounding along on the wave of the skies. Sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire, Motion and melody married to fire, Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, Frailer than violets, how shall we find Words that will match him, discover a name Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame? How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, Find us a wonderful music to sing with him Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily High in the burning blue, winging so airily? ODELL SHEPARD KINFOLK O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,-- The little mother-bird all brown, Who broods above her nest on high, And with her soft, bright eyes looks down To read the secret of my heart,-- We two from all the world apart! She dreams there in her swaying nest; I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine. The same love stirs her feathered breast That makes my heart-throb seem divine. We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,-- The small brown mother-bird, and I. KATE WHITING PATCH A MOCKING-BIRD An arrow, feathery, alive, He darts and sings,-- Then with a sudden skimming dive Of striped wings He finds a pine and, debonair, Makes with his mate All birds that ever rested there Articulate. The whisper of a multitude Of happy wings Is round him, a returning brood, Each time he sings. Though heaven be not for them or him Yet he is wise, And daily tiptoes on the rim Of paradise. WITTER BYNNER THE CARDINAL-BIRD Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along, A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song, My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing, Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring. A plump little prelate, the park is his church; The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch; And there, in his rubicund livery dressed, Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest, He preaches, with most unconventional glee, A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me, Commending the wisdom of those that display The brightest of colors when heavens are gray. ARTHUR GUITERMAN YELLOW WARBLERS The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies, When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes, I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,-- A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,-- Beyond my casement had been void of song. And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set, Live buds that warbled like a rivulet Beneath a veil of willows. Then I knew Those tiny voices, clear as drops of dew, Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue, Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles-- Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured miles Innumerable over land and sea With wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee, They filled that dark old oak with jubilee, Foretelling in delicious roundelays Their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays, How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate, Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate, To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate. Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once more From lyric dawn through dreamland's open door, And there was God, Eternal Life that sings Eternal joy, brooding all mortal things, A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings. KATHARINE LEE BATES WITCHERY Out of the purple drifts, From the shadow sea of night, On tides of musk a moth uplifts Its weary wings of white. Is it a dream or ghost Of a dream that comes to me, Here in the twilight on the coast, Blue cinctured by the sea? Fashioned of foam and froth-- And the dream is ended soon, And, lo, whence came the moon-white moth Comes now the moth-white moon! FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN THE SPRING BEAUTIES The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly. The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" HELEN GRAY CONE THE MOCKING-BIRD He didn't know much music When first he come along; An' all the birds went wonderin' Why he didn't sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An' sung their sweetest notes; An' music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer time an' fall; He jest set still and listened, An' he wouldn't sing at all! But one night when them songsters Was tired out an' still, An' the wind sighed down the valley An' went creepin' up the hill; When the stars was all a-tremble In the dreamin' fields o' blue, An' the daisy in the darkness-- Felt the fallin' o' the dew,-- There come a sound o' melody No mortal ever heard, An' all the birds seemed singin' From the throat o' one sweet bird! Then the other birds went Mayin' In a land too fur to call; For there warn't no use in stayin' When one bird could sing for all! FRANK L. STANTON THE MESSENGER Bee! tell me whence do you come? Ten fields away, twenty perhaps, Have heard your hum. If you are from the north, you may Have passed my mother's roof of straw Upon your way. If you came from the south you should Have seen another cottage just Inside the wood. And should you go back that way, please Carry a message to the house Among the trees. Say--I will wait her at the rock Beside the stream, this very night At eight o'clock. And ask your queen when you get home To send my queen the present of A honey-comb. JAMES STEPHENS FIREFLIES Fireflies, Fireflies, little glinting creatures, Making night lovely with a rain of gold, Born of the moonbeams, children all unearthly, Ah how you vanish from a look too bold! Fireflies, Fireflies, lovely as our dreams are, Sewn with such fancies from the years gone by, Wayward, elusive, as the playful zephyrs, Hiding mid grasses, gleaming in the sky. Fireflies, Fireflies, like unto the silent Brown nuns who gather for the dead to pray, As theirs your mission; holy, too, your tapers, Souls of dead flowers lighting on their way. ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON JULY MIDNIGHT Fireflies flicker in the tops of trees, Flicker in the lower branches, Skim along the ground. Over the moon-white lilies Is a flashing and ceasing of small, lemon-green stars. As you lean against me, Moon-white, The air all about you Is slit, and pricked, and pointed with sparkles of lemon-green flame Starting out of a background of great vague trees. AMY LOWELL THE CRICKET IN THE PATH She passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and so white, Her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's upturned, And it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her head with the light Of an aureole burned. But where she had trodden unseeing, I found on the path A cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet strong To valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermath Of its yesterday song. And I whispered, "Alas, Little Brother, why must it befall That the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us to die? Poor imp of the greensward, God trumpets me clear in thy call; Thou art braver than I. "The Bright Ones of Heaven have trodden me down as they passed; I crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing. I know not the reason, nor question henceforth. To the last, While I live, I will sing." AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR REST AT NOON Now with a re-created mind Back to the world my way I find; Fed by the hills one little hour, By meadow-slope and beechen-bower, Cedar serene, benignant larch, Hoar mountains and the azure arch Where dazzling vapors make vast sport In God's profound and spacious court. The universe played with me. Earth Harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth; The clouds built castles for my pleasure, And airy legions without measure Flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky To thrill my heart once and to die. I have held converse with large things; For cherubim with cooling wings Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view, Called through the arras of the blue And clapped their hands: "These veils uproll! And see the comrades of your soul!" The very flowers that ringed my bed Their little "God-be-with-you" said, And every insect, bird and bee Brought cool cups from eternity. HERMANN HAGEDORN ORDER It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush: The petals are spread for a sunning; The little gold fly is scrubbing his face; The spider is nervously running To fasten a thread; the night-going moth Is folding his velvet perfection; And presently over the clover will come The bee on a tour of inspection. PAUL SCOTT MOWRER THE NIGHT-MOTH My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,-- You gleam as a dream, by my window's light, My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night. From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night. MARION COUTHOUY SMITH THE BUTTERFLY O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? _Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray-- He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day._ Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! I will go back now to the world of men. Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man. EDWIN MARKHAM THE SECRET O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune? "I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!" ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY THE GARDEN _Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart. A goodly place it is and primly spaced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom. Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved. Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the lustrous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets. A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._ GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT OLD HOMES Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. MADISON CAWEIN A PURITAN LADY'S GARDEN This fairy pleasance in the brake-- This maze run wild of flower and vine-- Our fathers planted for the sake Of eyes that longed for English gardens Amid the virgin wastes of pine. Here, by the broken, moldering wall, Where still the tiger-lilies ride, Once grew the crown imperial, The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret, Prince's-feather, and mourning bride. Beyond their pale, a humbler throng, Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine; The mountain fringe ran all along The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, And overhung the eglantine. And Sunday flowers were here as well-- Adam-and-Eve within their hood, The stately Canterbury bell, And, oft in churches breathing fragrance, The sweet and pungent southernwood. When ships for England cleared the bay, If long beside these reefs of foam She stood, and watched them sail away, It was her garden first enticed her To turn, and call this country "home." SARAH N. CLEGHORN THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN Among the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize, For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies. The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close, For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows. So bright and lovely is the dear old place, It seems as though the country's very heart Were centered here, and that its antique grace Must ever hold it from the world apart. Immured it lies among the meadows deep, Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep. The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge They love to wander from their meadow home, To take what little pleasure here they may Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday. The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, And up the arbor's lattices are rolled The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires; The tall carnation's breast of faded gold Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek. The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes, With golden stars the coreopsis flames, And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms, Dear for the very fragrance of their names,-- Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks, Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks, Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines. * * * * * A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, A calm asylum from the busy world, Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurled Round half the globe; no noise of party feud Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude. But summer after summer comes and goes And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair; May brings the tulip, golden June the rose, And August winds shake down the mellow pear. Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,-- But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years. * * * * * Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain In violet-days when spring opes her green heart; And sweet the apple trees along the lane Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart; And sweet the brimming dew that overfills The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils. But sweeter far, in this old garden-close To loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers, To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. Old gardens and old poets,--happy he Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company! JOHN RUSSELL HAYES A COLONIAL GARDEN Down this pathway, through the shade, Lightly tripped the dainty maid, In her eyes the smile of June, On her lips some old sweet tune. Through yon ragged rows of box, By that awkward clump of phlox, To her favorite pansy bed Like a ray of light, she sped. Satin slippers trim and neat Gleamed upon her slender feet; Round her ankles, deftly tied, Ribbons crossed from side to side, Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair, Breathed their fragrance on the air; There her fluttering azure gown Shook the poppy's petals down. Here a rose, with fond caress, Stooped to touch a truant tress From her fillet struggling free, Scorning its captivity. There a bed of rue was set With an edge of mignonette, And the spicy bergamot Meshed the frail forget-me-not. Honeysuckles, hollyhocks, Bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks, Marigolds and blue-eyed grass Curtsied when the maid did pass. Now the braggart weeds have spread Through the paths she loved to tread, And the creeping moss has grown O'er yon shattered dial-stone. Still beside the ruined walks Some old flowers, on sturdy stalks, Dream of her whose happy eyes Roam the fields of paradise. JAMES B. KENYON IN MY MOTHER'S GARDEN There were many flowers in my mother's garden, Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I, Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring, Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky; Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders, White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold, Clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented, Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old. In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places, Nooks between the lilacs--oh, a pleasant place to play! Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it, Though the long years lie between and I am far away; When the world is hard now, when the city's clanging Tires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere, I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing, I can be a child still and hide my heart from care. Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight, Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold-- Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness, Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old! MARGARET WIDDEMER TO THE SWEETWILLIAM I search the poet's honied lines, And not in vain, for columbines; And not in vain for other flowers That sanctify the many bowers Unsanctified by human souls. See where the larkspur lifts among The thousand blossoms finely sung, Still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls! Charity, eglantine, and rue And love-in-a-mist are all in view, With coloured cousins; but where are you, Sweetwilliam? The lily and the rose have books Devoted to their lovely looks, And wit has fallen in vital showers Through England's most miraculous hours To keep them fresh a thousand years. The immortal library can show The violet's well-thumbed folio Stained tenderly by girls in tears. The shelf where Genius stands in view Has brier and daffodil and rue And love-lies-bleeding; but not you, Sweetwilliam. Thus, if I seek the classic line For marybuds, 'tis, Shakespeare, thine! And ever is the primrose born 'Neath Goldsmith's overhanging thorn. In Herrick's breastknot I can see The apple-blossom, fresh and fair As when he plucked and put it there, Heedless of Time's anthology. So flower by flower comes into view Kept fadeless by the Olympian dew For startled eyes; and yet not you, Sweetwilliam. * * * * * Though gods of song have let you be, Bloom in my little book for me. Unwont to stoop or lean, you show An undefeated heart, and grow As pluckily as cedars. Heat And cold, and winds that make Tumbledown sallies, cannot shake Your resolution to be sweet. Then take this song, be it born to die Ere yet the unwedded butterfly Has glimpsed a darling in the sky, Sweetwilliam! NORMAN GALE ROSE-GERANIUM A pungent spray of rose-geranium-- A breath of the old life. It brings up the little five-room cottage where I was born, And where I grew through a smiling childhood. The white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair, His eyes far off, crooning "The Sweet By and By," Marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor, While the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks. And there is my grandmother's kneeling figure, Turning over the rich black earth with her trowel; And the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says: "Didn't the pansies do finely this year, Clem? And the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs, And the row of flaming salvia.... Those roses ... they're Maréchal Niels ... my favorites. And little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium-- Just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girl Her grandmother grew them in her yard!" CLEMENT WOOD FOUR O'CLOCKS It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow. Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart-- Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part. Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies. And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died! JULIA C. R. DORR ASKING FOR ROSES A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; "I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is." "Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy, "But one we must ask if we want any roses." So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses. "Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?" 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. "Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses. "A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses." We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses. ROBERT FROST THE OLD BROCADE In a black oak chest all carven, We found it laid, Still faintly sweet of Lavender, An old brocade. With that perfume came a vision, A garden fair, Enclosed by great yew hedges; A Lady there, Is culling fresh blown lavender, And singing goes Up and down the alleys green-- A human rose. The sun glints on her auburn hair And brightens, too, The silver buckles that adorn Each little shoe. Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves Are cobweb lace; Her gown, it is our old brocade, Worn with a grace. Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, And see the sheen Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, Their leaves soft green, On a ground of palest shell pink, In garlands laid; But long dead the Rose who wore it-- The old brocade. M. G. BRERETON STAIRWAYS AND GARDENS Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill me Always with vague suggestions of delight. Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and grace Seem part of their environment; they fill all space With memories of things veiled from my sight In some far place. Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning; It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door; Of birds at dawn--of sultry afternoons. Gardens. I seem to see low branches screening A vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floor Where sunlight swoons. Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing, Then curves and vanishes in space above. Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend. Stairways; and some one at the bottom standing Expectantly with lifted looks of love. Then steps descend. Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song-- With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk-- With dawn and dusk--with youth, romance, and mystery, And times that were and times that are to be. Stairways and Gardens. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX OLD MOTHERS I love old mothers--mothers with white hair, And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet With murmured blessings over sleeping babes. There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons; A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes That far outreaches all philosophy. Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, While all the echoes of forgotten songs Seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech. Old mothers!--as they pace with slow-timed step, Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength; Sweet mothers!--as they pass, one sees again Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves. CHARLES ROSS PASTURES AND HILLSIDES SONG FROM "APRIL" _I know Where the wind flowers blow! I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather honey for their queen!_ _I would be A wild flower, Blue sky over me, For an hour ... an hour! So the wild bees Should seek and discover me, And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me! Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!_ _I know Where the wind flowers blow! I know, I have been Where the little rabbits run In the warm, yellow sun!_ _Oh, to be a wild flower For an hour ... an hour ... In the heather! A bright flower, a wild flower, Blown by the weather!_ _I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather Honey for their queen!_ IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD THE ROAD TO THE POOL I know a road that leads from town, A pale road in a Watteau gown Of wild-rose sprays, that runs away All fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray. It slips along the laurel grove And down the hill, intent to rove, And crooks an arm of shadow cool Around a willow-silvered pool. I never travel very far Beyond the pool where willows are: There is a shy and native grace That hovers all about the place, And resting there I hardly know Just where it was I meant to go, Contented like the road that dozes In panniered gown of briar roses. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING THE WILD ROSE Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trod Violets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod, And daisies blossom all across the sod. She passed the brook, and in their glad surprise The first forget-me-nots smiled at the skies And caught the very color of her eyes. But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressed The dear wild rose so closely to her breast It stole her heart--and so she loves it best. CHARLES BUXTON GOING UP A HILL AND A HILL Up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope, And a little tawny field in the sun; There's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, And grasses nodding news one to one. Up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand, And between the apple-boughs to find the blue Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, With the white charmèd ships sliding through. Up a hill and a hill there's a little house as gray As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, And a face at the window, checker-paned. I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, Just to find that tawny field above the sea! Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle's sweet! And the eyes at the window watch for me! FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS THE JOYS OF A SUMMER MORNING The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay, The swish of the scythe And the roundelay Of the meadow-lark as he wings away, Are the joys of a summer morning. The daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast, The wandering bee And his ceaseless quest Of the tempting sweets in the clover's crest, Are the joys of a summer morning. The lowing kine on a distant hill, The rollicking fall Of the near-by rill And the lazy drone of the ancient mill, Are the joys of a summer morning. The feathery clouds in a faultless sky, The new-risen sun With its kindly eye And the woodland breezes floating by, Are the joys of a summer morning. HENRY A. WISE WOOD SOUTH WIND Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning, With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; Your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards; You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, And white your pennons streamed along the river. You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure, Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn. SIEGFRIED SASSOON TO A WEED You bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very nose Of her fastidious majesty, the rose, Even in the best ordainèd garden bed, Unauthorized, your smiling little head! The gardener, mind! will come in his big boots, And drag you up by your rebellious roots, And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun, Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done. And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low, He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow, And trundle you--I don't know clearly where, But off, outside the dew, the light, the air. Meantime--ah, yes! the air is very blue, And gold the light, and diamond the dew,-- You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way, And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay! You argue in your manner of a weed, You did not make yourself grow from a seed, You fancy you've a claim to standing-room, You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom. The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose, He never scorned you for a weed,--he knows! The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad, It's only cross old gardeners find you bad. You know, you weed, I quite agree with you, I am a weed myself, and I laugh too,-- Both, just as long as we can shun his eye, Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by! GERTRUDE HALL THE PASTURE I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother. It's so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. ROBERT FROST THE THISTLE Ha, prickle-armèd knight, How oft the world hath cursed thee, Thou pestilence of Earth, The beldame who hath nursed thee! Hath hellish Proserpine Her needs lent to arm thee That mischief-loving gods, Pricked sorely, may not harm thee? Or hath the mirthful Love Presented thee his pinions To dress thy tiny seeds, The curse of man's dominions! Thou like a maiden art Who best can find protection Employed at needlework From idleness' infection. And like a prude thou art When he who loves embraces; Thou dost repel with thorns And she with sharper phrases. And like the wraith thou art Wherewith my heart is haunted; Ye both take most delight Where ye the least are wanted. MILES M. DAWSON CLOVER Little masters, hat in hand, Let me in your presence stand, Till your silence solve for me This your threefold mystery. Tell me--for I long to know-- How, in darkness there below, Was your fairy fabric spun, Spread and fashioned, three in one. Did your gossips gold and blue, Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, Ere your triple forms were seen, Suited liveries of green? Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed Captives of a prison seed-- Like the Genie, once again Get you back into the grain? Little masters, may I stand In your presence, hat in hand, Waiting till you solve for me This your threefold mystery? JOHN B. TABB WILD GARDENS On the ripened grass is a bloomy mist Of silver and rose and amethyst Where the long June wave has run. There are glints of copper and tarnished brass, And hyacinthine flames that pass From the green fires of the sun. This web of a thousand gleams and glows Was woven silently out of the snows And the patient shine and rain. It was fashioned cunningly day by day From the silken spear to the pollened spray With its folded sheaths of grain. Oh, garden of grasses deep and wild, So dear to the vagrant and the child And the singer of an hour. To the wayworn soul you give your balm, Your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm, Your grace of bud and flower. ADA FOSTER MURRAY THE DANDELION O dandelion, rich and haughty, King of village flowers! Each day is coronation time, You have no humble hours. I like to see you bring a troop To beat the blue-grass spears, To scorn the lawn-mower that would be Like fate's triumphant shears. Your yellow heads are cut away, It seems your reign is o'er. By noon you raise a sea of stars More golden than before. VACHEL LINDSAY JOE-PYEWEED And the name brings back those kindly hills And the drowsing life so new to me; And the welcome that those purple blossoms With their tiny trumpets blew to me. Stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads, Leaping, as a lusty fellow would, Through the lowlands, down the twisting cow-paths; Running past the green and yellow wood. How they come again--those rambling roads; And the weeds' wild jewels glowing there. Richer than a Paradise of flowers Was that bit of pasture growing there. Weeds--the very names call up those faint Half-forgotten smells and cries again ... Weeds--like some old charm, I say them over, And the rolling Berkshires rise again: _Basil, Boneset, Toadflax, Tansy, Weeds of every form and fancy; Milk-weed, Mullein, Loose-strife, Jewel-weed, Mustard, Thimble-weed, Tear-thumb (a cruel weed). Clovers in all sorts--Nonesuch, Melilot; Staring Buttercups, a bold and yellow lot. Daisies rioting about the place With Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne's Lace...._ Names--they blossom into colored hills; Hills whose rousing beauty flows to me ... And with all its soundless, purple trumpets, Lo, the Joe-Pyeweed still blows to me! LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO A DAISY Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide Like all created things, secrets from me, And stand a barrier to eternity. And I, how can I praise thee well and wide From where I dwell--upon the hither side? Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide, Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world. Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring, And from a poet's side shall read his book. O daisy mine, what will it be to look From God's side even of such a simple thing? ALICE MEYNELL A SOFT DAY A soft day, thank God! A wind from the south With a honeyed mouth; A scent of drenching leaves, Briar and beech and lime, White elder-flower and thyme And the soaking grass smells sweet, Crushed by my two bare feet, While the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves. A soft day, thank God! The hills wear a shroud Of silver cloud; The web the spider weaves Is a glittering net; The woodland path is wet, And the soaking earth smells sweet Under my two bare feet, And the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves. W. M. LETTS ARBUTUS Not Spring's Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows Rose-tinged. ADELAIDE CRAPSEY JEWEL-WEED Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay? Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir, O'er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer; But here's a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This passionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed, That now, when days are growing drear, As Summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold! Thine only, these, thou lonely road! Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pass the charmèd spot Whispers in warning: "Friend, admire,-- But touch me not! "Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!" FLORENCE EARLE COATES THE WALL "_Something there is that doesn't like a wall._" (ROBERT FROST) "Not like a wall?" I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall Tracing the grey redoubt from square to square Which bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,-- And wonder if it's true? Nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine, That lean upon the boulders, The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders, The golden rod, the aster and the rue. Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek Skipping from stone to stone By a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek, Making the little viaduct his own. Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head Between the rocks close by the cabbage bed; The honey-bees have built a secret hive In a forgotten chink; And there a grey cocoon is tucked away Shrouding a miracle in mauve and pink To wait its Easter day. The wall with pageantry is all alive! And I who gaze On the dark border here, Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, Embroidered with the glory of the year,-- Do I not like the wall? Lo, I remember how in days of old My grandsire toiled with weariness and pain To dig the cumbering boulders from the mould; Piled them in ordered rows again, Fitting them firm and fast, A monument to last Long after his own harried day was past. He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain By which his children throve To carry on the race. We live by his life-giving. I see each stone, rough like his granite face,-- Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, Dowered with little grace, Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living, But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, And bolts that heaven let fall. Built of a patriot's prime,-- I love the wall! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN BOULDERS There is a look of wisdom in yon stones, Great boulders basking in the noonday heat, Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweet Fresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones. While through the glade an insect army drones And birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat, These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete, Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones. A thousand or ten thousand years ago, Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might, These boulders hurtled from some toppling height And crashed through forests to the plain below. Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood, They lie on lowly earth and find it good. CHARLES WHARTON STORK AFTERNOON ON A HILL I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun; I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one; I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes; Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise; And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE GOLDEN-ROD O Rod of gold! O swaying sceptre of the year-- Now frost and cold Show Winter near, And shivering leaves grow brown and sere. The bleak hillside, And marshy waste of yellow reeds, And meadows wide Where frosted weeds Shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds, Are decked with thee,-- The lingering Summer's latest grace, And sovereignty. Each wind-swept space Waves thy red gold in Winter's face-- He strives each star, In stormy pride to lay full low; But when thy bar Resists his blow, Will crown thee with a puff of snow! MARGARET DELAND THE PATH THAT LEADS TO NOWHERE There's a path that leads to nowhere In a meadow that I know, Where an inland island rises And the stream is still and slow; There it wanders under willows And beneath the silver green Of the birches' silent shadows Where the early violets lean. Other pathways lead to Somewhere, But the one I love so well Had no end and no beginning-- Just the beauty of the dell, Just the windflowers and the lilies, Yellow striped as adder's tongue Seem to satisfy my pathway As it winds their sweets among. There I go to meet the Spring-time, When the meadow is aglow, Marigolds amid the marshes,-- And the stream is still and slow.-- There I find my fair oasis, And with care-free feet I tread For the pathway leads to nowhere, And the blue is overhead! All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal,-- On the path that leads to nowhere I have sometimes found my soul! CORINNE ROOSEVELT ROBINSON LOVERS AND ROSES THE MESSAGE _So fair the world about me lies, So pure is heaven above, Ere so much beauty dies I would give a gift to my love; Now, ere the long day close, That has been so full of bliss, I will send to my love the rose, In its leaves I will shut a kiss; A rose in the night to perish, A kiss through life to cherish; Now, ere the night-wind blows, I will send unto her the rose._ GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY "WHERE LOVE IS LIFE" Where love is life The roses blow, Though winds be rude And cold the snow, The roses climb Serenely slow, They nod in rhyme We know--we know Where love is life The roses blow. Where life is love The roses blow, Though care be quick And sorrows grow, Their roots are twined With rose-roots so That rosebuds find A way to show Where life is love The roses blow. DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT THE TIME OF ROSES Love, it is the time of roses! In bright fields and garden-closes How they burgeon and unfold! How they sweep o'er tombs and towers In voluptuous crimson showers And untrammelled tides of gold! How they lure wild bees to capture All the rich mellifluous rapture Of their magical perfume, And to passing winds surrender And their frail and dazzling splendor Rivalling your turban-plume! How they cleave the air adorning The high rivers of the morning In a blithe, bejewelled fleet! How they deck the moonlit grasses In thick rainbow tinted masses Like a fair queen's bridal sheet! Hide me in a shrine of roses, Drown me in a wine of roses Drawn from every fragrant grove! Bind me on a pyre of roses, Burn me in a fire of roses, Crown me with the rose of Love! SAROJINI NAIDU LOVE PLANTED A ROSE Love planted a rose, And the world turned sweet. Where the wheat-field blows Love planted a rose. Up the mill-wheel's prose Ran a music-beat. Love planted a rose, And the world turned sweet. KATHARINE LEE BATES THE GARDEN My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal thine alone. Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown. For as these come and go, and quit our pine To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, Sing one song only from our alder-trees, My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine, Fit to the silent world and other summers, With wings that dip beyond the silver seas. ALICE MEYNELL CLOUD AND FLOWER I saw the giant stalking to the sky, The giant cloud above the wilderness, Bearing a mystery too far, too high, For my poor guess. Away I turned me, sighing: "I must seek In lowlier places for the wonder-word. Something more little, intimate, shall speak." A bright rose stirred. And long I looked into its face, to see At last some hidden import of the hour. And I had thought to turn from mystery-- But O, flower! flower! AGNES LEE PROGRESS There seems no difference between To-day and yesterday-- The forest glimmers just as green, The garden's just as gay. Yet, something came and something went Within the night's chill gloom: An old rose fell, her fragrance spent, A new rose burst in bloom. CHARLOTTE BECKER "BUT WE DID WALK IN EDEN" But we did walk in Eden, Eden, the garden of God;-- There, where no beckoning wonder Of all the paths we trod, No choiring sun-filled vineyard, No voice of stream or bird, But was some radiant oracle And flaming with the Word! Mine ears are dim with voices; Mine eyes yet strive to see The black things here to wonder at, The mirth,--the misery. Beloved, who wert with me there, How came these shames to be?-- On what lost star are we? Men say: The paths of gladness By men were never trod!-- But we have walked in Eden, Eden, the garden of God. JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY A GARDEN-PIECE Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, And dyed her breast with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might preen him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo! Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, Among the flowers! EDMUND GOSSE "HOW MANY FLOWERS ARE GENTLY MET" How many flowers are gently met Within my garden fair! The daffodil, the violet, And lilies dear are there. They fade and pass, the fleeting flowers, And brief their little light; They hold not Love's diviner hours, Nor Sower's human night. Tho' one by one their bloom depart, No change thy lover knows, For mine the fragrance of thy heart, O thou my perfect rose! GEORGE STERLING WITH A ROSE, TO BRUNHILDE Brunhilde, with the young Norn soul That has no peace, and grim as those That spun the thread of life, give heed: Peace is concealed in every rose. And in these petals peace I bring: A jewel clearer than the dew: A perfume subtler than the breath Of Spring with which it circles you. Peace I have found, asleep, awake, By many paths, on many a strand. Peace overspreads the sky with stars. Peace is concealed within your hand. And when at night I clasp it there I wonder how you never know The strength you shed from finger-tips: The treasure that consoles me so. Begin the art of finding peace, Beloved:--it is art, no less. Sometimes we find it hid beneath The orchards in their springtime dress: Sometimes one finds it in oak woods, Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows; In books, sometimes. But pray begin By finding it within a rose. VACHEL LINDSAY "MY SOUL IS LIKE A GARDEN-CLOSE" My soul is like a garden-close Where marjoram and lilac grow, Where soft the scent of long ago Over the border lightly blows. Where sometimes homing winds at play Bear the faint fragrance of a rose-- My soul is like a garden-close Because you chanced to pass my way. THOMAS S. JONES, JR. A DREAM I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathing Their sweet souls out upon the summer night: The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathing Like clouds of incense filled me with delight. And then as if for my still further pleasure There came a flood of sweetest melody,-- But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure, For neither flute nor viol could I see. Then in the vision love sublime, immortal, Encircled all my soul with its pure stream; And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal, I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream. 'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses, In dreams of love, of music, and of roses! ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON THE ROSE The rose-tree wears a diadem, Both bud and bloom of gold and fire, Too high upon the slender stem For baby hands that reach for them: And _Roses!_ my brown Elsa cries: Her chubby arms in vain aspire. But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighs And worships them with patient eyes. I gathered them a rose or two, But not the shy one hanging higher That brushed my lips with honey-dew! _That_ is the rose I send to you. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING PRAYER Would that I might become you, Losing myself, my sweet!-- So longs the dust that lies About the rose's feet. So longs the last, dim star Hung on the verge of night;-- She moves--she melts--she slips-- She trembles into the light. JOHN HALL WHEELOCK IN A GARDEN I sat one day within a garden fair Pining for thee and sad because alone, Wishing some fate could send thee to me there. All things appeared to share my saddened mood, Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view, The very birds in silence seemed to brood. Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed, Sudden the birds began to sing again, The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed. Thinking the sun had come once more for me And for all nature, to effect such change, I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee. LIVINGSTON L. BIDDLE A SONG OF FAIRIES Oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden, I hear it stir on every hand. See how the flowers keep still because of it! hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song! There is a secret in it, a blessed mystery. I fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyes grow dim before these unseen wings. And the secret is in other places, it is in songs and music and all lovers' hearts. Hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things. ELIZABETH KIRBY A SONG TO BELINDA Belinda in her dimity, Whereon are wrought pink roses, Trips through the boxwood paths to me, A-down the garden-closes, As though a hundred roses came, ('Twas so I thought) to meet me, As though one rosebud said my name And bent its head to greet me. Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress You seemed the garden's growing; The tilt and toss o' you, no less Than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay, Lest in that happy hour, Sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway And turn into a flower. THEODOSIA GARRISON SWEETHEART-LADY De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place; De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face; De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word, An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird. She sweetheart ter de Springtime, W'en de dreamy roses stir, An' Winter shine lak' Summer An' wear a rose fer her. "Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass; De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!" But des who her true lover she never let 'em know; De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so! But Springtime come a-courtin' An' let de blossoms fall, An' Summer say: "I loves you!" She sweetheart ter 'em ALL! FRANK L. STANTON HEART'S GARDEN I have a garden filled with many flowers: The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose, Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glows The fairer for the verdure which embowers Their beauty, and sets forth their hidden powers To charm my heart, whenever at the close Of day's dull hurry I would seek repose In my still garden through the darkening hours. Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart, Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be, Far from the rattle of the city cart, Even as my garden, where daily I may see The flowers of your love, and none from me May win the hidden secret of my heart. NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR A ROSE LOVER Do thou, my rose, incline Thy heart to mine. If love be real Ah, whisper, whisper low That I at last may know. Quick! breathe it now! A sigh,--a tear,--a vow: Oh, any lightest thing Its cadences to sing That loved am I, and not, Ah, not forgot! FREDERIC A. WHITING SONNET The sweet caresses that I gave to you Are but the perfume of the Rose of Love, The color and the witchery thereof, And not the Rose itself. Each is a clue Merely, whereby to seek the hidden, true, Substantial blossom. Like the Jordan dove A kiss is but a symbol from above-- An emblem the Reality shines through. The Rose of Love is ever unrevealed In all its beauty, for the sight of it Were perilous with purpose of the world. The hand of Life has cautiously concealed The pollen-chamber of the infinite Flower, and its petals only half uncurled. ELSA BARKER A SONG IN A GARDEN Will the garden never forget That it whispers over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover--your lover?" Oh, roses I helped to grow, Oh, lily and mignonette, Must you always question me so, "Where is your lover, Nanette?" Since you looked on my joy one day, Is my grief then a lesser thing? Have you only this to say When I pray you for comforting? Now that I walk alone Here where our hands were met, Must you whisper me everyone, "Where is your lover, Nanette?" I have mourned with you year and year, When the Autumn has left you bare, And now that my heart is sere Does not one of your roses care? Oh, help me forget--forget, Nor question over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover--your lover?" THEODOSIA GARRISON "IT WAS JUNE IN THE GARDEN" It was June in the garden, It was our time, our day; And our gaze with love on everything Did fall; They seemed then softly opening, And they saw and loved us both, The roses all. The sky was purer than all limpid thought; Insect and bird Swept through the golden texture of the air, Unheard; Our kisses were so fair they brought Exaltation to both light and bird. It seemed as though a happiness at once Had skied itself and wished the heavens entire For its resplendent fire; And life, all pulsing life, had entered in, Into the fissures of our beings to the core, To fling them higher. And there was nothing but invocatory cries, Mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleave The archèd skies, And sudden yearning to create new gods, In order to believe. EMILE VERHAEREN TWO ROSES A fair white rose sedately grows Within the garden wall. There blows No wind to ruff her petals white, No stain of earth, no touch of blight The pure face of my ladye shows. The queen of all the walls enclose Might be mine own, an' if I chose; But yet, but yet I cannot slight My wild red rose. Outside the garden wall she throws Her clinging tendrils, and she knows How strong the winds of passion smite; She's fragrant, though not faultless quite; Just as she is, none shall depose My wild red rose. WILLIAM LINDSEY ROSES Red roses floating in a crystal bowl You bring, O love; and in your eyes I see, Blossom on blossom, your warm love of me Burning within the crystal of your soul-- Red roses floating in a crystal bowl. WILFRID WILSON GIBSON HER GARDEN This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,-- It was not ours, when she was here below; And so, in that low bed where she reposes, The beauty of it all she cannot know. But in the evening when the birds are calling The fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh, And in my empty heart, benignly falling, Becomes a little prayer to send to her. So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her, Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee, I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her-- Of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me. LOUIS DODGE ÆRE PERENNIUS As long as the stars of God Hang steadfast in the sky, And the blossoms 'neath the sod Awake when Spring is nigh; As long as the nightingale Sings love-songs to the rose, And the Winter wind in the vale Makes moan o'er the virgin snows-- As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee! As long as the rose of June Bursts forth in crimson fire, And the mellow harvest-moon Shines over hill and spire; As long as heaven's dew At morning kisses the sod; As long as you are you, And I know that God is God-- As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee! CHARLES HANSON TOWNE EVER THE SAME King Solomon walked a thousand times Forth of his garden-close; And saw there spring no goodlier thing, Be sure, than the same little rose. Under the sun was nothing new, Or now, I well suppose. But what new thing could you find to sing More rare than the same little rose? Nothing is new; save I, save you, And every new heart that grows, On the same Earth met, that nurtures yet Breath of the same little rose. JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY THE MESSAGE When one has heard the message of the Rose, For what faint other calling shall he care? Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair; The vain world keeps her posturing and pose. He, with his crimson secret, which bestows Heaven in his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer, And knows all glory trembling through the air As on triumphal journeying he goes. So through green woodlands in the twilight dim, Led by the faint, pale argent of a star, What though to others it is weary night, Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him; And, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar, His soul is great with everlasting light. HELEN HAY WHITNEY TELL-TALE The Lily whispered to the Rose: "The Tulip's fearfully stuck up. You'd think to see the creature's pose, She was a golden altar-cup. There's method in her boldness, too; She catches twice her share of Dew." The Rose into the Tulip's ear Murmured: "The Lily is a sight; Don't you believe she _powders_, dear, To make herself so saintly white? She takes some trouble, it is plain, Her reputation to sustain." Said Tulip to the Lily white: "About the Rose--what do you think?-- Her color? Should you say it's quite-- Well, quite a natural shade of pink?" "Natural!" the Lily cried. "Good Saints! Why, _everybody_ knows she paints!" OLIVER HERFORD DA THIEF Eef poor man goes An' steals a rose Een Juna-time-- Wan leetla rose-- You gon' su'pose Dat dat's a crime? Eh! w'at? Den taka look at me, For here bayfore your eyes you see Wan thief dat ees so glad an' proud He gona brag of eet out loud! So moocha good I do, an' feel From dat wan leetla rose I steal, Dat eef I gon' to jail to-day Dey could no tak' my joy away. So, lees'en! here ees how eet com': Las' night w'en I am walkin' home From work een hotta ceety street, Ees sudden com' a smal so sweet Eet maka heaven een my nose-- I look an' dere I see da rose! Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall, Dat peep at me above da wall. So, too, I close my eyes an' find Anudder peecture een my mind; I see a house dat's small an' hot Where manny pretta theengs is not, Where leetla woman, good an' true, Ees work so hard da whole day through, She's too wore out, w'en com's da night, For smile an' mak' da housa bright. But, presto! now I'm home an' she Ees settin' on da step weeth me. Bambino, sleepin' on her breast, Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, An' nevva was sooch glad su'prise Like now ees shina from her eyes; An' all baycause to-night she wear Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. She ees so please'! Eet mak' me feel I shoulda sooner learned to steal. Eef "thief's" my name I feel no shame; Eet ees no crime-- Dat rose I got. Eh! w'at? O! not Een Juna-time! T. A. DALY RESULTS AND ROSES The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig. The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain. It matters not what goal you seek, Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses. EDGAR A. GUEST UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH MIRACLE _Yesterday the twig was brown and bare; To-day the glint of green is there To-morrow will be leaflets spare; I know no thing so wondrous fair No miracle so strangely rare._ _I wonder what will next be there!_ L. H. BAILEY THE AWAKENING You little, eager, peeping thing-- You embryonic point of light Pushing from out your winter night, How you do make my pulses sing! A tiny eye amid the gloom-- The merest speck I scarce had seen-- So doth God's rapture rend the tomb In this wee burst of April green! And lo, 'tis here--and lo! 'Tis there-- Spurting its jets of sweet desire In upward curling threads of fire Like tapers kindling all the air. Why, scarce it seems an hour ago These branches clashed in bitter cold; What Power hath set their veins aglow? O soul of mine, be bold, be bold! If from this tree, this blackened thing, Hard as the floor my feet have prest, This flame of joy comes clamoring In hues as red as robin's breast Waking to life this little twig-- O faith of mine, be big! Be big! ANGELA MORGAN SHADE The kindliest thing God ever made, His hand of very healing laid Upon a fevered world, is shade. His glorious company of trees Throw out their mantles, and on these The dust-stained wanderer finds ease. Green temples, closed against the beat Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, Open to any pilgrim's feet. The white road blisters in the sun; Now, half the weary journey done, Enter and rest, Oh, weary one! And feel the dew of dawn still wet Beneath thy feet, and so forget The burning highway's ache and fret. This is God's hospitality, And whoso rests beneath a tree Hath cause to thank Him gratefully. THEODOSIA GARRISON SELECTION FROM "UNDER THE TREES" The wonderful, strong, angelic trees, With their blowing locks and their bared great knees And nourishing bosoms, shout all together, And rush and rock through the glad wild weather. They are so old they teach me, With their strong hands they reach me, Into their breast my soul they take, And keep me there for wisdom's sake. They teach me little prayers; To-day I am their child; The sweet breath of their innocent airs Blows through me strange and wild. * * * * * I never feel afraid Among the trees; Of trees are houses made; And even with these, Unhewn, untouched, unseen, Is something homelike in the safe sweet green, Intimate in the shade. * * * * * We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhile In the great kinship. Underneath the trees Let's be at home once more, with birds and bees And gnats and soil and stone. With these I must Acknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust, With wistful and investigating eyes Searches my soul for the old sturdiness, Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these, We learned at her dear knees. Friend, you and I Once played together in the good old days. Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild ways We traveled, when-- That's right! Draw close to me! Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree. ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH A GARDEN FRIEND O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I-- One process lacking of this mortal clay-- Give me your constant outlook to the sky, The courtesy and cheer that fill your day. Your noble gift of perfect service teach; Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bent Aware 'twill end; your patience that can reach Across the years from clod to firmament. CATHERINE MARKHAM (MRS. EDWIN MARKHAM) A LADY OF THE SNOWS The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branches Oh, so tenderly In the summer sun! Yet she has power to baffle avalanches-- She, rising slenderly Where the rivers run. So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see her Spread alluringly Her thin sea-green dress! Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free her To bloom unenduringly In his glad caress. HARRIET MONROE THE TREE Spread, delicate roots of my tree, Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing; Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere. Into resistant earth your filaments forcing, Down in the dark, unknown, desirous: The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth, The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will. Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty, Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant; I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment, Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life. In the sweet curled buds of you, In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light; Veined, cut, perfect to type, Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race. The open hands of my tree held out to the touch of the air As love that opens its arms and waits on the lover's will; The curtsey, the sway, and the toss of the spray as it sports with the breeze; Rhythmical whisper of leaves that murmur and move in the light; Crying of wind in the boughs, the beautiful music of pain: Thus do you sing and say The sorrow, the effort, the sweet surrender, the joy. Come! tented leaves of my tree; High summer is here, the moment of passionate life, The hushed, the maternal hour. Deep in the shaded green your mystery shielding, Heir of the ancient woods and parent of forests to be, Lo! to your keeping is given the Father's life-giving thought; The thing that is dream and deed and carries the gift of the past. For this, for this, great tree, The glory of maiden leaves, the solemn stretch of the bough, The wise persistent roots Into the stuff of the world their filaments forcing, Breaking the earth to their need. * * * * * Tall tree, your name is peace. You are the channel of God: His mystical sap, Elixir of infinite love, syrup of infinite power, Swelling and shaping, brooding and hiding, With out-thrust of delicate joy, with pitiless pageant of death, Sings in your cells; Its rhythmical cycle of life In you is fulfilled. EVELYN UNDERHILL "LOVELIEST OF TREES" Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. A. E. HOUSMAN THE SPIRIT OF THE BIRCH I am the dancer of the wood I shimmer in the solitude Men call me Birch Tree, yet I know In other days it was not so. I am a Dryad slim and white Who danced too long one summer night, And the Dawn found and prisoned me! Captive I moaned my liberty. But let the wood wind flutes begin Their elfin music, faint and thin, I sway, I bend, retreat, advance, And evermore--I dance! I dance! ARTHUR KETCHUM FAMILY TREES You boast about your ancient line, But listen, stranger, unto mine: You trace your lineage afar, Back to the heroes of a war Fought that a country might be free; Yea, farther--to a stormy sea Where winter's angry billows tossed, O'er which your Pilgrim Fathers crossed. Nay, more--through yellow, dusty tomes You trace your name to English homes Before the distant, unknown West Lay open to a world's behest; Yea, back to days of those Crusades When Turk and Christian crossed their blades, You point with pride to ancient names, To powdered sires and painted dames; You boast of this--your family tree; Now listen, stranger, unto me: When armored knights and gallant squires, Your own belovèd, honored sires, Were in their infants' blankets rolled, My fathers' youngest sons were old; When they broke forth in infant tears My fathers' heads were crowned with years, Yea, ere the mighty Saxon host Of which you sing had touched the coast, Looked back as far as you look now. Yea, when the Druids trod the wood, My venerable fathers stood And gazed through misty centuries As far as even Memory sees. When Britain's eldest first beheld The light, my fathers then were eld. You of the splendid ancestry, Who boast about your family tree, Consider, stranger, this of mine-- Bethink the lineage of a Pine. DOUGLAS MALLOCH IDEALISTS Brother Tree: Why do you reach and reach? Do you dream some day to touch the sky? Brother Stream: Why do you run and run? Do you dream some day to fill the sea? Brother Bird: Why do you sing and sing? Do you dream-- _Young Man: Why do you talk and talk and talk?_ ALFRED KREYMBORG "DRAW CLOSER, O YE TREES" O quiet cottage room, Whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close, Are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloom And many a clambering rose, Sweet is thy light subdued, Gracious and soft, lingering upon my book, As that which shimmers through the branchèd wood Above some dreamful nook! Leaning within my chair, Through the curtain I can see the stir-- The gentle undulations of the air-- Sway the dark-layered fir; And, in the beechen green, Mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud; While far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between, Floats the white summer cloud. Through the loopholes in the leaves, Upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms, I see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheaves Gleam in the binders' arms. At times I note, nearby, The flicker tapping on some hollow bole; And watch the sun, against the sky, The fluting oriole; Or, when the day is done, And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush, Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,-- The darling wildwood thrush. O sanctuary shade Enfold one round! I would no longer roam: Let not the thought of wandering e'er invade This still, reclusive home! Draw closer, O ye trees! Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue; The world may be more fair beyond all these, Yet I would know but you! LLOYD MIFFLIN TREES In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, There were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- Trees of beauty and height and grace, To stand in splendor before His face. Apple and hickory, ash and pear, Oak and beech and the tulip rare, The trembling aspen, the noble pine, The sweeping elm by the river line; Trees for the birds to build and sing, And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall; Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade; Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail; He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, On the crown of a hill, for all to see, God planted a scarlet maple tree. BLISS CARMAN THE TREES There's something in a noble tree-- What shall I say? a soul? For 'tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole. Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams. I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kinship, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man. Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after God; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things. What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaëthon's fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream! In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, 'tis said, they wept For human sorrow too. Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech. "Be serious," the solemn pine Is saying overhead; "Be beautiful," the elm-tree fine Has always finely said; "Be quick to feel," the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, "Be strong." When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, "Be patient," say they all. SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE THE POPLARS My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate. My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pass If they approve of me. I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign assurance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do. Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pass between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien. THEODOSIA GARRISON TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. JOYCE KILMER THE LOST GARDENS OF THE HEART AS IN A ROSE-JAR _As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweet Blown long ago in some old garden place, Mayhap, where you and I, a little space Drank deep of love and knew that love was fleet-- Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreat By one who never will again retrace Her silent footsteps--one, whose gentle face Was fairer than the roses at her feet;_ _So, deep within the vase of memory I keep my dust of roses fresh and dear As in the days before I knew the smart Of time and death. Nor aught can take from me The haunting fragrance that still lingers here-- As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!_ THOMAS S. JONES, JR. IN AN OLD GARDEN Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago; Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems, I see them walking where those lilies blow. The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow; The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams, Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams, Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow. I seem to hear their whispers in each wind That wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand! Among the shadows of that apple tree! They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind, This garden, planted by some lovely hand That keeps it fragrant with its memory. MADISON CAWEIN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS My heart is a garden of dreams Where you walk when day is done, Fair as the royal flowers, Calm as the lingering sun. Never a drouth comes there, Nor any frost that mars, Only the wind of love Under the early stars,-- The living breath that moves Whispering to and fro, Like the voice of God in the dusk Of the garden long ago. BLISS CARMAN HOMESICK O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream! I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by. I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow, And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil. O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! O, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest! O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep! Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars. O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you, And I turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine, To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine-- With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew! JULIA C. R. DORR THE WAYS OF TIME As butterflies are but winged flowers, Half sorry for their change, who fain, So still and long they live on leaves, Would be thought flowers again.-- E'en so my thoughts, that should expand, And grow to higher themes above, Return like butterflies to lie On the old things I love. WILLIAM H. DAVIES A MIDSUMMER GARDEN There is a little garden-close, Girdled by golden apple trees, That through the long sweet summer hours Is haunted by the hum of bees. The poppy tosses here its torch, And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire, And regally the larkspur lifts The slender azure of its spire. And from the phlox and mignonette Rich attars drift on every hand; And when star-vestured twilight comes The pale moths weave a saraband. And crickets in the aisles of grass With their clear fifing pierce the hush; And somewhere you may hear anear The passion of the hermit-thrush. It is a place where dreams convene, Dreams of the dead years gone astray, Of love and loveliness borne back From some forgotten yesterday. It is a memory-hallowed spot Where joy assumes its vernal guise, And two walk silent side by side, Youth's glory shining in their eyes. CLINTON SCOLLARD THE WHITE ROSE This is the spirit flower, The ghost of an old regret; All night she stands in the garden-close, And her face with tears is wet. But I love the pale white rose, For she always seems to me A pallid nun who dreams all day Of a distant memory. Alas! how well I know That every garden spot Is haunted by a gentle ghost Who will not be forgot. In the garden of the heart, Ere the sun of life is set, O many a wild rose blooms and dreams Of many an old regret! CHARLES HANSON TOWNE A HAUNTED GARDEN Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop-- The night wind falls. The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands.... Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night. Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred ... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird? Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride ... _Who entered in?_ LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE DUSTY HOUR-GLASS It had been a trim garden, With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers, and smooth-raked walks. Silks and satins had brushed the box edges of its alleys. The curved stone lips of its fishponds had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs. The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns, and swayed to the music of flutes and violins. Now, the fishponds are green with scum; And paths and flower-beds are run together and overgrown. Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhouse not yet in ruins. Through the lozenged panes of its windows, you can see the interior: A dusty bench; a fireplace, with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it; A broken ball of worsted rolled away into a corner. _Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!_ AMY LOWELL THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl, With apple-blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. W. B. YEATS THE THREE CHERRY TREES There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady. Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet. But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender. Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady; Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady. WALTER DE LA MARE OLD GARDENS The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days. Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there. I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom. ARTHUR UPSON THE BLOOMING OF THE ROSE What is it like, to be a rose? _Old Roses, softly_, "Try and see." Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile. I will stay here and dream awhile. 'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream--dream--who knows-- Say, is it good to be a rose? Old roses, tell me! Is it good? _Old Roses, very softly_, "Good." I am afraid to be a rose! This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn. _Old Roses_, "Better to be born." I cannot be a bud for long. My sheath is like a heart full blown, And I, the silence of a song Withdrawn into that heart alone, Well knowing that it shall be sung. Outside the great world comes and goes-- I think I doubt, to be a rose-- _Old Roses_, "Doubt? To be a Rose!" ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE GARDEN OF MNEMOSYNE There are no roses in the garden now, The summer birds have vanished oversea, The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough, Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree. Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled, Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know. Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead, When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow? The summer birds have vanished oversea, But Memory's palace-courts are full of song; There sings a nightingale for you and me, And there a hidden lute plays all day long. There are no roses in the garden now, But Memory's garden grows each day more fair; Sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow, And there bloom roses--roses everywhere. ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled On the further shore of the sunset sea, In a land of wonder that none behold, There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree That stands in the Garden of Mystery Where the River of Slumber softly flows; And whenever a dream has come to be, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, A silvern bird sings endlessly A mystic song that is ages old, A mournful song in a minor key, Full of the glamour of faery; And whenever a dreamer's ears unclose To the sound of that distant melody, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. Dreams and visions in hosts untold Throng around on the moonlit lea: Dreams of age that are calm and cold, Dreams of youth that are fair and free-- Dark with a lone heart's agony, Bright with a hope that no one knows-- And whenever a dream and a dream agree, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. ENVOI Princess, you gaze in a reverie Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; Slowly you raise your eyes to me ... A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. BRIAN HOOKER THE FLOWERS OF JUNE These flowers of June The gates of memory unbar; These flowers of June Such old-time harmonies retune, I fain would keep the gates ajar, So full of sweet enchantment are These flowers of June. Was it the bloom of the laurel sprays, That wakened remembrance of singing birds? Or, was it the charm of remembered words, That set my heart singing through somber days? I longed for the summer-time, flower and tree; And lo! the summer-time came with thee. The bloom is no more, but the charm still stays. JAMES TERRY WHITE IN MEMORY'S GARDEN There is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of butterflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes. There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies. And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white. THOMAS WALSH SERENADE Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the passion-flower. Gone are our day's red roses. So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue. Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,-- When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget? MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL "WHAT HEART BUT FEARS A FRAGRANCE?" What heart but fears a fragrance? Alien they Who breathe in the white lilac only May; For there be other spirits unto whom Fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume! Who mock at ghosts of odour--poor they be! Bereft the scented balms of memory, For unto one in April's rain-blest earth There starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth; And Love will find in rooms unbarred for years Familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears, Clasping the will in mastering embrace As in the presence of a phantom grace. Then there be odours pungent--fires in Fall The gipsying of boyhood to recall; And there be perfumes holy--nay, but one Whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun To drown the sinking senses in a joy Beyond all time to weaken or destroy! Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress-- Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless; Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee Doth wed the heart in Life's eternity. Who fear no wraiths of fragrance--sorry they; Who breathe in lilac odours only May; For there be other mortals unto whom White magic wanders in each stray perfume. MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI YEARS AFTERWARD It is not sight or sound That, when a heart forgets, Most makes it to remember: It's some old poignant scent re-found-- Like breath of April violets, Or apples of September. It isn't song or scene That stirs the tears again: It's brush smoke from the hills at night, Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen, Long lost aroma of delight, Fresh ploughed fields after rain. NANCY BYRD TURNER AUTUMNAL Across the scented garden of my dreams Where roses grew, Time passes like a thief, Among my trees his silver sickle gleams, The grass is stained with many a ruddy leaf; And on cold winds the petals float away That were the pride of June and her array. The bare boughs weave a net upon the sky To catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise; There are no flowers in the rosary-- No song-birds in the mournful avenues; Though on the sodden air not lightly breaks The elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes. Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare, One rose of all the roses, that in this I may possess my love's perfumed hair And all the crimson secrets of her kiss. Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine, And from her lips win the last anodyne. For I have learnt too many things to live, And I have loved too many things to die; But all my barren acres I would give For one red blossom of eternity, To animate the darkness and delight The spaces and the silences of night. But dreams are tender flowers that in their birth Are very near to death, and I shall reap, Who planted wonder, unavailing earth, Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep. I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time, And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme. RICHARD MIDDLETON "OH, TELL ME HOW MY GARDEN GROWS" Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Now I no more may labor there; Do still the lily and the rose Bloom on without my fostering care? Do peonies blush as deep with pride, The larkspurs burn as bright a blue, And velvet pansies stare as wide I wonder, as they used to do? The tender things that would not blow Unless I coaxed them, do they raise Their petals in a sturdy row, Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze? Or do they show a paler shade, And sigh a little in the wind For one whose sheltering presence made Their step-dame Nature less unkind? Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Where I no more may take delight, And if some dream of me it knows, Who dream of it by day and night. MILDRED HOWELLS HER GARDEN This was her dearest walk last year. Her hands Set all the tiny plants, and tenderly Pressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and she It was who watered them at evening time. She loved them; and I too, because of her. And now another June has come, while I Am walking in the shadow, sad, alone. Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers, And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom, She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves, The well-remembered rustle of her gown, And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!" This is her garden. Only she and I-- But always we--may walk its hallowed ways; And all the thoughts she planted in my heart, Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears, Again have blossomed--love's perennials. ELDREDGE DENISON THE LITTLE GHOST I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked,-- The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked; And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone; I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on, By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands, that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do,--and, oh, She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled,--there was no hint Of sadness in her face; She held her gown on either side, To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go; And where the wall is built in new, And is of ivy bare, She paused,--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ROSES IN THE SUBWAY A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car, Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star. Roses, I swear it! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses ... like captured hostages From far and fairy lands! The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush.... The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament-- I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown-- And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother ... stooping down. DANA BURNET THE GARDEN OVER-SEAS A GARDEN PRAYER _That we are mortals and on earth must dwell Thou knowest, Allah, and didst give us bread-- And remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers-- Thy name be hallowed._ THOMAS WALSH IN THE GARDEN-CLOSE AT MEZRA In the garden-close at Mezra, When the cactus was in flower, We sat apart together Through the languid noonday hour. I was her Arab lover, (Of course it was all in play!) And I called her "Star-of-Twilight," And I called her "Dream-of-Day." She--has she quite forgotten? Soothly, I do not know If ever she tenderly opens The volume of Long Ago. But I--I can still remember Her lips like the cactus flower In the garden-close at Mezra At the languid noonday hour! CLINTON SCOLLARD THE CACTUS The scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf, Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn: Thus from the rugged wounds of desperate grief A beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born. LAURENCE HOPE THE WHITE PEACOCK Here where the sunlight Floodeth the garden, Where the pomegranate Reareth its glory Of gorgeous blossom; Where the oleanders Dream through the noontides; And, like surf o' the sea Round cliffs of basalt, The thick magnolias In billowy masses Front the sombre green of the ilexes: Here where the heat lies Pale blue in the hollows, Where blue are the shadows On the fronds of the cactus, Where pale blue the gleaming Of fir and cypress, With the cones upon them Amber or glowing with virgin gold: Here where the honey-flower Makes the heat fragrant, As though from the gardens Of Gulistan, Where the bulbul singeth Through a mist of roses A breath were borne: Here where the dream-flowers, The cream-white poppies Silently waver, And where the Scirocco, Faint in the hollows, Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight, And lieth sleeping Deep in the heart of A sea of white violets: Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain-valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers: White as the foam o' the sea that is driven O'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow: Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl, Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noontide A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment. Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing violets, The fragrant white violets veined with azure, Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands. Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, White as the cloud through the heats of the noontide Moves the White Peacock. WILLIAM SHARP AT ISOLA BELLA Once at Isola Bella, With sunset in the sky, We stood on the topmost terrace-- You and I. Around us Lago Maggiore, Incomparably fair, Gave back the hues of heaven To the Italian air. Then up the marble terrace Below the cypress trees Came a flock of milk-white peacocks With fans spread to the breeze. Rose-pink on each outspread feather, Rose-pink upon the crest,-- Never were birds in plumage So ravishingly drest! Wherever we walked they followed, Stately at our feet, No picture so enchanting Will any hour repeat. And here in the murky city Those milk-white peacocks seem To follow and follow me ever Like ghosts of a haunting dream. JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE THE FOUNTAIN All through the deep blue night The fountain sang alone; It sang to the drowsy heart Of the satyr carved in stone. The fountain sang and sang But the satyr never stirred-- Only the great white moon In the empty heaven heard. The fountain sang and sang While on the marble rim The milk-white peacocks slept, And their dreams were strange and dim. Bright dew was on the grass, And on the ilex, dew, The dreamy milk-white birds Were all a-glisten, too. The fountain sang and sang The things one cannot tell; The dreaming peacocks stirred And the gleaming dew-drops fell. SARA TEASDALE THE CHAMPA FLOWER Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me. When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _Ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. "Where have you been, you naughty child?" "I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then. RABINDRANATH TAGORE IN AN EGYPTIAN GARDEN Can it be winter otherwhere? Forsooth, it seems not so! The moonlight on the garden square Must be the only snow, For all about me, fragrant fair, The blooms of summer blow. Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland, The rose displays its dower; The heavy-scented citron and The stainless lily-tower; And whiter than a houri's hand, El Ful, the Arab flower. In purple silhouette a palm Lifts from a vine-wreathed plinth Against a sky whose cloudless calm Is hued like hyacinth; And echoes with a bulbul's psalm The jasmine labyrinth. In life's tumultuous ocean swell Here is a charmèd isle; I hear a late muezzin tell His holy tale the while, And like the faint notes of a bell The boat-songs of old Nile. Across my spirit thrills no theme That is not marvel-bright; I see within the lotus gleam The nectar of delight, And, tasting it, I drift and dream Adown the glamoured night! CLINTON SCOLLARD EVENING IN OLD JAPAN Peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-night As some great Buddha made of ivory, Upon whose brow is set a moonstone white, The shining emblem of its purity. A dim blue haze like incense, rising high, Merges together mountain, tree, and stream; But over all still broods an ivory sky Cloudless as Buddha's face, one gem agleam. ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON REFLECTIONS When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes. A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface. But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples. And as she drew out her hand, The water drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears. AMY LOWELL IN THE GARDEN Do you remember, Sister, The golden afternoon When we looked upon the lotus And listened to the croon Of the doves that sat together Among the flowers of June? And deep among the valleys A far, sweet sound was heard-- Some fluter in the forest That like a magic bird Sang of the unseen heavens And mystic Way and Word. PAI TA-SHUN THE DESERTED GARDEN I hear no more the swish of silks Along the marble walks; The autumn wind blows sharp and cold Among the flowerless stalks. In place of petals of the peach Fast drifts the yellow leaf; And looking in the lotus-pond I see one face of grief. PAI TA-SHUN A ROMAN GARDEN All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. Below the Sabine mountain The tossed and slender fountain Will curve, a lily pale; And where the plumed pine soars tallest, 'Tis there, O nightingale, thou callest; Where the loud water leaps the highest. 'Tis there, O nightingale, thou criest; In the dripping luscious dark, Hark, oh, hark! Wonderful, delirious, Soul of joy mysterious. A garden full of fragrances, Of pauses and of cadences, Whence come they all? Of cypresses and ilex-trees, Plumes and dark candles like to these Were long ago Persephone's. All night within that garden The glimmering gods of stone, The satyrs and the naiads Will laugh to be alone, In starless courts of shadows By silence overgrown, Save for the nightingale's Wild lyric thither blown. By pools and dusky closes Dim shapes will move about, Twirled wands and masks and faces, Dancers and wreaths of roses, The moonlight's trick, no doubt. A naked nymph upon the stair, A sculptured vine that clasps the air,-- And then one Bacchic bird somewhere Will pour his passion out. All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. Down yonder velvet alley, Floats Daphne like a feather, A finger bidding silence, The dark and she together. Look, where the secret fount is misting. Apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting: For where a ruined sphinx lay smiling The wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling. All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. FLORENCE WILKINSON EVANS COMO IN APRIL The wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring: The icy rills have scarce begun to flow; The birds unconfidently fly and sing. As on the land once fell the northern foe, The hostile mountains from the passes fling Their vandal blasts upon the lake below. Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime cling Above the world's blue wonder's curving show, And tempt to linger with their lingering. Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know: See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing. A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow. * * * * * Love, need we more than our imagining To make the whole year May? What though The wind be Winter if the heart be Spring? ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON AN EXILE'S GARDEN I live in the heart of a garden With cypresses all about; To the east and west, and the south and north, Straight shadowy paths run out. There are ancient gods in my garden; They have faces young and pale; And a hundred thousand roses here Enrapture the nightingale. Yet, among the gods of the garden, The roses and gods, I think, Daylong, of a far-off clover field, And the song of a bob-o-link. SOPHIE JEWETT THE CLOISTER GARDEN AT CERTOSA It is a place monastic, set above The city's pride and pleasuring below; The benediction of the sky breathes love Over the olive trees and vines a-row. The old gray walls are delicate to prayer And silence; in the corridors dim-lit Lurks many a painting, many a fresco rare Done by some brother for the joy of it. Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these, The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats. By a sun-dial in the center, rests One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite Some holy word; little he heeds the jests Of those who make the world their chief delight. While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours. RICHARD BURTON A GARDEN IN VENICE There is a garden in a vineyard set Beneath the spell of Adriatic skies; A lovely place of dreams and ecstasies, Of color tangled in a verdant net, The shimmer of the low lagoon whose fret Washes the garden's length, and rose that vies With rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that rise Above their fellows in one glory met. And there I think in the still summer night, When all the world is sleeping save the moon And the blest nightingale who shuns the noon, The closed flowers open out of sheer delight And the white lilies bow their slender stalks, For thro' them, 'neath the vines Madonna walks. DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY IN A GARDEN OF GRANADA The city rumour rises all the day Across the potted plants along the wall; The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway, Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall. The sun is old and weary--weary here Upon the ageing roofs and miradors, The broken terraces and basins drear Where each old bell its ancient echoes pours. Ringing--what memories to ring--to those That linger here--the lizard and the cat, That haunt these solitudes in state morose Through the long day their silent habitat. Untroubled,--save when in the moonlight steals Some voice in song across the lower wall, And sudden magic each old rafter feels, The while the echoes round it rise and fall. For as the wail of love or sorrow rings Along the night soft steps are on the stair And pathway; in the broken window wings Are stirring, and white arms are lolling there. And that old rose tree lifts its head anew, And there is perfume o'er the hills afar, From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blue To where agleam Genil and Darro are. O Voice!--what is thy necromantic word That all Granada waits adown the years? Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?-- The cry of love amid the cry of tears?-- THOMAS WALSH AMIEL'S GARDEN His Garden! His bright candelabra trees En fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His sky Limpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lie Athwart this path he paced. His reveries Float in the air. His moods, his ecstasies Still linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by-- Were one his soul it had not found on high Banquet more choice than those infinities He daily knew. And now no one to hear The hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel The wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see God's shadow bend down from eternity-- His garden empty! Yet I gently steal Lest I disturb his dreams still smiling near. GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT EDEN-HUNGER O that a nest, my mate! were once more ours, Where we, by vain and barren change untutored, Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers, And live the great, green life of field and orchard! From the cold birthday of the daffodils, E'en to that listening pause that is November, O to confide in woods, confer with hills, And then--then, to that palmland you remember, Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's rule Are one vast violet breaking into lilies; There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule, In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles. WILLIAM WATSON THE GARDEN AT BEMERTON FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERBERT'S POEMS Year after year, from dusk to dusk, How sweet this English garden grows, Steeped in two centuries' sun and musk, Walled from the world in gray repose, Harbor of honey-freighted bees, And wealthy with the rose. Here pinks with spices in their throats Nod by the bitter marigold; Here nightingales with haunting notes, When west and east with stars are bold, From out the twisted hawthorn-trees, Sing back the weathers old. All tuneful winds do down it pass; The leaves a sudden whiteness show, And delicate noises fill the grass; The only flakes its spaces know Are petals blown off briers long, And heaped on blades below. Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year, 'Tis more than these that keeps it rare! We see the saintly Master here, Pacing along the alleys fair, And catch the throbbing of a song Across the amber air! LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE IN AN OXFORD GARDEN As one whose road winds upward turns his face Unto the valleys where he late hath stood, Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood On many a beauty of the distant place, So I in this cool garden pause a space, Reviewing many things in many a mood, Accumulating friends in solitude From the assembly of my thoughts and days. ARTHUR UPSON THE HOMELY GARDEN "GRANDMOTHER'S GATHERING BONESET" _Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day; In the garret she'll dry and hang it away. Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea-- I wish she wouldn't think always of me!_ EDITH M. THOMAS A BREATH OF MINT What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might? What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, To blur my page with swift remembering? Borne in a country basket marketward, Their message is a music spirit-heard, A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run Of tawny singing water in the sun. Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through My mellow meadows set with linden-trees Loud with the summer jargon of the bees. Their magic has its way with me until I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again, To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain. O sudden urging sweetness in the air, Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere, Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, And vanished summers sigh upon your breath. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING A SELLER OF HERBS Black, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares. Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes, Grown by a kitchen wall. Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs In a field's hollow set. My snatch of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me. The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the grass, High over the town roar I hear, When that old stall I pass. What homely memories are mine, At sight of her quaint stalks; Of grave dusks mellowing like wine Down long, box-bordered walks; Of garret windows eastward thrust, Of rafters shining dim, And heaped with herbs as gray as dust All scented to the brim. This lady of the market-place, Three times a week and more, I pray her seasons thick with grace; And ever at her door, Shut from the road by wall of stone, And ample cherry trees, A garden fair as Herrick's own, And just as full of bees! LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE LAVENDER Gray walls that lichen stains, That take the sun and the rains, Old, stately, and wise: Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered, In ancient ways yet ordered; South walks where the loud bee plies Daylong till Summer flies-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England. Gay cottage gardens, glad, Comely, unkempt, and mad, Jumbled, jolly, and quaint; Nooks where some old man dozes; Currants and beans and roses Mingling without restraint; A wicket that long lacks paint-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England. Sprawling for elbow-room, Spearing straight spikes of bloom, Clean, wayward, and tough; Sweet and tall and slender, True, enduring, and tender, Buoyant and bold and bluff, Simplest, sanest of stuff-- Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England. W. W. BLAIR FISH DAWN IN MY GARDEN I went into my garden at break of Delight, Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky, To see how many cucumbers had happened over night, And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high. I went into my garden when Rest had fallen away From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green, To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day, And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean. I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing low Through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines, Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row, Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines. Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold, From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night, But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold, When I went into my garden at break of Delight! MARGUERITE WILKINSON THE PROUD VEGETABLES In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat, There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat; But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round, And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground. Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one. He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun. "We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he, "A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see." Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck, Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck. Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean, The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green. A big white _daikon_ hid in earth beneath his leafy crest; And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest. Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds With pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds. There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves Great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves. Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink, And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink. Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolence Till Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence; But not to earth she fell! Alas,--but down, with all her force, Upon old Father Pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course. At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split, Cucumbers turned a sickly hue, the _daikon_ had a fit, The sweet potatoes rent the ground,--the egg-plant dropped his loom, While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom. And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them. He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem, He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way-- All this was told me by the cook,--we ate the last to-day. MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA THE CHOICE When skies are blue and days are bright A kitchen-garden's my delight, Set round with rows of decent box And blowsy girls of hollyhocks. Before the lark his Lauds hath done And ere the corncrake's southward gone; Before the thrush good-night hath said And the young Summer's put to bed. The currant-bushes' spicy smell, Homely and honest, likes me well, The while on strawberries I feast, And raspberries the sun hath kissed. Beans all a-blowing by a row Of hives that great with honey go, With mignonette and heaths to yield The plundering bee his honey-field. Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage And the delicious mint and sage, Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, And thyme to scent the winter through. Here are small apples growing round, And apricots all golden-gowned, And plums that presently will flush And show their bush a Burning Bush. Cherries in nets against the wall, Where Master Thrush his madrigal Sings, and makes oath a churl is he Who grudges cherries for a fee. Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here Shall Beauty make her pomander, Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes That wrap her as the leaves the rose. Take roses red and lilies white, A kitchen-garden's my delight; Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, And its tall cote of irised doves. KATHARINE TYNAN THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly, Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tail they is. You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow-- Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how; So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing-- But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite! They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet! Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way, Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot; The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away! Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY GRACE FOR GARDENS Lord God in Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain! Lord God in Paradise, Please bless the beans and peas, Give us corn full on the ear-- We will praise Thee, Lord, for these! Bless the blossom And the root, Bless the seed And the fruit! Lord God in Paradise, Over my brown field is seen, Trembling and adventuring. A miracle of green. Send such grace As you know, To keep it safe And make it grow! Lord God in Paradise, For the wonder of the seed, Wondering, we praise you, while We tell you of our need. Look down from Paradise, Look upon our sowing, Bless the little gardens And the good green growing! Give us sun, Give us rain, Bless the orchards And the grain! LOUISE DRISCOLL SILVER BELLS AND COCKLE SHELLS PLANTING _The sky is blue and soft to-day, The grass is green this month of May, And Muvver with her spade and rake My little garden helps me make; For every one must plant more seeds To grow the food that each one needs: Potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets, The kind of beans that sister eats, We plant in rows marked by a string, For neatness is the one great thing; The earth is then raked smooth and pressed And Nature 'tends to all the rest._ ROBERT LIVINGSTON SPRING PATCHWORK If I could patch a coverlet From pieces of the Spring, What dreams a happy child would have Beneath so fair a thing! A center of the dear blue sky, A bordering of green, With patches of the yellow sun All chequered in between. Bright ribbons of the silky grass Laced prettily across, With satin of new little leaves, And velvet of the moss. In every corner, violets, Half-hidden from the view, With many-flowered squares betwixt, Of pinky tints and blue; Of flossy silk and gossamer, Of tissue and brocade; A warp of rosy morning mist, A woof of purple shade. Embroideries of little vines, And spider-webs of lace, With tassels of the alder tied At each convenient place. With gold-thread I would sew the seams, And needles of the pine, Oh, never child in all the world Would have a quilt like mine! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN BABY'S VALENTINE Valentine, O Valentine, Pretty little Love of mine; Little Love whose yellow hair Makes the daffodils despair; Little Love whose shining eyes Fill the stars with sad surprise: Hither turn your ten wee toes, Each a tiny shut-up rose, End most fitting and complete For the rosy-pinky feet; Toddle, toddle here to me, For I'm waiting, do you see?-- Waiting for to call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! Valentine, O Valentine, I will dress you up so fine! Here's a frock of tulip-leaves, Trimmed with lace the spider weaves; Here's a cap of larkspur blue, Just precisely made for you; Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed, Once the tiger-lily's pride, Spotted all with velvet black Like the fire-beetle's back; Lady-slippers on your feet, Now behold you all complete! Come and let me call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! Valentine, O Valentine, Now a wreath for you I'll twine. I will set you on a throne Where the damask rose has blown, Dropping all her velvet bloom, Carpeting your leafy room: Here while you shall sit in pride, Butterflies all rainbow-pied, Dandy beetles gold and green, Creeping, flying, shall be seen, Every bird that shakes his wings, Every katydid that sings, Wasp and bee with buzz and hum. Hither, hither see them come, Creeping all before your feet, Rendering their homage meet. But 'tis I that call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! LAURA E. RICHARDS BABY SEED SONG Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark-- "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you-- Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!" Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye. E. NESBIT RAIN IN THE NIGHT Raining, raining, All night long; Sometimes loud, sometimes soft, Just like a song. There'll be rivers in the gutters And lakes along the street. It will make our lazy kitty Wash his little dirty feet. The roses will wear diamonds Like kings and queens at court; But the pansies all get muddy Because they are so short. I'll sail my boat to-morrow In wonderful new places, But first I'll take my watering-pot And wash the pansies' faces. AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR A LITTLE GIRL'S SONGS I SPRING SONG I love daffodils. I love Narcissus when he bends his head. I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils Out of my rhyme of song. Do you know anything about the spring When it comes again? God knows about it while winter is lasting: Flowers bring him power in the spring, And birds bring it, and children. He is sometimes sad and alone Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy. I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary. I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he made And flowers in the dark of the wood. I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten, And that snowdrops are up. What can I say to make him listen? "God," I say, "Don't you care! Nobody must be sad or sorry In the spring-time of flowers." II VELVETS _By a Bed of Pansies_ This pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots: I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness: She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting-- Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. _I know you, Velvets Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!_ HILDA CONKLING (_Six years old_) WHEN SWALLOWS BUILD When apple-blossom time doth come And with their scent the air is filled, And fields are full of buttercups,-- 'Tis then the swallows build. And when the rippling brooks are deep, Filled to the overflowing, When o'er the hills and meadows fair The south wind's softly blowing, With sun a-shining, birds a-singing Till their joyous throats are thrilled, And with all the world in laughter,-- 'Tis then the swallows build. CATHERINE PARMENTER (_Eleven years old_) SPRING PLANTING "What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,-- Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy? Brave little cuttings of laughter and light? Then shall our summer be flowery and bright." "Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he, "Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree? Why should we water and weary away For sake of a flower that lives but a day!" So she made gardens which he would not dig, Tended her apricot, apple and fig. Then, when one morning he chanced to appear, Sadly he noticed--"No trespassing here." HELEN HAY WHITNEY IF I COULD DIG LIKE A RABBIT If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit, D'you know what I'd do? Well, I'd dig a deep hole-- Right under that tree-- Then I'd go down--and down, And find out where the tree starts, And I'd find out how it eats and drinks, And what makes it grow.... Yes I would! P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree, And--see--it--grow!... But p'r'aps I couldn't. Anyway I could dig 'way down, And see all the flower seeds, And all the grass seeds, And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds. And I'd see everything start growing. Do all the seeds make noises When they start to grow? What do You s'pose about that? I s'pose they sing, 'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine.... Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there, And then I'd want to come up home, And I'd have so much to tell to You! If I could dig holes like a rabbit, That's just what I would do. ROSE STRONG HUBBELL THE LITTLE GOD Mother says there's a little god Lives in my garden. I asked her--"In the tree?"-- I asked her--"In the fountain?" And she said, yes, that she, Plain as plain could be, Everywhere could see The little god. "What's he look like, mother?" "Oh," she said, "like the flowers, Like the summer showers, Like the morning dew,-- Like you." She says he's everywhere In my garden--I can't see him there. KATHARINE HOWARD DAISIES At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night. And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there. For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town. FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN THE ANXIOUS FARMER It was awful long ago That I put those seeds around; And I guess I ought to know When I stuck 'em in the ground. 'Cause I noted down the day In a little diary book,-- It's gotten losted somewhere and I don't know where to look. But I'm certain anyhow They've been planted most a week And it must be time by now For their little sprouts to peek. They've been watered every day With a very speshul care, And once or twice I've dug 'em up to see if they were there. I fixed the dirt in humps Just the way they said I should; And I crumbled all the lumps Just as finely as I could. And I found a nangle-worm A-poking up his head,-- He maybe feeds on seeds and such, and so I squushed him dead. A seed's so very small, And dirt all looks the same;-- How can they know at all The way they ought to aim? And so I'm waiting round In case of any need; A farmer ought to do his best for every single seed! BURGES JOHNSON OVER THE GARDEN WALL By the side of a wall in a garden gay, A little Rose-bush grew; In the first dear days of the month of May, Loved by the sun and dew. It gazed to the top of the wall so high With happy longing and pride, When it heard the children laugh and cry As they passed on the other side. And into its leaves and buds there came A beautiful thought of God. "I can climb to the heights of love and fame, If my roots are in the sod." Then up and over the garden-wall, It clambered far and wide, Shedding its sweetness for one and all As they passed on the other side,-- The weary laborer, the beggar cold, The wise man and the fool, The mother and daughter, the grandam old And the children going to school. The breezes scattered its pink and white In a perfumed shower for all, And the beautiful days of June were bright With the Rose on the Garden-wall. Our hearts are like the Roses of June, They can live for one and all, Giving their love as a blessed boon, From a palace or cottage wall. EMILY SELINGER THE FLOWERPHONE See the morning-glories hung On the vine for me to use: Hark! A flower-bell has rung, I can talk now, if I choose. "Hellow Central! Oh, hello! Give me Puck of Fairyland-- Mr. Puck, I want to know What I cannot understand. "How the leaves are scalloped out; Where's the den of Dragon Fly? What do crickets chirp about? Where do flowers go when they die? "How far can a Fairy see? Why are woodsy things afraid? Who lives in the hollow tree? How are cobweb carpets made? "Why do Fairies hide?--Hello! What? I cannot understand--" That's the way they always do, They've cut me off from Fairyland! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN THE FAITHLESS FLOWERS I went this morning down to where the Johnny-Jump-Ups grow Like naughty purple faces nodding in a row. I stayed 'most all the morning there--I sat down on a stump And watched and watched and watched them--and they never gave a jump! And Golden-Glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence, It doesn't glow a single bit--it's only just pretence-- I ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark-- I had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark! And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce--I tried them yesterday, I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay, I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball, And threw them down as hard as hard--they never bounced at all! And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone, All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone, But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog, Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog! I like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be For bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see, But still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer-- They don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year! MARGARET WIDDEMER THE FLOWER-SCHOOL When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down, The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos. Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee. Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground. They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner. When the rains come down they have their holidays. Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white. Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are. Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry? Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own. RABINDRANATH TAGORE IRIS FLOWERS My mother let me go with her, (I had been good all day), To see the iris flowers that bloom In gardens far away. We walked and walked through hedges green, Through rice-fields empty still, To where we saw a garden gate Beneath the farthest hill. She pointed out the rows of "flowers";-- I saw no planted things, But white and purple butterflies Tied down with silken strings. They strained and fluttered in the breeze, So eager to be free; I begged the man to let them go, But mother laughed at me. She said that they could never rise, Like birds, to heaven so blue. But even mothers do not know Some things that children do. That night, the flowers untied themselves And softly stole away, To fly in sunshine round my dreams Until the break of day. MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA IF I WERE A FAIRY I'd love to sit on a clover-top And sway, And swing and shake, till the dew would drop In spray; To croon a song for the bumble-bee To leave his golden honey with me, And sway and swing, till the wind would stop To play. I'd weave a hammock of spider-thread Loose-hung, Where grasses nodded above my head And swung. And all day long, while the hammock swayed I'd twine and tangle the sun and shade, Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!" Was sung. Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloud I'd lie, While night winds sang to the stars that crowd The sky. And all night long, I would swing and sleep While fireflies lighted their lamps to peep-- "Oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud-- "Oh hush-a-by!" CHARLES BUXTON GOING FRINGED GENTIANS Near where I live there is a lake As blue as blue can be, winds make It dance as they go blowing by. I think it curtseys to the sky. It's just a lake of lovely flowers, And my Mamma says they are ours; But they are not like those we grow To be our very own, you know. We have a splendid garden, there Are lots of flowers everywhere; Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks, And hollyhocks, and evening stocks. Mamma lets us pick them, but never Must we pick any gentians--ever! For if we carried them away They'd die of homesickness that day. AMY LOWELL THE SCISSORS-MAN As I was busy with my tools That make my garden neat, I heard a little crooked tune Come drifting up the street. It didn't seem to have an end Like others that are plain; You always felt it going on Till it began again. It came quite near: I heard it call, And dropped my tools and ran To peer out through the gate; I thought it might be Pan. But it was just the scissors-man Who walked along and played Upon a little instrument He told me he had made. Now, if you hope to see a god As hard to find as Pan, It's sad when it turns out to be A plain old scissors-man. But when my mother came to hear The crooked tune he made, She said his instrument was like Some pipes that Pan had played. And I must ask the scissors-man If he had ever known Or met a queer old god who played On pipes much like his own. He would not tell: and when I asked Who taught him how to play, He made that crooked tune again, And laughed and went away. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING THE GARDEN OF LIFE GOD'S GARDEN _The years are flowers and bloom within Eternity's wide garden; The rose for joy, the thorn for sin, The gardener God, to pardon All wilding growths, to prune, reclaim, And make them rose-like in His name._ RICHARD BURTON "THE LORD GOD PLANTED A GARDEN" The Lord God planted a garden In the first white days of the world, And He set there an angel warden In a garment of light enfurled. So near to the peace of Heaven, That the hawk might nest with the wren, For there in the cool of the even God walked with the first of men. And I dream that these garden-closes With their shade and their sun-flecked sod And their lilies and bowers of roses, Were laid by the hand of God. The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth,-- One is nearer God's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth. DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY THE LILIES Ever the garden has a spiritual word: In the slow lapses of unnoticed time It drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb, Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a bird Is in the porches of the morning heard; So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime, And with the music thought and feeling rhyme, And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred. Beauty is silent,--through the summer day Sleeps in her gold,--O wondrous sunlit gold, Frosting the lilies, virginal array! Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold, Warm, orient blooms!--how motionless are they-- Speechless--the eternal loveliness untold! GEORGE E. WOODBERRY BARTER Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. SARA TEASDALE SONNET Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain, May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knows From what immortal granary comes the grain, Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose; But from the dust and from the wetted mud Comes help, given or taken; so with me Deep in my brain the essence of my blood Shall give it stature until Beauty be. It will look down, even as the burning flower Smiles upon June, long after I am gone. Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour, Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on, Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain. JOHN MASEFIELD THE TILLING The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart, Dragging the harrow, Pain, And turning the old year's tillage Under the sod again. So, well do I know the Tiller Will bring once more the grain; For grief comes never to the strong-- Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong-- But from them spring a hidden throng Of seeds, for new life fain. So heavily do I let the hoofs Trample the deeps of me; For only thus is spirit Brought to fecundity. But when the ox is stabled And the harrow set aside, With calm I watch a new world grow, Sweetly green, up out of woe, And, glad of the Tiller, then I know He too is satisfied. CALE YOUNG RICE SAFE Now shall your beauty never fade; For it was budding when you passed Beyond this glare, into the shade Of fairer gardens unforecast, Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade, Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last. Now never shall that glorious breast Wither, those deft hands lose their art, Nor those glad shoulders be oppressed By failing breath or fluttering heart, Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed, The subtle ecstasy of hue depart. Forever shall you be your best,-- Nay, far more luminously shine Than when our comradeship was blessed By what on earth seemed most divine, Before your body passed to rest With what I then supposed this heart of mine. Now shall your bud of beauty blow Far lovelier than I knew before When, such a little time ago, I looked upon your face, and swore That Helen's never moved men so When her white, magic hands enkindled war. As you sweep on from power to power Shall every earthward thought you think Irradiate my lonely hour Till I shall taste the golden drink Of Life, and see the full-blown flower, Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink. ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER SORROW IN A GARDEN Here in this ancient garden When Winter days had flown I came, with Comrade Sorrow To dwell with her alone. Here in this sweet seclusion Far from the World's cold stare What exquisite communings Sorrow and I would share! What banquets of remembrance! What luxury of tears! With Sorrow in a garden Through the rose-scented years! But one day when she called me I did not hear her voice; I only heard the lilies Which sang "Rejoice, rejoice!" The world was gold and azure The air was sweet with birds; My garden laughed with rapture How could I hear her words? For June was in the garden And June was in my heart, And since that hour pale Sorrow And I have dwelt apart. But often in the twilight When birds and gardens sleep I feel her presence with me Her arms about me creep. And when the ghosts of Summer With the dead roses talk, I hear her softly sobbing Along the moonlit walk. I never can forget her So intimate were we! But Sorrow, in my garden Abides no more with me. MAY RILEY SMITH MOTH-FLOWERS The pale moth Trembles in the white moonlight; Thus my heart trembles with love! The rose petals fall-- The red petals of my heart; Oh, the breath of love! Cool, sweet tears Of honey, the jasmine weeps; Burning fall the tears of love. Oh, how bitter Is the White Poppy, Death; There are no more dreams of love. JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER ALCHEMY I lift my heart as spring lifts up A yellow daisy to the rain; My heart will be a lovely cup Altho' it holds but pain. For I shall learn from flower and leaf That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold. SARA TEASDALE FLOWERS IN THE DARK Late in the evening, when the room had grown Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light And noisy voices, I stole out alone Into the darkness of the summer night. Down the long garden-walk I slowly went, A little wind was stirring in the trees; I only saw the whitest of the flowers, And I was sorry that the earlier hours Of that fair evening had been so ill spent, Because I said, "I am content with these Dear friends of mine who only speak to me With their delicious fragrance, and who tell To me their gracious welcome silently." The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; I find the tall white lilies I love well. I linger as I pass the mignonette, And what surprise could clearer be than this: To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss! SARAH ORNE JEWETT WELCOME There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended, Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light. And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendid I see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white. Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark Dolores Showing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of all Under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories, Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall. Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender; Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say; They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender, Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day. Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares, Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths around The portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil Maries That Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned. "Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.) "How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat, Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringing Till at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet, Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet. JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. Then just within the gate I saw a child,-- A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; He held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be." HENRY VAN DYKE A WONDER GARDEN "And a little child shall lead them" Into her world, beneath her smiling skies; A little child with wide, wondering eyes Deep with the mystery that in them lies. Her soft hand plucks a stem asunder, And with the dream that is a part Of Childhood's heart, She questions: "Now I want to wonder!" She "wants to wonder" how so fair a thing Is born; from what it springs, and why it blooms: Whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,-- The garnered fragrance of a hundred Junes. Was it all planned,--or just some lovely blunder? Thus gazing, with the seeking look that lies In Childhood's eyes, She questions: "Now I want to wonder!" Dear Child, your groping mind seeks far and true: Mankind and Nature,--all "want to wonder" too. FREDERIC A. WHITING FROM A CAR-WINDOW Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses; Gold in a pool, from the western glow; Spread of wings where the last thrush passes-- And thoughts of you as the sun dips low. Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ... (_How many summers have died since then?_) ... I wish you knew how the deepening shadow Lies on the blue and green again! Dusk, and the curve of field and hollow Etched in gray when a star appears: Sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,... And thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears. RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING SONG OF THE WEARY TRAVELLER I am weary. I would rest On the wide earth's swelling breast, Nurtured by the quiet sod Where the fragrant dew has trod, Soothed by all the winds that pass, Hearing voices in the grass Of the little insect things Happier than the mightiest kings! I am weary. I would sleep In some quiet perfumed deep Where no human touch could bring Tears to me or anything. There I would forget to weep And my silent cloister keep,-- There I would the earth embrace Meeting Beauty face to face. I am weary. I would go Where the fields are white with snow, Where the violets are lain Far from human strife and pain-- Far from longing and delight, Thro' the endless starry night, There I would forget to weep, And my silent cloister keep. BLANCHE SHOEMAKER WAGSTAFF COBWEBS Who would not praise thee, miracle of Frost? Some gesture overnight, some breath benign, And lo! the tree's a fountain all a-shine, The hedge a throne of unimagined cost; In wheel and fan along a wall embossed, The spider's humble handiwork shows fine With jewels girdling every airy line; Though the small mason in the cold be lost. Web after web, a morning snare of bliss Starring with beauty the whole neighbourhood, May well beget an envy clean and good. When man goes too into the earth-abyss, And God in His altered garden walks, I would My secret woof might gleam so fair as this. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY BLIND The Spring blew trumpets of color; Her Green sang in my brain-- I heard a blind man groping "Tap--tap" with his cane; I pitied him his blindness; But can I boast, "I see?" Perhaps there walks a spirit Close by, who pities me,-- A spirit who hears me tapping The five-sensed cane of mind Amid such unguessed glories-- That I--am worse than blind! HARRY KEMP HERB OF GRACE I do not know what sings in me-- I only know it sings When pale the stars, and every tree Is glad with waking wings. I only know the air is sweet With wondrous flowers unseen-- That unaccountably complete Is June's accustomed green. The wind has magic in its touch; Strange dreams the sunsets give. Life I have questioned overmuch-- To-day, I live. AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR BEFORE MARY OF MAGDALA CAME Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulchre.... The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early ... unto the sepulchre.... And ... she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing.... Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him ... Master. St. John. From silvering mid-sea to the Syrian sand, It was the time of blossom in the land. On field and hill and down the steep ravine, Ran foam and fire of bloom and ripple of green. The Sepulchre was open wide, and thrown Among the crushed, hurt lilies lay the Stone. A light wind stirred the Garden: everywhere The smell of myrrh was out upon the air. For three days He had traveled with the dead, And now was risen to go with stiller tread The old earth ways again, To stay the heart and build the hope of men. He made a luster in that leafy place, His form serene, majestical; His face Touched with a cryptic beauty like the sea Lit by the moon when night begins to be. The cold gray east was warming into rose Beyond the steep ravine where Kedron goes. Now suddenly on the morning faint with flame Jerusalem with all her clamors came-- A snarl of noises from the far-off street, Dispute and barter and the clack of feet. A moment it brawled upward and was gone-- Faded, forgotten in the deep still dawn. He passed across the morning: felt the cool, Keen, kindling air blown upward from the pool. A busy wind brought little tender smells From barley fields and weeds by April wells. Up in the tree-tops where the breezes ran The old sweet noises in the nests began; And once He paused to listen while a bird Shouted the joy till all the Garden heard. There in the morning, on the old worn ways-- New-risen from the sacrament of death-- He looked toward Olivet with tender gaze: Old things of the heart came back from other days-- The happy, homely shop in Nazareth; The noonday shadow of a wayside tree That had befriended Him in Galilee; Sweet talks in Bethany by the chimney stone, And night-long lingering talks with John alone. And then He thought of all the weary men He would have gathered as a mother hen Gathers her brood under her wings at night. And then He saw the ages in one flight, And heard as a great sea All of the griefs that had been and must be.... As He stood looking on the endless sky, Over the Garden went a sobbing cry. He turned, and saw where the tall almonds are His Mary of Magdala, wildly pale, Fast-fleeting down the trail, And suddenly His face was like a star! He spoke; she knew--a blaze of happy tears; Then "Master!" ... and the word rings down the years! EDWIN MARKHAM CONSCIENCE Wisdom am I When thou art but a fool; My part the man, When thou hast played the clod; Hast lost thy garden? When the eve is cool, Harken!--'tis I who walk There with thy God! MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON ROSA MYSTICA This rose so exquisite, So perfect, so complete, Beauty beyond all price,-- With the hour it dies. God makes Him roses fast, With such magnificent haste, Multitudes, multitudes, In gardens, fields and woods. The roses tell His praise Their little length of days; Testify to His name, Gold on gold, flame on flame. They are scarce here, scarce blown, But they are gone, are flown; The gardener's broom must sweep them And in the darkness heap them. Drift of rose-leaves upon The garden-bed, the lawn: The exquisite thought of God Is scattered, wasted abroad. What of the soul of the rose? It shall not die with those; It shall wake, shall live again In God's rose-garden. It shall climb rose-trellises Before God's palaces; The Eternal Rose shall cover The House of God all over. She shall breathe out her soul And yet living, made whole, Shall offer her oblation Out of her purest passion. She shall know all bliss Where God's garden is: The rose drinking her fill is Of joy with her sister lilies. Where the Water of Life sweet Bathes her from head to feet, The River of Life flows-- There is the Rose. KATHARINE TYNAN THE MYSTERY He came and took me by the hand Up to a red rose tree, He kept His meaning to Himself But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell And His own face to see. RALPH HODGSON THE ROSE And so must life be many-veined; The loves that hurt, the fate that blent My life with myriad lives and ways, The processes that probed and pained, The pencillings of nights and days-- Cross currents, tangling as they went, With oh, such conflict in my soul!-- How should I know that they were meant Just to make living sweet and whole, Just to unclose God's perfect rose? ANGELA MORGAN FOR THESE An acre of land between the shore and the hills, Upon a ledge that shows my Kingdoms three, The lovely visible earth and sky and sea, Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills: A house that shall love me as I love it, Well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash trees That linnets, greenfinches, and goldfinches Shall often visit and make love in and flit; A garden I need never go beyond, Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every one Are fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun: A spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond! For these I ask not, but neither too late Nor yet too early, for what men call content,-- And also that something may be sent To be contented with, I ask of fate. EDWARD THOMAS (EDWARD EASTAWAY) SAMUEL GARDNER I who kept the greenhouse, Lover of trees and flowers, Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm, Measuring its generous branches with my eye, And listened to its rejoicing leaves Lovingly patting each other With sweet æolian whispers. And well they might: For the roots had grown so wide and deep That the soil of the hill could not withhold Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain, And warmed by the sun; But yielded it all to the thrifty roots, Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk, And thence to the branches, and into the leaves, Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang. Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see That the branches of a tree Spread no wider than its roots. And how shall the soul of a man Be larger than the life he has lived? EDGAR LEE MASTERS SEEDS What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality? What shall we be like then? Ah, who shall say What vast expansions shall be ours that day? What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day? Ah, who shall say? But this we know,-- We drop a seed into the ground, A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care. This from a shrivelled seed?-- --Then may man hope indeed! For man is but the seed of what he shall be, When, in the fulness of his perfecting, He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay, Into the sunshine of God's perfect day. No fetters then! No bonds of time or space! But powers as ample as the boundless grace That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, Set wide the door, and passed Himself before-- As He had promised--to prepare a place. Yea, we may hope! For we are seeds, Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming. Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, His loving care May find some use for even a humble tare. We know not what we shall be--only this-- That we shall be made like Him--as He is. JOHN OXENHAM "LORD, I ASK A GARDEN" Lord, I ask a garden in a quiet spot where there may be a brook with a good flow, an humble little house covered with bell-flowers and a wife and a son who shall resemble Thee. I should wish to live many years, free from hates, and make my verses, as the rivers that moisten the earth, fresh and pure. Lord, give me a path with trees and birds. I wish that you would never take my mother, for I should wish to tend her as a child and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old she may need the sun. R. AREVALO MARTINEZ MY FLOWER-ROOM My flower-room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that space I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing Cause, About His laws. And he has shown me, in each vine and flower, Such miracles of power That day by day this flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine. Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere, Pale, tender shoots appear, Rising to greet the light in that sweet room. One speeds to crimson bloom, One slowly creeps to unassuming grace, One climbs, one trails, One drinks the light and moisture, One exhales. Up through the earth together, stem by stem, Two plants push swiftly in a floral race, Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem, And one gives only fragrance. In a seed, So small it scarce is felt within the hand, Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As paradise must have at its command. From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things, What gorgeous beauty springs! Such infinite variety appears, A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from a floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled. Nor could the most colossal mind of man Create one little seed of plant or vine Without assistance from the First Great Plan, Without the aid divine. Who but a God Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, And fashion in earth's mold, A multitude of blooms to deck one sod? Who but a God? Not one man knows Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose, Or how its tints were blent; Or why the white camellia, without scent, Up through the same soil grows; Or how the daisy and the violet And blades of grass first on wild meadows met. Not one, not one man knows, The wisest but suppose. This flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine, And I go hence Each day with larger faith and reverence. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX "VESTURED AND VEILED WITH TWILIGHT" Vestured and veiled with twilight, Lulled in the winter's ease, Dim, and happy, and silent, My garden dreams by its trees. Urn of the sprayless fountain, Glimmering nymph and faun, Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar, Fade on the dusky lawn. Here is no stir of summer, Here is no pulse of spring; Never a bud to burgeon, Never a bird to sing. Dreams--and the kingdom of quiet! Only the dead leaves lie Over the fallen roses Under the shrouded sky. Folded and fenced with silence Mindless of moil and mart, It is twilight here in my garden, And twilight here in my heart. ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH The path runs straight between the flowering rows, A moonlit path hemmed in by beds of bloom, Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose. 'Tis reckless prodigality which throws Into the night these wafts of rich perfume Which sweep across the garden like a plume. Over the trees a single bright star glows. Dear garden of my childhood, here my years Have run away like little grains of sand; The moments of my life, its hopes and fears Have all found utterance here, where now I stand; My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears, You are my home, do you not understand? AMY LOWELL WOOD SONG I heard a woodthrush in the dusk Twirl three notes and make a star-- My heart that walked with bitterness Came back from very far. Three shining notes were all he had, And yet they made a starry call-- I caught life back against my breast And kissed it, scars and all. SARA TEASDALE A PRAYER Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the grasses grow; Hush my soul to meet the shock Of the wild world as a rock; But my spirit, propt with power, Make as simple as a flower. Let the dry heart fill its cup, Like a poppy looking up; Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down, When its heart is filled with dew And its life begins anew. Teach me, Father, how to be Kind and patient as a tree. Joyfully the crickets croon Under shady oak at noon; Beetle, on his mission bent, Tarries in that cooling tent. Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot-- Place where passing souls can rest On the way and be their best. EDWIN MARKHAM THE PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN "_See this my garden, Large and fair!_" --Thus, to his friend, The Philosopher. "_'Tis not too long_," His friend replied, With truth exact,-- "_Nor yet too wide. But well compact, If somewhat cramped On every side._" Quick the reply-- "_But see how high!-- It reaches up To God's blue sky!_" JOHN OXENHAM INDEX OF TITLES Ære Perennius, _Charles Hanson Towne_, 139. Afternoon on a Hill, _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 115. Alchemy, _Sara Teasdale_, 262. Amiel's Garden, _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_, 211. Anxious Farmer, The, _Burges Johnson_, 242. April Morning, An, _Bliss Carman_, 23. April Rain, _Conrad Aiken_, 25. April Weather, _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 27. Arbutus, _Adelaide Crapsey_, 111. As in a Rose-Jar, _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._, 168. Asking for Roses, _Robert Frost_, 92. At Isola Bella, _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_, 198. Autumn Rose, The, _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_, 52. Autumnal, _Richard Middleton_, 186. Awakening, The, _Angela Morgan_, 149. Baby Seed Song, _E. Nesbit_, 234. Baby's Valentine, _Laura E. Richards_, 232. Ballade of the Dreamland Rose, _Brian Hooker_, 181. Barter, _Sara Teasdale_, 256. Before Mary of Magdala came, _Edwin Markham_, 270. Beyond, _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._, 36. Birth of the Flowers, The, _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_, 18. Blind, _Harry Kemp_, 269. Blooming of the Rose, The, _Anna Hempstead Branch_, 179. Blossomy Barrow, The, _T. A. Daly_, 40. Boulders, _Charles Wharton Stork_, 114. Breath of Mint, A, _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 217. But we did walk in Eden, _Josephine Preston Peabody_, 125. Butterfly, The, _Edwin Markham_, 76. Cactus, The, _Laurence Hope_, 195. Cardinal-Bird, The, _Arthur Guiterman_, 66. Champa Flower, The, _Rabindranath Tagore_, 200. Charm: To be said in the Sun, _Josephine Preston Peabody_, 11. Child in the Garden, The, _Henry van Dyke_, 265. Choice, The, _Katharine Tynan_, 223. Cloister Garden at Certosa, The, _Richard Burton_, 208. Cloud and Flower, _Agnes Lee_, 124. Clover, _John B. Tabb_, 105. Cobwebs, _Louise Imogen Guiney_, 268. Colonial Garden, A, _James B. Kenyan_, 86. Color Notes, _Charles Wharton Stork_, 50. Columbines, _Arthur Guiterman_, 39. Como in April, _Robert Underwood Johnson_, 207. Conscience, _Margaret Steele Anderson_, 273. Cricket in the Path, The, _Amelia Josephine Burr_, 73. Crocus Flame, The, _Clinton Scollard_, 28. Da Thief, _T. A. Daly_, 143. Daffodils, _Ruth Guthrie Harding_, 28. Daisies, _Frank Dempster Sherman_, 241. Daisy, To a, _Alice Meynell_, 109. Dandelion, The, _Vachel Lindsay_, 107. Dawn in my Garden, _Marguerite Wilkinson_, 221. Deserted Garden, The, _Pai Ta-Shun_, 204. Dews, The, _John B. Tabb_, 9. Dials, The, _Arthur Wallace Peach_, 12. "Draw closer, O ye trees," _Lloyd Mifflin_, 159. Dream, A, _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_, 129. Dusty Hour-Glass, The, _Amy Lowell_, 176. Early Gods, The, _Witter Bynner_, 30. Earth, _John Hall Wheelock_, 2. Eden-Hunger, _William Watson_, 212. Egyptian Garden, In an, _Clinton Scollard_, 201. End of Summer, The, _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 49. Evening in Old Japan, _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_, 202. Ever the Same, _Josephine Preston Peabody_, 140. Exile's Garden, An, _Sophie Jewett_, 207. Faithless Flowers, The, _Margaret Widdemer_, 245. Family Trees, _Douglas Malloch_, 156. Fireflies, _Antoinette De Coursey Patterson_, 72. Flower-School, The, _Rabindranath Tagore_, 246. Flowerphone, The, _Abbie Farwell Brown_, 244. Flowers in the Dark, _Sarah Orne Jewett_, 263. Flowers of June, The, _James Terry White_, 183. For These, _Edward Thomas_, 276. Fountain, The, _Harry Kemp_, 14. Fountain, The, _Sara Teasdale_, 199. Four O'Clocks, _Julia C. R. Dorr_, 91. Fringed Gentians, _Amy Lowell_, 250. From a Car-Window, _Ruth Guthrie Harding_, 267. "Frost to-night," _Edith M. Thomas_, 54. Fruit Garden Path, The, _Amy Lowell_, 283. Furrow, The, _Padraic Colum_, 3. Garden, The, _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_, 80. Garden, The, _Alice Meynell_, 123. Garden at Bemerton, The, _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 212. Garden Friend, A, _Catherine Markham_, 152. Garden in August, The, _Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_, 46. Garden in Venice, A, _Dorothy Frances Gurney_, 209. Garden of Dreams, The, _Bliss Carman_, 169. Garden of Mnemosyne, The, _Rosamund Marriott Watson_, 181. Garden-Piece, A, _Edmund Gosse_, 126. Garden Prayer, A, _Thomas Walsh_, 194. "Go down to Kew in lilac-time," _Alfred Noyes_, 35. God's Garden, _Richard Burton_, 254. Golden Bowl, The, _Mary McMillan_, 51. Golden-Rod, The, _Margaret Deland_, 116. Goldfinch, The, _Odell Shepard_, 63. Grace for Gardens, _Louise Driscoll_, 226. "Grandmother's gathering boneset," _Edith M. Thomas_, 216. Green o' the Spring, The, _Denis A. McCarthy_, 22. Haunted Garden, A, _Louis Untermeyer_, 174. Heart's Garden, _Norreys Jephson O'Conor_, 133. Her Garden, _Eldredge Denison_, 189. Her Garden, _Louis Dodge_, 139. Herb of Grace, _Amelia Josephine Burr_, 270. Homesick, _Julia C. R. Dorr_, 170. "How many flowers are gently met," _George Sterling_, 127. Hummingbird, The, _Hermann Hagedorn_, 61. "I meant to do my work to-day," _Richard Le Gallienne_, 60. Idealists, _Alfred Kreymborg_, 158. If I could dig like a Rabbit, _Rose Strong Hubbell_, 239. If I were a Fairy, _Charles Buxton Going_, 249. In a Garden, _Livingston L. Biddle_, 131. In a Garden, _Horace Holley_, 7. In a Garden of Granada, _Thomas Walsh_, 210. In an Egyptian Garden, _Clinton Scollard_, 201. In an Old Garden, _Madison Cawein_, 169. In an Oxford Garden, _Arthur Upson_, 213. In Memory's Garden, _Thomas Walsh_, 183. In my Mother's Garden, _Margaret Widdemer_, 87. In the Garden, _Pai Ta-Shun_, 204. In the Garden-Close at Mezra, _Clinton Scollard_, 195. In the Womb, _A. E._, 4. Indian Summer, _Sara Teasdale_, 53. Iris Flowers, _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_, 247. "It was June in the garden," _Emile Verhaeren_, 136. Jewel-Weed, _Florence Earle Coates_, 111. Joe-Pyeweed, _Louis Untermeyer_, 108. Joy of the Springtime, The, _Sarojini Naidu_, 20. Joys of a Summer Morning, The, _Henry A. Wise Wood_, 101. July Garden, The, _Robert Ernest Vernède_, 43. July Midnight, _Amy Lowell_, 72. June, _Douglas Malloch_, 36. June Rapture, _Angela Morgan_, 37. Kinfolk, _Kate Whiting Patch_, 65. Lady of the Snows, A, _Harriet Monroe_, 153. Larkspur, _James Oppenheim_, 42. Late Walk, A, _Robert Frost_, 50. Lavender, _W. W. Blair Fish_, 219. Lilies, The, _George E. Woodberry_, 255. Little Ghost, The, _Edna St. Vincent Millay_, 190. Little Girl's Songs, A, _Hilda Conkling_, 236. Little God, The, _Katharine Howard_, 240. "Lord, I ask a Garden," _R. Arevalo Martinez_, 279. Love planted a Rose, _Katharine Lee Bates_, 123. "Loveliest of trees," _A. E. Housman_, 155. Magnolia, The, _José Santos Chocano_, 34. May is building her House, _Richard Le Gallienne_, 33. Message, The, _Helen Hay Whitney_, 141. Message, The, _George Edward Woodberry_, 120. Messenger, The, _James Stephens_, 71. "Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways," _Emile Verhaeren_, 44. Midsummer Garden, A, _Clinton Scollard_, 172. Miracle, _L. H. Bailey_, 148. Mocking-Bird, A, _Witter Bynner_, 65. Mocking-Bird, The, _Frank L. Stanton_, 69. Morning-Glory, The, _Florence Earle Coates_, 40. Moth-Flowers, _Jeanne Robert Foster_, 262. My Flower-Room, _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_, 280. "My soul is like a garden-close," _Thomas S. Jones, Jr._, 128. Mystery, _Ralph Hodgson_, 275. New Sundial, To a, _Violet Fane_, 13. Night-Moth, The, _Marion Couthouy Smith_, 75. Nightingales, _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 63. November Night, _Adeline Crapsey_, 55. "Oh, tell me how my garden grows," _Mildred Howells_, 188. Old Brocade, The, _M. G. Brereton_, 93. Old Gardens, _Arthur Upson_, 179. Old Homes, _Madison Cawein_, 81. Old Mothers, _Charles Ross_, 95. Old-fashioned Garden, The, _John Russell Hayes_, 83. Order, _Paul Scott Mowrer_, 75. Over the Garden Wall, _Emily Selinger_, 243. Oxford Garden, In an, _Arthur Upson_, 213. Pasture, The, _Robert Frost_, 104. Path that leads to Nowhere, The, _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_, 117. Philosopher's Garden, The, _John Oxenham_, 285. Planting, _Robert Livingston_, 230. Poplars, The, _Theodosia Garrison_, 164. Poppies, _John Russell Hayes_, 45. Prayer, _John Hall Wheelock_, 130. Prayer, A, _Edwin Markham_, 284. Primavera, _George Cabot Lodge_, 21. Progress, _Charlotte Becker_, 125. Proud Vegetables, The, _Mary McNeil Fenollosa_, 221. Puritan Lady's Garden, A, _Sarah N. Cleghorn_, 82. Putting in the Seed, _Robert Frost_, 5. Rain, The, _William H. Davies_, 9. Rain in the Night, _Amelia Josephine Burr_, 235. Reflections, _Amy Lowell_, 203. Rest at Noon, _Hermann Hagedorn_, 74. Results and Roses, _Edgar A. Guest_, 145. Road to the Pool, The, _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 99. Roman Garden, A, _Florence Wilkinson Evans_, 205. Rosa Mystica, _Katharine Tynan_, 273. Rose, The, _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 130. Rose, The, _Angela Morgan_, 275. Rose-Geranium, _Clement Wood_, 90. Rose Lover, A, _Frederic A. Whiting_, 134. Roses, _Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_, 138. Roses in the Subway, _Dana Burnet_, 191. Safe, _Robert Haven Schauffler_, 259. Samuel Gardner, _Edgar Lee Masters_, 277. Scissors-Man, The, _Grace Hazard Conkling_, 250. Secret, The, _Arthur Wallace Peach_, 77. Seeds, _John Oxenham_, 278. Selection from "Under the Trees," _Anna Hempstead Branch_, 151. Seller of Herbs, A, _Lizette Woodworth Reese_, 218. Serenade, _Marjorie L. C. Pickthall_, 184. Shade, _Theodosia Garrison_, 150. Shower, A, _Rowland Thirlmere_, 8. Snow-Gardens, The, _Zoë Akins_, 55. Soft Day, A, _W. M. Letts_, 110. Song for Winter, A, _Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer_, 57. Song from "April," _Irene Rutherford McLeod_, 98. Song in a Garden, A, _Theodosia Garrison_, 135. Song of Fairies, A, _Elizabeth Kirby_, 131. Song of the Weary Traveller, _Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff_, 267. Song of Wandering Aengus, The, _W. B. Yeats_, 177. Song to Belinda, A, _Theodosia Garrison_, 132. Sonnet: "Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain," _John Masefield_, 257. Sonnet: "It may be so; but let the unknown be," _John Masefield_, 10. Sonnet: "The sweet caresses that I gave to you," _Elsa Barker_, 135. Sorrow in a Garden, _May Riley Smith_, 260. South Wind, _Siegfried Sassoon_, 102. Spirit of the Birch, The, _Arthur Ketchum_, 156. Spring, _John Gould Fletcher_, 20. Spring, _Francis Ledwidge_, 26. Spring Beauties, The, _Helen Gray Cone_, 68. Spring Patchwork, _Abbie Farwell Brown_, 231. Spring Planting, _Helen Hay Whitney_, 239. Spring Song, _Hilda Conkling_, 236. Spring Song, _William Griffith_, 62. Stairways and Gardens, _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_, 94. Sun, Cardinal, and Corn Flowers, _Hannah Parker Kimball_, 48. Sunflowers, _Clinton Scollard_, 48. Sweetheart-Lady, _Frank L. Stanton_, 133. Sweetwilliam, To the, _Norman Gale_, 88. Tell-Tale, _Oliver Herford_, 142. "The Lord God planted a garden," _Dorothy Frances Gurney_, 255. "There is strength in the soil," _Arthur Stringer_, 4. Thief, Da, _T. A. Daly_, 143. Thistle, The, _Miles M. Dawson_, 104. Thoughts fer the Discuraged Farmer, _James Whitcomb Riley_, 225. Three Cherry Trees, The, _Walter de la Mare_, 178. Tilling, The, _Cale Young Rice_, 258. Time of Roses, The, _Sarojini Naidu_, 122. To a Daisy, _Alice Meynell_, 109. To a New Sundial, _Violet Fane_, 13. To a Weed, _Gertrude Hall_, 102. To the Sweetwilliam, _Norman Gale_, 88. Tree, The, _Evelyn Underhill_, 153. Trees, _Bliss Carman_, 160. Trees, _Joyce Kilmer_, 165. Trees, The, _Samuel Valentine Cole_, 162. Tulip Garden, A, _Amy Lowell_, 30. Tulips, _Arthur Guiterman_, 31. Two Roses, _William Lindsey_, 138. "Under the Trees," Selection from, _Anna Hempstead Branch_, 151. Up a Hill and a Hill, _Fannie Stearns Davis_, 100. Velvets, _Hilda Conkling_, 237. "Vestured and veiled with twilight," _Rosamund Marriott Watson_, 282. Wall, The, _Abbie Farwell Brown_, 112. Ways of Time, The, _William H. Davies_, 172. Weed, To a, _Gertrude Hall_, 102. Welcome, _John Curtis Underwood_, 264. Welcome, The, _Arthur Powell_, 19. "What heart but fears a fragrance?" _Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_, 185. When Swallows Build, _Catherine Parmenter_, 238. "Where love is life," _Duncan Campbell Scott_, 121. While April Rain went by, _Shaemas O Sheel_, 25. Whisper of Earth, The, _Edward J. O'Brien_, 6. White Iris, A, _Pauline B. Barrington_, 32. White Peacock, The, _William Sharp_, 196. White Rose, The, _Charles Hanson Towne_, 173. Wild Gardens, _Ada Foster Murray_, 106. Wild Rose, The, _Charles Buxton Going_, 99. Witchery, _Frank Dempster Sherman_, 68. With a Rose, to Brunhilde, _Vachel Lindsay_, 127. "With memories and odors," _John Hall Wheelock_, 24. "Within the garden there is healthfulness," _Emile Verhaeren_, 6. Wonder Garden, A, _Frederic A. Whiting_, 266. Wood Song, _Sara Teasdale_, 284. Years Afterward, _Nancy Byrd Turner_, 186. Yellow Warblers, _Katharine Lee Bates_, 67. INDEX OF AUTHORS A. E., 4. AIKEN, CONRAD, 25. AKINS, ZOË, 55. ANDERSON, MARGARET STEELE, 273. BAILEY, L. H., 148. BARKER, ELSA, 135. BARRINGTON, PAULINE B., 32. BATES, KATHARINE LEE, 67, 123. BECKER, CHARLOTTE, 125. BIANCHI, MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON, 185. BIDDLE, LIVINGSTON L., 131. BRANCH, ANNA HEMPSTEAD, 151, 179. BRERETON, M. G., 93. BROWN, ABBIE FARWELL, 112, 231, 244. BURNET, DANA, 191. BURR, AMELIA JOSEPHINE, 73, 235, 270. BURTON, RICHARD, 208, 254. BYNNER, WITTER, 30, 65. CARMAN, BLISS, 23, 160, 169. CAWEIN, MADISON, 81, 169. CHOCANO, JOSÉ SANTOS, 34. CLEGHORN, SARAH N., 82. COATES, FLORENCE EARLE, 40, 111. COLE, SAMUEL VALENTINE, 162. COLUM, PADRAIC, 3. CONE, HELEN GRAY, 68. CONKLING, GRACE HAZARD, 63, 99, 130, 217, 250. CONKLING, HILDA, 236, 237. CRAPSEY, ADELAIDE, 55, 110. DALY, T. A., 40, 143. DAVIES, WILLIAM H., 9, 172. DAVIS, FANNIE STEARNS, 100. DAWSON, MILES M., 104. DE LA MARE, WALTER, 178. DELAND, MARGARET, 116. DENISON, ELDREDGE, 189. DODGE, LOUIS, 139. DORR, JULIA C. R., 91, 170. DRISCOLL, LOUISE, 226. E., A., 4. EASTAWAY, EDWARD, 276. EVANS, FLORENCE WILKINSON, 205. FANE, VIOLET, 13. FENOLLOSA, MARY MCNEIL, 18, 221, 247. FISH, W. W. BLAIR, 219. FLETCHER, JOHN GOULD, 20. FOSTER, JEANNE ROBERT, 262. FROST, ROBERT, 5, 50, 92, 104. GALE, NORMAN, 88. GARRISON, THEODOSIA, 132, 135, 150, 164. GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON, 138. GOING, CHARLES BUXTON, 99, 249. GOSSE, EDMUND, 126. GRIFFITH, WILLIAM, 62. GUEST, EDGAR A., 145. GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN, 268. GUITERMAN, ARTHUR, 31, 39, 66. GURNEY, DOROTHY FRANCES, 209, 255. HAGEDORN, HERMANN, 61, 74. HALL, GERTRUDE, 102. HARDING, RUTH GUTHRIE, 28, 267. HAYES, JOHN RUSSELL, 45, 83. HERFORD, OLIVER, 142. HODGSON, RALPH, 275. HOLLEY, HORACE, 7. HOOKER, BRIAN, 181. HOPE, LAURENCE, 195. HOUSMAN, A. E., 155. HOWARD, KATHARINE, 240. HOWELLS, MILDRED, 188. HUBBELL, ROSE STRONG, 239. JEWETT, SARAH ORNE, 263. JEWETT, SOPHIE, 207. JOHNSON, BURGES, 242. JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD, 207. JONES, THOMAS S., JR., 36, 128, 168. KEMP, HARRY, 14, 269. KENYON, JAMES B., 86. KETCHUM, ARTHUR, 156. KILMER, JOYCE, 165. KIMBALL, HANNAH PARKER, 48. KIRBY, ELIZABETH, 131. KREYMBORG, ALFRED, 158. LEDWIDGE, FRANCIS, 26. LEE, AGNES, 124. LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD, 33, 60. LETTS, W. M., 110. LINDSAY, VACHEL, 107, 127. LINDSEY, WILLIAM, 138. LIVINGSTON, ROBERT, 230. LODGE, GEORGE CABOT, 21. LOWELL, AMY, 30, 72, 176, 203, 250, 283. MCCARTHY, DENIS A., 22. MCGIFFERT, GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON, 46, 80, 211. MCLEOD, IRENE RUTHERFORD, 98. MCMILLAN, MARY, 51. MALLOCH, DOUGLAS, 36, 156. MARKHAM, CATHERINE, 152. MARKHAM, EDWIN, 76, 270, 284. MARTINEZ, R. AREVALO, 279. MASEFIELD, JOHN, 10, 257. MASTERS, EDGAR LEE, 277. MEYNELL, ALICE, 109, 123. MIDDLETON, RICHARD, 186. MIFFLIN, LLOYD, 159. MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT, 49, 115, 190. MONROE, HARRIET, 153. MORGAN, ANGELA, 37, 149, 275. MOWRER, PAUL SCOTT, 75. MURRAY, ADA FOSTER, 106. NAIDU, SAROJINI, 20, 122. NESBIT, E., 234. NOYES, ALFRED, 35. O'BRIEN, EDWARD J., 6. O'CONOR, NORREYS JEPHSON, 133. OPPENHEIM, JAMES, 42. O SHEEL, SHAEMAS, 25. OXENHAM, JOHN, 278, 285. PAI TA-SHUN, 204. PARMENTER, CATHERINE, 238. PATCH, KATE WHITING, 65. PATTERSON, ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY, 52, 72, 129, 202. PEABODY, JOSEPHINE PRESTON, 11, 125, 140. PEACH, ARTHUR WALLACE, 12, 77. PICKTHALL, MARJORIE L. C., 184. POWELL, ARTHUR, 19. REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH, 27, 212, 218. RICE, CALE YOUNG, 258. RICE, JOHN PIERREPONT, 34. RICHARDS, LAURA E., 232. RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB, 225. RITTENHOUSE, JESSIE B., 198. ROBINSON, CORINNE ROOSEVELT, 117. ROSS, CHARLES, 95. RUSSELL, GEORGE WILLIAM, 4. SASSOON, SIEGFRIED, 102. SCHAUFFLER, ROBERT HAVEN, 259. SCOLLARD, CLINTON, 28, 48, 172, 195, 201. SCOTT, DUNCAN CAMPBELL, 121. SELINGER, EMILY, 243. SHARP, WILLIAM, 196. SHEPARD, ODELL, 63. SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER, 68, 241. SMITH, MARION COUTHOUY, 75. SMITH, MAY RILEY, 260. STANTON, FRANK L., 69, 133. STEPHENS, JAMES, 71. STERLING, GEORGE, 127. STORK, CHARLES WHARTON, 50, 114. STRINGER, ARTHUR, 4. TABB, JOHN B., 9, 105. TAGORE, RABINDRANATH, 200, 246. TEASDALE, SARA, 53, 199, 256, 262, 284. THIRLMERE, ROWLAND, 8. THOMAS, EDITH M., 54, 216. THOMAS, EDWARD, 276. TOWNE, CHARLES HANSON, 139, 173. TURNER, NANCY BYRD, 186. TYNAN, KATHARINE, 223, 273. UNDERHILL, EVELYN, 153. UNDERWOOD, JOHN CURTIS, 264. UNTERMEYER, LOUIS, 108, 174. UPSON, ARTHUR, 179, 213. VAN DYKE, HENRY, 265. VAN RENSSELAER, MRS. SCHUYLER, 57. VERHAEREN, EMILE, 6, 44, 136. VERNÈDE, ROBERT ERNEST, 43. WAGSTAFF, BLANCHE SHOEMAKER, 267. WALSH, THOMAS, 183, 194, 210. WATSON, ROSAMUND MARRIOTT, 181, 282. WATSON, WILLIAM, 212. WHEELOCK, JOHN HALL, 2, 24, 130. WHITE, JAMES TERRY, 183. WHITING, FREDERIC A., 134, 266. WHITNEY, HELEN HAY, 141, 239. WIDDEMER, MARGARET, 87, 245. WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER, 94, 280. WILKINSON, MARGUERITE, 221. WOOD, CLEMENT, 90. WOOD, HENRY A. WISE, 101. WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD, 120, 255. YEATS, W. B., 177. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS U. S. A. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and obvious spelling errors repaired, but variant spellings retained. Inconsistent indentations within a poem were retained. In original, book title "Melody of Earth" appears twice at beginning, and "Index of Titles" and "Index of Authors" headings appear twice before their respective indexes. These redundancies were removed. Shaemas O Sheel: name occurs consistently with no punctuation after the O. Spaces were removed from spaced contractions: for example, "'t was" to "'twas," "that 's" to "that's," "did n't" to "didn't." 
43127	----	An Enchanted Garden Fairy Stories By Mrs Molesworth Illustrations by W.J. Hennessy Published by T. Fisher Unwin. An Enchanted Garden, by Mrs Molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ AN ENCHANTED GARDEN, BY MRS MOLESWORTH. CHAPTER ONE. MADAM WREN. "No," said Alix, "that's not a good plan at all. It's perfectly stupid. If you've no better ideas than that, Rafe, we needn't talk about it any more." Rafe looked and felt very snubbed indeed. He was ten, she was nine. But she generally took the lead; not always, as I daresay you will see when you hear more about them, but _generally_. They were a nice little pair, and they were constantly together, at lessons, at play, at everything. This was a convenient arrangement, for they were a good deal younger than the other brothers and sisters of the family, and what Rafe would have been without Alix, or Alix without Rafe, it would be difficult to imagine. But there is not much use in thinking over about might-have-beens, or would-have-beens, unless to make us more thankful for what _is_. So it is enough to say that as things really were, they were very happy children. Still they had their troubles, and it was one of these they were discussing this lovely spring morning, when they were sitting under their favourite tree--a magnificent ilex in the garden, at one corner of the great lawn which was one of the beauties of their home. It was a lovely day, clear and bright and joyous, full of its own delights, and yet almost fuller of the summer ones to come! This is, I suppose, the real secret of the charm of spring-time--the promise and hope it tells of. Everything seemed bursting with good news, the birds most of all perhaps, though the smiling faces of the early flowers, and the tender whispers of the gentle wind through the branches, were not behindhand. But the children's faces were clouded. This was their trouble. They could not get any one to tell them any more stories! They had read all their books through, over and over again, and besides, books aren't _quite_ as nice as "told" stories. At least not when they have to be shared by two. Rafe and Alix had tried several plans--reading aloud did not answer _very_ well, and looking over the pages was worse. They never managed to keep quite together, and then the one who got down to the last line first was sure to fidget or to try in some way to hurry up the other, which was apt to lead to unpleasant results. And besides this, at present there was no question of story-books, for, as I said, the children had read all they possessed really _too_ often. Hitherto perhaps they had been a little spoilt about having stories told to them. Papa, who was an old soldier, had a good many tales of adventure; mamma had some lovely ones about "when she was a little girl." And the big brothers and sisters were very kind too, especially if Rafe or Alix, or both, as sometimes was the case, happened to be ill. But their stories were mostly out of books; now and then indeed they would unluckily turn out to be already known to the children, and though they did not altogether object to them on this account--I have noticed that children rather enjoy a book story retold by voice--it was not always so pleasant for Ena or Jean, or Eric when he was at home from college. For Rafe and Alix were so exceedingly particular. "No," one of them would say, just when Eric had got to the most thrilling part of a robber story, "the entrance to the inner cave was at the _left_ side of the big one;" or if Jean was describing her heroine's dress, "It wasn't green--I'm sure it was blue--blue with tiny rosebuds on," so that sometimes Jean would reply, "Really, children, if you interrupt so I can't go on," or Eric would go off with a grunt and tell them to provide stories for themselves. This had happened the evening before, and this it was which put the idea into Rafe's mind which Alix snubbed so. "Suppose," he said, "that we make stories for each other--you for me, Alix, and I for you?" It sounded rather nice, but it did not find favour in her eyes at all. "I know exactly what they'd be," she said; "just mixings up of all our other ones. It might do to amuse stranger children with, perhaps--but not for us ourselves. I know all that's in your head, and you know what's in mine, far too well. So it would be perfectly stupid." And Rafe had no more to say. It was Easter holidays--Easter was as late as it could be that year--and the weather was so beautiful that it really felt like summer. You would think the children should have been content; but they weren't. They had no lessons at all to do, and a whole fortnight of nothing you really must do is, in my opinion, a mistake. During the long summer holidays Miss Brander, their governess, always left them _something_ to do, just enough to give a nice fresh taste to the holidaying the rest of their time, and to prevent their feeling the reins _quite_ loose on their necks like runaway ponies. And even without this, in the summer it was different, for they generally went to the seaside or to some hilly place for a month or so, to have a change of air, and away from home in a new place time seldom hangs much on children's hands. This Easter it was certainly doing so a good deal. There were other reasons too why the little couple felt rather at a loose end, rather tired of themselves. The big people were all unusually busy, for Ena was going to be married in June; and she and their mother or she and Jean were always going somewhere or other to order things, or to give their opinion about the doing up of the pretty old house, ten miles or so away, which was to be her new home. And though Ena was very kind when she had time, and the new brother-to-be held out grand promises of the visits they were to pay to their sister, and the fun they should have, still, all that seemed a good way off, and in the meantime Rafe and Alix felt rather out of it all. I am not sure but that they were just a little jealous of the new brother. "It's only a pretence sort of brother," said Alix one day when her feelings had been ruffled. I am afraid they felt as if he had some how put both their small noses out of joint. So now you understand why Rafe and Alix were sitting rather disconsolately under the ilex, though the sun was shining brightly enough to melt away all clouds and mists inside as well as outside, any one would have thought. In spite of Alix's snub, Rafe looked up again in a minute or two. "Why don't you think of a better plan, then, if you don't like mine?" he said. "It's always easy to say things won't do," (which is exceedingly true!), "but why don't you find something that _will_ do?" Alix turned round. She was sitting on the end of the rustic bench, swinging her legs, which was not difficult, as they scarcely reached the ground, and staring up at the thickly-growing branches overhead. But now she looked at Rafe--he felt a little nervous; was she going to take offence at his speech? No--she had heard what he said, but she was not vexed. "I know what I wish we _could_ find," she said. "Do you remember, Rafe, the story of a white lady, up, up in a room at the very top of a castle somewhere, who was always spinning stories? They came out of the hum of her spinning-wheel somehow, and the children could hear them when they sat down on the floor beside her. _Oh_, if we could find somebody like that!" "It was fairies," said Rafe doubtfully. "At least the white lady was a fairy, and there aren't any really, I suppose." "Everybody says so," Alix replied doubtfully, "but I don't quite see why there mightn't be. If there have never been any, what began all the fairy stories? And I know one thing--papa said so himself one day when he was telling some--what's the word?--it means a sort of a fairy story that's been told over and over since ever, _ever_ so long ago, ledge--_what_ is it?" "Legends, you mean," said her brother. "Yes, I remember papa telling us some very queer ones he had heard in India." "And he said there were fairy stories in _every_ country," Alix went on. "So what _I_ say is there must have been something to make them begin!" This sounded very convincing to Rafe--Alix certainly had clever ways of putting things. "Oh!" he said, with a deep sigh. "If we could but find some one old enough to remember the beginnings of them--something like the white lady, you know." Both children sat silent for a moment or two, their eyes gazing before them. Suddenly on the short green turf appeared a tiny figure, a wren, so tame that she hopped fearlessly to within a very short distance of the little brother and sister, and then, standing still, seemed to look up at them with her bright eyes, her small head cocked knowingly on one side. "Rafe," exclaimed Alix eagerly, though in a low voice. "Alix," said Rafe in his turn. Then they looked at each other, thinking the same thoughts. "Rafe," whispered Alix, while the wren still stood there looking at them, "just look at her; she's not a bird, she's a fairy--or at least if she's not a fairy she's got some message for us from one." The wren hopped on a few steps, still looking back at them. The children slipped off the seat and moved softly after her without speaking. On she went, hopping, then fluttering just a little way above the ground, then hopping again, till in this way she had led them right across the wide stretch of lawn to some shrubberies at the far side. Here a small footpath, scarcely visible till you were close to it, led through the bushes to a strip of half-wild garden ground, used as a sort of nursery for young trees, which skirted a lane known by the name of the "Ladywood Path." And indeed it was little more than a path nowadays, for few passed that way, though the story went that in the old days it had been a good road leading to a house that was no longer in existence. Over the low wall clambered the children, to find to their delight that the wren was in the lane before them, just a little way ahead. But now she took to flying higher and faster than she had yet done; to keep up with her at all they had to run, and even with this they sometimes lost sight of her altogether for a minute or two. But they kept up bravely-- they were too eager and excited to waste breath by speaking. The race lasted for some minutes, till at last, just as Alix was about to give in, Rafe suddenly twitched her arm. "Stop, Alix," he panted--truth to tell, the running was harder on him than on his sister, for Rafe was of an easy-going disposition, and not given to violent exercise--"stop, Alix, she's lighted on the old gateway." They both stood still and looked. Yes, there was Madam Wren on the topmost bar of a dilapidated wooden gate, standing between two solid posts at what had once been the entrance to the beautiful garden of an ancient house. How beautiful neither the children nor any one now living knew, for even the very oldest inhabitants of that part of the country could only dimly remember having been told by their grandparents, or great-grandparents perhaps, how once upon a time Ladywood Hall had been the pride of the neighbourhood. The wren flapped her wings, then rose upwards and flew off. This time, somehow, the children felt that it was no use trying to follow her. "She's gone for good," said Rafe dolefully; but Alix's eyes sparkled. "You _are_ stupid," she said. "Don't you see what she's told us. We're to look for--for something, or some one, I don't quite know what, in the Lady's garden." For so somehow the grounds of the vanished house had come to be spoken of. "I think it was very dull of us not to have thought of it for ourselves, for it is a very fairy sort of place." "If it is that way," said Rafe, "_they_ must have heard us talking, and sent the wren to tell us." "Of course," said Alix, "that's just what I mean. Perhaps the wren is one herself." "Shall we go on now?" said Rafe. "No"--for just at that moment the clear sound of a bell ringing reached them from the direction of their own home--"for there's our dinner." And dinner was an important event in Rafe's eyes, even when rivalled by a fairy hunt. "How provoking," said Alix. "_How_ quickly the morning has gone. We must go in now or they will come hunting us up and find out all about it; and you know, Rafe, if it has anything to do with fairies we must keep it a secret." Rafe nodded his head sagely. "Of course," he replied. "When do you think we had best come? This afternoon we are going a walk with nurse, and she'd never let us off." "No," said Alix, with a sigh, for a walk with nurse was not a very interesting affair. "But I'll tell you what, Rafe; if I can get hold of mamma to-night, just even for a minute, I'll ask her if we mayn't take something for dinner out with us to-morrow, and not come in till tea-time--the way we sometimes did last summer; for just now it's really as fine and warm as if it was June. I think she'll let us." "I do hope she will," said the boy. CHAPTER TWO. TAPPING. The children were not very fortunate in their nurse. Perhaps this helped to make them feel lonely and dull sometimes, when there scarcely seemed real reason for their being so. She was a good woman, and meant to be kind, and their mother trusted her completely. But she was getting old, and was rather tired of children. She had had such a lot to bring up--the four big brothers and sisters of Rafe and Alix, and before them a large family of their cousins. And I don't think she was really very fond of children, though she was devoted to tiny babies. She didn't in the least understand children's fancifulnesses or many of their little ways, and was far too fond of saying, "Stuff and nonsense, Master Rafe," or "Miss Alix," as the case might be. The walk this afternoon would not have been any livelier than usual, so far as nurse was concerned, but the children were so brimful of their new ideas that they felt quite bright and happy, and after a while even nurse was won over to enter into their talk, or at least to answer their questions pretty cheerfully. For though of course they had not the least idea of telling her their secret, it was too much on their minds for them not to chatter round about it, so to say. "Have you ever seen a fairy, nurse?" said Alix; and, rather to her surprise, nurse answered quite seriously: "No, my dear. Time was, I suppose, as such things were to be seen, but that's past and gone. People have to work too hard nowadays to give any thought to fairies or fairyland." But on the whole this reply was rather encouraging. "You must have heard of fairies, though," said Rafe. "Can't you remember any stories about them?" Nurse had never been great at story-telling. "Oh dear no, Master Rafe," she replied; "I never knew any except the regular old ones, that you've got far prettier in your books than I could tell them. _Sayings_ I may have heard, just countryside talk, when I was a child. My old granny, who lived and died in the village here, would have it that, for those that cared to look for them, there were odd sights and sounds in the grounds of the old house down the lane. Beautiful singing _her_ mother had heard there when she was a girl; and once when a cow strayed in there for a night, they said when she came out again she was twice the cow she had been before, and that no milk was ever as good as hers." The children looked at each other. "I wonder they didn't turn all the cows in there," said Rafe practically. "Why didn't they, nurse?" "Oh dear me, Master Rafe, that's more than I can tell. It was but an old tale. You can't expect much sense in such." "Whom did the old house belong to? Who lived there?" said Alix. "Nobody knows," said nurse. "It's too long ago to say. But there's always been good luck about the place, that's certain. You've seen the flowers there in the summer time. Some of them look as beautiful as if they were in a proper garden; and it's certain sure there's no wood near here like it for the nightingales." This was very satisfactory so far as it went, but nurse would say no more, doubtless because she had nothing more to say. "I do believe, Rafe," said Alix, when they were sitting together after tea, "that the old garden is a sort of entrance to fairyland, and that it's been waiting for us to find it out." Her eyes were shining with eagerness, and Rafe, too, felt very excited. "I do hope mamma will let us have all to-morrow to ourselves," he said. "You see, one has to be very careful with fairies, Alix--all the stories agree about that. We must go to work very cautiously, so as not to offend them in any way." "You're always cautious," said Alix, with a little contempt; "rather too cautious for me. Of course we shall be very _polite_, and take care not to spoil any of the plants, but we'll have to be a little venturesome too. And," she went on, "you may count that they've invited us. The wren brought a regular message. I only hope they're not offended with us for not going to-day." "If they're good kind of fairies," said Rafe sagely--"and I think they're sure to be--they wouldn't have liked us to be disobedient; and you know mamma's awfully particular about our coming in the moment we hear the bell ring." "Yes," said Alix; "that's true." Mamma's heart was extra soft that evening, I think. She had seen so little of the children lately that she was feeling rather sorry for them, and all the more ready to agree to any wish of theirs. So they had no difficulty in getting her consent to their picnic plan for to-morrow. And the weather was wonderfully settled, as it sometimes is even in England, though early in the year. So the next morning saw them set off, carrying a little basket of provisions and a large parasol, full of eagerness and excitement as to what might be before them. They did not cross the lawn as they had done the day before, for they had a sort of feeling that they did not wish anyone to see them start, or to know exactly which way they went. It added to the pleasant mystery of the expedition. So they went straight out by the front gates, and after following the high road for a quarter of a mile or so, entered a little wood which skirted the grass-grown lane along one side, and from which they made their way out with some scrambling and clambering at only a few yards' distance from the entrance to the deserted garden where they had last seen the wren. The sight of the gate-posts reminded Alix of the bird, and she stopped short with some misgiving. "Rafe," she said, "do you think perhaps we should have waited for her at the ilex tree? I never thought of it before." "Oh no," said Rafe; "I'm sure it's all right. We've come to the place she led us to. She didn't need to show us the way twice! Fairies don't like stupid people." "You seem to know a great lot about fairies," said Alix, who had no idea of being snubbed herself, though she was fond of snubbing other people; "so I think you'd better settle what we're to do." "I expect we'll find the wren inside the gate," said Rafe; and they made their way on in silence. There was no difficulty in getting into the grounds, for though the gate on its rusty hinges would have been far too heavy for the children to move, there was a space between it and the posts where the wood had rotted away, through which it was easy for them to creep. First came Rafe, then the basket, next Alix, and finally the big parasol. It was a good while since they had been in the Ladywood garden, and when they had got on to their feet again, they stood still for a minute or two looking round them. It was a curious-looking place certainly; the very beauty of it had something strange and dream-like about it. Here and there the old paths were clearly to be traced. The main approach, or drive, as we should now call it, leading to where the house had been, was still quite distinct, though the house itself was entirely gone--not even any remains of ruins were to be seen, for all the stone and wood of which it had been built had long since been carted away to be used elsewhere. But the children knew where the old hall had actually stood--a large, square, level plateau, bordered on three sides by a broad terrace, all grass-grown, showing in two or three places where stone steps had once led down to the lower grounds, told its own tale. Along the front of this plateau, supporting it, as it were, there was still a very strongly-built stone wall banked up into the soil. The children walked on slowly till they were near the foot of this wall, and then stood still again. It was about five feet high; they seemed attracted to it, they scarcely knew why--perhaps because it was the only remaining thing actually to show that here had been once a home where people had lived. "I daresay," said Alix, looking up, "that the children used to run along the terrace at the top of that wall, and their mammas and nurses would call after them to take care they didn't fall over. Doesn't it seem funny, Rafe, to think there have _always_ been children in the world?" "I daresay the boys jumped down sometimes," said Rafe. "I'd like to try, but I won't to-day, for I promised mamma to take care of you, and if I sprained my ankle it would be rather awkward." They had forgotten their little quarrel, and for the moment they had forgotten about the wren. She was nowhere to be seen. What was to be done? "If we were only looking for a nice place for our picnic," said Rafe, "nothing could be better than the shelter of this wall. With it on one side, and the parasol tilted up on the other, it would be as good as a tent." "But we're not only looking for a picnic place," said Alix impatiently. "The only thing to do is to poke about till we find _something_, for I'm perfectly certain the wren didn't bring us here for nothing; and then, you know, there's even what nurse told us about this garden." Alix's words roused Rafe's energy again; for he was a trifle lazy, and wouldn't have been altogether disinclined to sit down comfortably and think about dinner. But once he got a thing in his head, he was not without ideas. "Let's follow right along the wall," he said, "and examine it closely." "I don't know what you expect to find," said Alix. "It's just a wall, as straight and plain as can be." And so indeed it seemed from where they stood. "I'll look all along the ground, in case there might be a ring fixed in a stone somewhere, like in the _Arabian Nights_. That's a regular fairy sort of plan," said Alix. "Very well," agreed Rafe; "you can do that, and I'll keep tapping the wall to see if it sounds hollow anywhere." And so they proceeded, Alix carrying the basket now, and Rafe the parasol, as it came in handy for his tapping. For some moments neither of them spoke. Alix's eyes were fixed on the ground. Once or twice, where it looked rough and uneven, she stooped to examine it more closely, but nothing came of it, except a little grumbling from Rafe at her stopping the way. To avoid this she ran on a few paces in front of him, so that when, within a few yards of the end of the wall, her brother suddenly stopped short, she wasn't aware that he had done so till she heard him calling her in a low but eager voice. "What is it?" she said breathlessly, hurrying back again. "Alix," he said, "there's some one tapping back at us from the other side. Listen." "A woodpecker," said Alix hastily; "or the echo of your tappings." She was in such a hurry that she didn't stop to reflect what silly things she was saying. To tell the truth, she didn't quite like the idea of Rafe having the honour and glory of the discovery, if such it was. "A woodpecker," repeated Rafe. "What nonsense! Do woodpeckers tap inside a wall? And an echo wouldn't wait till I had finished tapping to begin. It's just like answering me. Listen again." He tapped three times, slowly and distinctly, then stopped. Yes, sure enough there came what seemed indeed like an answer. Three clear, sharp little raps--clearer and sharper, indeed, than those he made with the parasol handle. Alix was now quite convinced. "It sounds like a little silver hammer," she said. "Oh, Rafe, _suppose_ we've really found something magic!" and her bright eyes danced with eagerness. Rafe did not reply. He seemed intent on listening. "Alix," he said, "the tapping is going on--a little farther off now, and then it comes back again, as if it was to lead us on. It must be on purpose." CHAPTER THREE. THE CARETAKER. "Let's follow it along," said Alix, after another moment or two's hesitation. They were standing, as I said, not many yards from the end of the wall, and thither the sound seemed to lead them. When they got quite to the corner the tapping had stopped. But the children were not discouraged. "That's what fairies do," said Alix, as if all her life she had lived on intimate terms with the beings she spoke of. "They show you a bit, and then they leave you to find out a bit for yourself. We must poke about now and see what we can find." Rafe had already set to work in this way: he was feeling and prodding the big, solid-looking stones which finished off the corner. "Alix," he exclaimed, "one of these stones shakes a little; let's push at it together." Yes, there was no doubt that it yielded a little, especially at one side. The children pushed with all their might and main, but for some time an uncertain sort of wobbling was the only result. Rafe stood back a little to recover his breath, and to look at the stone more critically. "There may be some sort of spring or hinge about it," he said at last. "Give me the parasol again, Alix." He then pressed the point of it firmly along the side of the stone, down the seam of mortar which appeared to join it to its neighbour in the wall. He need not have pressed so hard, for when he got to the middle of the line the stone suddenly yielded, turning inwards so quickly and sharply that Rafe almost fell forward on the parasol, and a square dark hole was open before them. Alix darted forward and peeped in. "Rafe," she cried, "there's a sort of handle inside; shall I try to turn it?" She did so without waiting for his answer. It moved quite easily, and then they found that the two or three stones completing the row to the ground, below the one that had already opened, were really only thin slabs joined together and forming a little door. It was like the doors you sometimes see in a library, which on the outside have the appearance of a row of books. The opening was now clear before them, and they did not hesitate to pass through. They had to stoop a little, but once within, it was easy to stand upright, and even side by side. Alix caught hold of Rafe's hand. "Let's keep fast hold of each other," she whispered. For a few steps they advanced in almost total darkness, for the door behind them had noiselessly closed. But this was in the nature of things, and quite according to Alix's programme. "I only hope," she went on, "that we haven't somehow or other got inside the cave where the pied piper took the children. It might have an opening into England somehow, even though I think Hamelin was in Germany; but, of course, there's nothing to be frightened at, is there, Rafe?" though her own heart was beating fast. Rafe's only answer was a sort of grunt, which expressed doubt, though we will not say fear. Perhaps it was the safest answer he could make under the very peculiar circumstances. But no doubt it was a great relief to both when, before they had time really to ask themselves whether they were frightened or not, a faint light showed itself in front of them, growing stronger and brighter as they stepped on, till at last they could clearly make out in what sort of a place they were. It was a short, fairly wide passage, seemingly hollowed out of the ground, and built up in the same way as the wall outside into the soil-- in fact it was like a small tunnel. The light was of a reddish hue, and soon they saw the reason of this. It came from an inner room, the door of which was half open, where a fire was brightly burning, and by the hearth sat a small figure. The children looked at each other, then they bent forward to see more. Noiseless though they were, the little person seemed to know they were coming. She lifted her head, and though her face was partly hidden by the hood of the scarlet cloak which covered her almost entirely, they saw that it was that of a very old woman. "Welcome, my dears," she said at once. "I have been looking for you this long time." Her voice, though strange--in what way it was strange the children could not have told, for it seemed to come from far away, and yet it seemed to them that they had often heard it before--encouraged them to step forward. "Good-morning," Alix began, but then she hesitated. Was it morning, or evening, or night, or what? It was difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago they had been standing outside in the warm sunshine, with the soft spring breeze wafting among the fresh green leaves, and the birds singing overhead. _That_ all seemed a dream. "I beg your pardon," the little girl began again; "I don't quite know what I should say, but thank you for speaking so kindly. How did you know we were coming?" "I heard you," replied the old woman. "I heard your little footsteps up to the gateway yesterday, and I knew you'd come again to-day." By this time Rafe had found his tongue too. "Did you send the wren?" he said. "Never mind about that just now," she answered. "I've many a messenger; and what's better still, I've quick eyes, and even quicker ears, for all that I'm so very old. I know what you want of me, and if you're good children you shall not be disappointed. I've been getting ready for you in more ways than one." "Do you mean you've got stories to tell us?" exclaimed the children eagerly. "Of course," she replied, with a smile. "I wouldn't be much good if I hadn't stories for you." All this time, I must tell you, the old woman had been busily knitting. Her needles made a little silvery click, but there was nothing fidgeting about this sound; now and then her words seemed to go in a sort of time with it. What she was knitting they could not see. Alix gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "How beautiful!" she said; "and may we come every day, and may we stay as long as we like, and will you sometimes invite us to tea, perhaps? and--" "Alix!" said Rafe, in a tone of reproval. "Nay, nay," said their hostess. "Let her chatter. All in good time, my love," she added to Alix, and the click of the needles seemed to repeat the words, "All in good time," like a little song. Rafe's eyes, which were sometimes more observant than Alix's, as his tongue did not use up so much of his attention as hers, had meanwhile been wandering round the room. It can, I think, be best described as a very cosy kitchen, but, unlike many kitchens, it was fresh and not the least too hot. There was a strange, pleasant fragrance in the air that made one think of pine woods. Afterwards the children found out that this came from the fire, for it was entirely of fir-cones, of which a large heap stood neatly stacked in one corner. Along chain hung down the chimney, with a hook at the end, to which a bright red copper pan was fastened; a little kettle of the same metal stood on the hearthstone, which was snowy white. The walls of the room were of rough stone, redder in colour than the wall outside, or else the firelight made them seem so. Behind where the old woman sat hung a grass-green curtain, closely drawn; there was no lamp or candle, but the firelight was quite enough. A wooden dresser ran along one side, and on its shelves were arranged cups and plates and jugs of the queerest shapes and colours you could imagine. I must tell you more about these later on. There was a settle with a very curious patchwork cushion, but besides this and the rocking-chair on which sat the old woman--I forgot to say that she was sitting on a rocking-chair--the only seats were two little three-legged stools. The middle of the floor was covered by matting of a kind the children had never seen; it was shaded brown, and made you think of a path strewn over with fallen leaves in autumn. The old woman's kindly tone encouraged Rafe to speak in his turn. "May I ask you one or two things," he said, "before you begin telling us the stories?" "As many as you like, my boy," she replied cheerfully. "I don't say I'll answer them all--that's rather a different matter--but you can ask all the same." "It's so puzzling," said Rafe, hesitating a little. "I don't think it puzzles Alix so much as me; she knows more about fairy things, I think. I do so want to know if you've lived here a very long time. Have you always lived here--even when the old house was standing and there were people in it?" "Never mind about always," replied the old woman. "A very, very long time? Yes, longer than you could understand, even if I explained it! Long before the old house was pulled down? Yes, indeed, long before the old house was ever thought of! I'm the caretaker here nowadays, you see." "The caretaker!" Rafe repeated; "but there's no house to take care of." "There's a great deal to take care of nevertheless," she replied. "Think of all the creatures up in the garden, the birds and the butterflies, not to speak of the flowers and the blossom. Ah, yes! we caretakers have a busy time of it, I can tell you, little as you might think it. _And_ the stories--why, if I had nothing else to do, the looking after them would keep me busy. They take a deal of tidying. You'd scarcely believe the state they come home in sometimes when they've been out for a ramble--all torn and jagged and draggle-tailed, or else, what's worse, dressed up in such vulgar new clothes that their own mother, and I'm as good as their mother, would scarcely know them again. No, no," and she shook her head, "I've no patience with such ways." Alix looked delighted. She quite understood the old woman. "How nicely you say it," she exclaimed. "It's like something papa told us the other day about legends; don't you remember, Rafe?" Rafe's slower wits were still rather perplexed, but he took things comfortably. Somehow he no longer remembered any more questions to ask. The old woman's bright eyes as she looked at him gave him a pleasant, contented feeling. "Have you got a story quite ready for us?" asked Alix. "One, two, three, four," said the old woman, counting her stitches. "I'm setting it on, my dear; it'll be ready directly. But what have you got in your basket? It's your dinner, isn't it? You must be getting hungry. Wouldn't you like to eat something while the story's getting ready?" "Are you going to _knit_ the story?" said Alix, looking very surprised. "Oh dear no!" said the old woman, smiling. "It's only a way I have. The knitting keeps it straight, otherwise it might fly off once I've let it out. Now open your basket and let's see what you've got for your dinner. There, set it on the table, and you may reach down plates and jugs for yourselves." "It's nothing much," said Alix, "just some sandwiches and two hard-boiled eggs and some slices of cake." "Very good things in their way," said the old woman, as Alix unpacked the little parcels and laid them on the plates which Rafe handed her from the dresser. "And if you look into my larder you'll find some fruit, maybe, which won't go badly for dessert. What should you say to strawberries and cream?" She nodded towards one corner of the kitchen where there was a little door which the children had not before noticed, so very neatly was it fitted into the wall. The opening of it was another surprise; the "larder" was quite different from the room inside. It was a little arbour, so covered over with greenery that you could not see through the leaves to the outside, though the sunshine managed to creep in here and there, and the twittering of the birds was clearly heard. On a stone slab stood a curiously-shaped basket filled with--oh! such lovely strawberries! and beside it a bowl of tempting yellow cream; these were the only eatables to be seen in the larder. "Strawberries!" exclaimed Rafe; "just fancy, Alix, and it's only April." "But we're in Fairyland, you stupid boy," said Alix; "or at least somewhere very near it." "Quick, children," came the old woman's voice from the kitchen. "You bring the strawberries, Alix, and Rafe the cream. There'll be no time for stories if you dawdle!" This made them hurry back, and soon they were seated at the table, with all the nice things neatly before them. They were not greedy children fortunately, for, as everybody knows, fairy-folk hold few things in greater horror than greediness; and they were orderly children too. They packed up their basket neatly again when they had finished, and Alix asked if they should wash up the plates that had been lent to them, which seemed to please their old friend, for she smiled as she replied that it wasn't necessary. "My china is of a different kind from any you've ever seen," she said. "_Whiff_, plates," she added; and then, to the children's amusement, there was a slight rattle, and all the crockery was up in its place again, shining as clean and bright as before it had been used. There was now no doubt at all that they were really in Fairyland. CHAPTER FOUR. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES. "And now for a story," said Alix joyfully. "May we sit close beside you, Mrs--oh dear! Mayn't we call you something?" "Anything you like," replied the old woman, smiling. "I know," cried Alix; "Mrs Caretaker--will that do? It's rather a nice name when you come to think of it." "Yes," agreed their old friend; "and it should be everybody's name, more or less, if everybody did their duty. There's no one without something to take care of." "No," said Rafe thoughtfully; "I suppose not." "Draw the two little stools close beside me--one at the right, one at the left; and if you like, you may lean your heads on my knee, you'll hear none the worse." "Oh, that's beautiful," said Alix; "it's like the children and the white lady. Do you know about the white lady?" she went on, starting up suddenly. Mrs Caretaker nodded. "Oh yes," she said; "she's a relation of mine. But we mustn't chatter any more if you're to have a story." And the children sat quite silent. Click, click, went the knitting-needles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Story of the Three Wishes. That was the name of the first of Mrs Caretaker's stories. Once upon a time there lived two sisters in a cottage on the edge of a forest. It was rather a lonely place in some ways, though there was an old town not more than a mile off, where there were plenty of friendly people. But it was lonely in this way, that but seldom any of the townsfolk passed near the cottage, or cared to come to see the sisters, even though they were good and pretty girls, much esteemed by all who knew them. For the forest had a bad name. Nobody seemed to know exactly why, or what the bad name meant, but there it was. Even in the bright long summer days the children of the town would walk twice as far on the other side to gather posies of the pretty wood-flowers in a little copse, not to be compared with the forest for beauty, rather than venture within its shade. And the young men and maidens of a summer evening, though occasionally they might come to its outskirts in their strolls, were never tempted to do more than stand for a moment or two glancing along its leafy glades. Only the sisters, Arminel and Chloe, had sometimes entered the forest, though but for a little way, and not without some fear and trembling. But they had no misgiving as to living in its near neighbourhood. Custom does a great deal, and here in the cottage by the forest-side they had spent all their lives. And the grandmother, who had taken care of them since they had been left orphans in their babyhood, told them there was no need for fear so long as they loved each other and did their duty. All the same, she never denied that the great forest was an uncanny place. This was the story of it, so far as any one knew. Long, long ago, when many things in the world were different from what they are now, a race of giants, powerful and strong, were the owners of the forest, and so long as they were just and kindly to their weaker neighbours, all went well. But after a while they grew proud and tyrannical, and did some very cruel things. Then their power was taken from them, and they became, as a punishment, as weak and puny as they had been the opposite. Now and then, so it was said about the countryside, one or two of them had been seen, miserable-looking little dwarfs. And the seeing of them was the great thing to be dreaded, for it was supposed to be a certain sign of bad luck. But the grandmother had heard more than this, though where, or when, or how, she could not remember. The spell over the forest dwarfs was not to be for ever; something some day was to break it, though what she did not know. "And who can tell," she would say now and then, "how better things may come about for the poor creatures? There's maybe a reason for your being here, children. Keep love and pity in your hearts, and never let any fear prevent you doing a kind action if it comes in your way." But till now, though they had gone on living in the old cottage since their grandmother's death in the same way, never forgetting what she had said, Arminel and Chloe had never caught sight of their strange neighbours. True, once or twice they had seen a small figure scuttering away when they had ventured rather farther than usual along the forest paths, but then it might have been only some wild wood creature, of whom, no doubt, there were many who had their dwellings in the lonely gloom. Sometimes a strange curiosity really to see one of the dwarfs for themselves would come over them; they often talked about it in the long winter evenings when they had nothing to amuse them. But it was only to each other that they talked in this way. To their friends in the town, for they had friends there whom they saw once a week on the market-day, they never chattered about the forest or the dwarfs; and when they were asked why they went on living in this strange and lonely place, they smiled and said it was their home, and they were happier there than anywhere else. And so they were. They were very busy to begin with, for their butter and eggs and poultry were more prized than any to be had far or near. Arminel was the dairy-woman, and Chloe the hen-wife, and at the end of each week they would count up their earnings, eager to see which had made the more by their labours. Fortunately for their happy feelings to each other, up till now their gains had been pretty nearly equal, for there is no saying where jealousy will not creep in, even between the dearest of friends. But quite lately, for the first time, things had not been going so well. It was late in the autumn, and there had been unusually heavy rains, and when they ceased the winter seemed to begin all at once, and before its time, and the animals suffered for it. The cow's milk fell off before Arminel had looked for its doing so, and some great plans which she had been making for the future seemed likely to be disappointed. She had hoped to save enough through the winter to buy another cow in the spring, so that with the two she would have had a supply of butter for her customers in the town all the year round. And Chloe's hens were not doing well either. One or two of them had even died, and she couldn't get her autumn chickens to fatten. Worst of all, the eggs grew fewer day by day. These misfortunes distressed the sisters very much. Sadder still, they grew irritable and short-tempered, each reproaching the other, and making out that she herself had managed better. "It is all your want of foresight," said Arminel to Chloe one market-day when the egg-basket looked but poorly filled. "Everybody knows that hens stop laying with the first cold. You should have potted some eggs a few weeks ago when they were so plentiful." "My customers don't care for potted eggs," said Chloe. "Till now I have always had a pretty fair supply of fresh ones, except for a week or two about Christmas time. How should I have known that this year would be different from other years? If you are so wonderfully wise, why did you not bring Strawberry indoors a month sooner than usual? It is evident that she has caught cold. You need not sneer at my eggs when you count your pats of butter. Why, there are not above half what you had two months ago." "When you manage your own affairs properly, you may find fault with mine," said Arminel snappishly. And they felt so unamiable towards each other that all the way to market and back they walked on separate sides of the road without speaking a word. Such a state of things had never been known before. It was late when they got home that afternoon, and being a dull and cloudy day it was almost dark. The poor girls felt tired and unhappy, for each was sad with the double sadness of having to bear her troubles alone. And besides this, there is nothing more tiring than ill-temper. Arminel sat down weariedly on a chair. The fire was out; the cottage felt very chilly; the one little candle which Chloe had lighted gave but a feeble ray. Arminel sighed deeply. Chloe, whose heart was very soft, felt sorry for her, and setting down her basket began to see to the fire. "Leave it alone," said her sister. "We may as well go to bed without any supper. I'm too tired to eat; and it's just as well to get accustomed to scanty fare. It is what is before us, I suppose." "You need not be quite so downhearted," said Chloe, persevering in her efforts. "Things may mend again. I sold my eggs for more than ever before. It seems that everybody's hens are doing badly. I'll have the fire burning in a minute, and some nice hot coffee ready, and then you'll feel better." But Arminel was not to be so easily consoled. "If you've done well with your eggs it's more than I did with my butter," she said. "Dame Margery, the housekeeper from the castle, says she'll take no more from me if I can't promise as much as last year. She doesn't like to go changing about for her butter, she says; and mine was enough for the ladies." "I'm sure you've enough for two ladies still," said Chloe. "Yes; but if I don't keep a little for my other customers, they won't come back to me when I have plenty again," answered her sister, who seemed determined to look on the black side of things. Then, unluckily, in spite of Chloe's care, the cold and the damp of the chimney made the fire smoke; great clouds puffed out, almost filling the kitchen. "I wish you had let me go to bed," said Arminel hastily; and Chloe's patience being exhausted, she retorted by calling her sister unkind and ungrateful. The smoke was very disagreeable, no doubt. Arminel opened the window wide to let it clear off. The wind was blowing from the forest which lay on this side of the house. All looked dark and gloomy, and Arminel gave a little shiver as she glanced out. Suddenly she started. "Chloe," she said, "did you hear that?" "What?" said Chloe. "A cry--yes, there it is again, as if some one was in great trouble." Chloe heard it too, but she was feeling rather sulky and contradictory. "It's nothing," she said. "Only a hare or some wild creature; they often scream," and she turned back to the table where she was preparing coffee. But though the room was now pretty clear of smoke and the fire was behaving better, Arminel did not close the window. She still stood by it listening. And again there came the strange shrill yet feeble cry, telling unmistakably of anguish, or whether of beast or man no one could have told. And this time Chloe stood still with the kettle in her hand, more startled than she had been before. "Sister," said Arminel decidedly, "that is not the squeal of a hare; it is something worse. Perhaps some child from the town may have strayed into the forest and got benighted. It is possible at least. And the forest is not like other places. Who knows what might happen to one astray there?" "What could we do in such a case?" said Chloe. "We're not all-powerful." She spoke more out of a little remaining temper than from cowardice or indifference, for like her sister she was both brave and kind. "Remember what our grandmother said," said Arminel, and she repeated the grandmother's words: "`Never hang back from doing a kind action; no harm can come to you while you love each other and do your duty.' I am going alone to the forest if you will not come," she went on, and she turned towards the door as she spoke. "Of course I will come with you," said Chloe, reaching down her mantle and hood which she had hung up on a nail. "Close the window, Arminel," she said. "I'll leave the coffee on the hob. The fire is burning nicely now, and we shall find it bright and warm when we come back." As they stepped outside, closing the door behind them, the cry broke out again. Tired though they were with their long day at market, the sisters set off running. Two or three fields lay between them and the edge of the wood, and part of the way the ground was very rough, but they were nimble and sure-footed. And ever as they ran came the cries, feebler yet more distinct, and before long they could distinguish the words, "Help! comrades, help!" "It is not a hare, you see," said Arminel. "No, indeed," answered Chloe, and both felt a thrill of fear, though they only ran the faster. The cries, though now they grew rarer, becoming indeed mingled with groans, still served to guide them. Soon they were in the midst of the trees, making their way more by a sort of instinct, for it was almost dark. Suddenly a ray of moonlight glimmered through the firs, and a few paces in front of them they saw lying on the ground a small dark object writhing and groaning. Just here the trees were not so thick. It was like a little clearing. The girls stepped onwards cautiously, catching hold of each other. "It is--" whispered Arminel--"Oh, Chloe, it is one of the dwarfs." "Courage," murmured Chloe in return, though her own heart was beating very fast. "He seems in no state to hurt us now, if only it be not a trick." The groans had ceased, and when they got close to the strange figure on the ground it seemed quite motionless. The moonlight had grown stronger. They stooped down and examined the dwarf. His eyes were closed; his face was wrinkled and brown; he was brown all over. He wore a furry coat, much the same colour as his own skin. Arminel lifted one of his queer clawlike hands; it fell down again by his side. "I believe he is dead," she said. "I didn't know the dwarfs ever could die. What shall we do, Chloe? We cannot leave him here, in case he should be still living." "We must carry him home, I'm afraid," said Chloe. "Yes, I'm afraid we must, for see, Arminel, he's opening his eyes," as two bright black beads suddenly glanced up at them. "Nimbo, Hugo," said a weak, hoarse little voice. "Are you there? No," and the dwarf opened his eyes more widely, and tried to sit up. "No," he went on, "it is not my comrades! Who are you?" and he shuddered as if with fear. CHAPTER FIVE. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES--CONTINUED. It was indeed a turning of the tables for a dwarf to be afraid of them. It gave the sisters courage to speak to him. "We heard your cries," said Arminel. "Ever so far off in our cottage across the fields we heard them. What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?" The little man groaned. "I have had a fall," he said, "from a branch of the tree under which I am lying. I climbed up to shake down some large fir-cones, and lost my footing. I have hurt myself sadly. I feel bruised all over. How I shall ever get back to my comrades I do not know," and again he groaned. He was not a very courageous dwarf evidently; perhaps the courage of the race had been lost with its stature! But the sisters felt very sorry for him. "Have you broken any bones, do you think?" said Chloe, who was very practical. The dwarf turned and twisted himself about with many sighs and moans. "No," said he, "I think I am only bruised and terribly cold. I have been lying here so long, so long. I cannot go home; they are miles away in the centre of the forest." Arminel and Chloe considered. They did not much like the idea of the uncanny creature spending a night under their roof, even though they no longer feared that he was playing them any trick. If the mere sight of a dwarf brought ill-luck, what might not they expect from the visit of one of the spell-bound race? But their grandmother's words returned to their mind. "You must come home with us," they said, speaking together. "We can at least give you shelter and warmth, and a night's rest may do you much good." "There is the salve for bruises which granny taught us to make," added Chloe. "We have some of it by us, I know." The dwarf gave a sigh of relief. "Maidens," he said, "you shall never have cause to regret your kindness. I know your cottage. We have often watched you when you little knew it. I think I could make shift to walk there if you will each give me an arm." They got him to his feet with some difficulty. He was so small, hardly reaching up to their elbows, that it ended in their almost carrying him between them. And they seemed to get home much more quickly than they had come, even though they walked slowly. The dwarf knew every step of the way, and his queer bead-like eyes pierced through the darkness as if it had been noonday. "A little to the right," he would say, or, "a few paces to the left, the ground is better." And almost before they knew where they were they found themselves before their own door. The wind had gone down, all was peaceful and still, and inside the kitchen was a picture of comfort, the fire burning red and cheerily. "Ah," said the little man, when they had settled him on a stool in front of the hearth, "this is good!" and he stretched out his small brown hands to the ruddy glow. "It is long since I have seen such a fire, and very long since I have been in a room like this." But then he grew quite silent, and the sisters did not like to ask him what he meant. Chloe busied herself with the coffee which boiled up in no time; and in the larder, to her surprise, when she went in to fetch a loaf of bread intended for the sisters' supper, she found a pat of butter and a jug of cream which she had not known were there. She was very pleased, for both she and Arminel had hospitable hearts, and she would have been sorry to have had nothing for their guest but dry bread and skim-milk coffee. "Arminel," she said, as she came back into the kitchen, "you had forgotten this cream and butter, fortunately so, for now we can give our friend a nice supper." Arminel looked quite astonished. "I took all the butter there was with me to market this morning, and I never keep cream except for our Sunday treat." But there was another surprise in store. Arminel in her turn went into the larder. "Chloe!" she called out, "see what _you_ have forgotten. Eggs!" and she held up three large, beautiful brown eggs. "I don't know where they have come from," said Chloe. "I'm certain they were not there when I packed my basket. Besides, none of my hens lay eggs of that colour." "Never mind," said the dwarf; "here they are, and that is enough. We shall now have an omelette for supper. An omelette and hot coffee! That is a supper for a king." He seemed to be getting quite bright and cheerful, and complained no more of his bruises as he sat there basking in the pleasant warmth of the fire. Supper was soon ready, and the three spent a pleasant evening; the little man asking the sisters many questions about their life and occupations. They told him all about their present troubles, and he told them to keep up heart, and never forget their good grandmother's counsel. "Did you know our grandmother?" they asked in surprise. "I have heard of her," was all he said; and though they were curious to know more, they did not venture to question him further. After supper they made up a bed for him on the kitchen settle, where he said he was sure he would sleep most comfortably. "And now farewell," he added; "I shall be off in the morning before you are stirring. Your kindness has so refreshed me that I feel sure I shall be able to make my way home without difficulty." He gave a little sigh as he spoke. "I would fain do what I can in return for your goodness," he continued. "Some things are still in my power. I can give you three wishes which, under certain conditions, will be fulfilled." The sisters' eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh, thank you a thousand times," they said. "Pray tell us what we must do, and we will follow your orders exactly." "Three wishes between you are all I can give," he replied. "One each, and the fulfilment of these depends upon the third, to which a secret is attached, and this secret you must discover for yourselves. The key of it is, I trust, in your own hearts." "We will do our best to find it," said Arminel. "If it has to do with our love for each other you may trust us. Chloe and I never quarrel." But suddenly, as she said this, the remembrance of that day struck her, and she grew red, feeling the dwarfs eyes fixed upon her. "At least," she added hurriedly, "I should say we seldom quarrel, though I'm afraid our anxieties lately have not sweetened our tempers." "Beware, then, for the future," said the dwarf. "All will depend on yourselves." The sisters went to bed full of eagerness and hopefulness, longing for the next day to come that they might decide how to use their strange friend's gift. "I shall not be able to sleep," said Arminel; "my head is so full of the three wishes." "And so is mine," said her sister. "You shall have the first, Arminel, and I the second. The third will be the one to ponder over." "I shall have no difficulty in deciding," said Arminel. "And you, Chloe, being the younger, must, of course, be guided partly by my advice." "I don't see that at all," said Chloe. "The dwarf said nothing about elder or younger, and--" At this moment a loud snore from the kitchen reminded them that their guest was still there. "Dear, dear," said Chloe. "What would he think if he heard us beginning to quarrel already? We must beware." But Arminel was not so ready to give in, and there is no saying what might not have befallen, had it not happened that the moment her head touched the pillow she fell fast asleep. And Chloe quickly followed her example. They awoke later than usual the next morning, feeling quite rested and refreshed. "I never slept so soundly in my life," said Arminel. "I suppose it was with being so tired." "I don't know," said Chloe. "I have an idea that our friend had something to do with our falling asleep so quickly to prevent us quarrelling. Now, Arminel, whatever we do, let us remember his warning." "Of course, I don't want to quarrel," her sister replied. "We didn't need the dwarf to come here to tell us to be good friends. But, after all, his promise of fulfilling our wishes may be nonsense. I long to test it. I wonder if he is still there, by the bye." No, he was gone; the little bed they had made up for him on the settle, of some extra blankets and pillows, was neatly folded away. The fire was already lighted and burning brightly, the kettle singing on the hearth--the room showed signs of having been carefully swept and dusted, and the window was slightly open to admit a breath of the fresh morning air. "Good little dwarf!" exclaimed Arminel. "I wish he would pay us a visit often if he helps us so nicely with our work." They sat down to breakfast in the best of spirits; and when the meal was over, and they went out, they found that the dwarf's good offices had not been confined to the house. The cow was carefully foddered, and looking most prosperous and comfortable--the poultry had been seen to, the hen-house cleaned out, and already, early as it was, several lovely cream white eggs had been laid in the nests. All this was very encouraging. "There can be no sort of doubt," said Chloe, "that our friend, dwarf though he be, has a kind heart and magic power. I feel certain his promises are to be relied upon. But remember, Arminel, the first two wishes will be no good unless we agree about the third. What shall we do?" "I propose," said Arminel, who had plenty of good sense, "that we go about our work as usual till this evening. Then each of us will have had time to decide as to her own wish, and each of us can propose something for the third. As to the third, we can then consult together." To this Chloe agreed. They spoke little to each other during the day, but when the light began to fail their work was over. They sat down together by the fire. "Now for a good talk," said Chloe. "We have the whole evening before us." "Five minutes would be enough for me," said Arminel. "I've got my wish cut and dry. I have been longing to tell you all day, but I thought it best to keep to our determination of this morning." "How strange!" said Chloe. "I am just in the same condition. I decided upon my wish almost immediately. Tell me what yours is, and I will tell you mine." "My wish," said Arminel, "is to have a cow. A dun-coloured cow I think I should prefer--I can picture her so sweet and pretty--who would give milk all the year round without ever running short." "Excellent," cried Chloe; "my wish goes well with yours. For what I want is a dozen hens who would each lay an egg every morning in the year without fail. I should thus have as many fresh eggs as I could possibly want, and enough to spare for setting whenever I liked. Some of my present hens are very good mothers, and would hatch them beautifully." "I think your wish a very good one," said Arminel. "But now as to the fulfilment. We have now expressed our wishes distinctly, but there is no use as yet in going to look for the new cow in the shed or hens in the hen-house, seeing that there remains, alas! the third one! What can it be?" "Could it be for a hen-house?" said Chloe; "my poor hens are not very well off in their present one, and it is right to make one's animals comfortable; so this would be a kind-hearted wish." "Not more than to wish for a warm shed for my cows," said Arminel. "Cows require much more care than hens. I daresay that is what we are meant to wish for." "I am certain it is not," said Chloe. "At least, if you wish for a cow-shed, _I_ wish for a hen-house." "That, of course, is nonsense," said Arminel. "I feel sure the dwarf meant we were to agree in what we wished for. And if you were amiable and unselfish you would join with me, Chloe." "I might say precisely the same thing to you," said Chloe coldly. And though they went on talking till bedtime they came to no conclusion. Indeed, I fear a good many sharp and unkind words passed between them, and they went to bed without saying good-night to each other. So far it did not seem as if the dwarf's gift was to bring them happiness. CHAPTER SIX. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES--CONCLUDED. When they woke in the morning they were in a calmer state of mind, and began to see how foolish they had been. "Chloe," said Arminel, as they sat at breakfast, "we were very nearly quarrelling last night; and if we quarrel we shall certainly never find out the secret of the third wish; and all our hopes will be at an end. Now, let us think over quietly what the third wish is likely to be. Let me see--what were the dwarf's exact words?" "He said we must seek for it in our own hearts," replied Chloe. "That means, of course, that it must be something kind." "Perhaps he meant that it must be something to do us both good," said Arminel. "What is there we are equally in want of? Oh! I know; suppose we wish for a good stack of fuel for the winter. That would certainly benefit us both." "It can do no harm to try," said Chloe; "so I agree to the wish for a stack of fuel." Arminel's eyes sparkled. "I daresay we have guessed it," she exclaimed, jumping up. "Come out at once to see, Chloe." But, alas! the heap of brushwood for their winter's firing, in the corner of the yard, had grown no bigger than the day before. No fresh sounds of cheerful cackling reached them from the hen-house; and Strawberry stood alone in her stall. The wishes were still unfulfilled. The sisters returned to the house rather crestfallen. "What can it be?" said Arminel; and this time Chloe made a suggestion. "Supposing we wish that the copper coins we have put aside for our Christmas charities should be turned into silver," she said. "That would be a kind thought for the very poor folk we try to help a little." "As you like," said her sister; "but I doubt its being any use. We are always told that charity which costs us nothing is little worth." She was right. When they opened the little box which held the coins she spoke of, there they still were, copper as before, so this time it was no use to look outside for the new cow and hens. And all through the day they went on thinking first of one thing, then of another, without any success, so that by the evening their work had suffered from their neglect, and they went tired and dispirited to bed. The next day they were obliged to work doubly hard to make up, and one or two new ideas occurred to them which they put to the test, always, alas! with the same result. "We are wasting our time and our temper for no use," said Arminel at last. "I am afraid the truth is that the dwarf was only playing us a mischievous trick." And even Chloe was forced to allow that it seemed as if her sister was in the right. "We will try to forget all about it," said Arminel. "It must be indeed true that having anything to do with the dwarfs only brings bad luck." But though she spoke courageously, Chloe was wakened in the night by hearing her sister crying softly to herself. "Poor dear Arminel," thought Chloe, though she took care to lie quite still as if sleeping. "I do feel for her. If I had but my hens I could soon make up to her for her disappointment." But of course as the dun cow did not come, neither did the fairy hens, and a time of really great anxiety began for the sisters. Strawberry's milk dwindled daily; so did the number of eggs, till at last something very like real poverty lay before them. They were almost ashamed to go to market, so little had they to offer to their customers. Never had they been so unhappy or distressed. But out of trouble often comes good. Their affection for each other grew stronger, and all feelings of jealousy died away as each felt more and more sorry for her sister. "If only we had never gone near the wood," said Arminel one evening when things were looking very gloomy indeed, "none of these worst troubles would have come upon us, I feel sure. I begin to believe everything that has been said about those miserable dwarfs. It is very good of you, dear Chloe, not to blame me as the cause of all our misfortunes, for it was I who heard the cries in the wood and made you come with me to see what was the matter." "How could I blame you?" said Chloe. "We did it together, and it was what grandmother would have wished. If we had not gone we should always have reproached ourselves for not doing a kind action, and even as things are, even supposing we are suffering from the dwarfs spitefulness, it is better to suffer with a clear conscience than to prosper with a bad one." Her words comforted her sister a little. They kissed each other affectionately and went to bed, sad at heart certainly, but not altogether despondent. In the night Arminel awoke. There was bright moonlight in the room, and as she glanced at her sleeping sister, she saw traces of tears on Chloe's pale face. "My poor sister!" she said to herself. "She has been crying, and would not let me know it. I do not care for myself, if only dear Chloe could have her hens. I could bear the disappointment about my cow. How I wish it might be so." As the thought passed through her mind, a sweet feeling of peace and satisfaction stole over her. She closed her eyes and almost immediately fell asleep, and slept soundly. Very soon after this in her turn Chloe awoke. She, too, sat up and looked at her sister. There was a smile on Arminel's sleeping face which touched Chloe almost more than the traces of tears on her own had touched her sister. "Poor dear Arminel," she thought. "She is dreaming, perhaps, of her dun cow. How little I should mind my own disappointment if I could see her happy. Oh! I do wish she could have her cow!" And having thought this, she, too, as her sister had done, fell asleep with a feeling of peace and hopefulness such as she had not had for long. The winter sun was already some little way up on his journey when the sisters awoke the next morning, for they had slept much later than usual. Arminel was the first to start up with a feeling that something pleasant had happened. "Chloe!" she exclaimed. "We have overslept ourselves. And on such a bright morning, too! How can it have happened?" Chloe opened her eyes and looked about her with a smile. "Yes, indeed," she replied. "One could imagine it was summer time, and I have had such a good night, and such pleasant dreams." "So have I," answered her sister. "And I am so hungry!" That was scarcely to be wondered at, for they had gone almost supperless to bed, and there was little if anything in the larder for their breakfast. "I am hungry too," said Chloe. "But I am afraid there isn't much for our breakfast. However, I feel in much better spirits, though I don't know why." Chloe was ready a little before her sister, and hastened into the kitchen, to light the fire and prepare such food as there was. But just as Arminel was turning to follow her, she was startled by a cry from Chloe. "Sister!" she called. "Come quick! See what I have found!" She was in the larder, which served them also as a dairy. Arminel hurried in. There stood Chloe, her face rosy with pleasure and surprise, a basket in her hands full of beautiful large eggs of the same rich browny colour as those which had come so mysteriously the evening of the dwarfs visit. "After all," said Chloe, "I believe the little man meant well by us. It must be he who has sent these eggs. Oh, Arminel! do let us try again to discover the secret of the third wish!" But Arminel didn't seem to hear what her sister was saying. Her eyes were fixed in amazement on the stone slab behind where Chloe was standing. There were two large bowls filled to the brim with new milk; it was many weeks since such a sight had been seen in the cottage. "Chloe," was all she could say as she pointed it out to her sister. Chloe did not speak; she darted outside closely followed by Arminel. The same idea had come to them both, and they were not mistaken in it. There in the cow-house, in the hitherto unused stall beside Strawberry's, stood the dearest little cow you could picture to yourself, dun-coloured, sleek, and silky, as if indeed she had just come from fairyland. She turned her large soft brown eyes on Arminel as the happy girl ran up to her, and gave a low soft "moo," as if to say--"You're my dear mistress. I know you will be kind to me, and in return I promise you that you shall find me the best of cows." But Arminel only waited to give her one loving pat, and then hurried off to the poultry yard. There too a welcome sight awaited them. Twelve beautiful white hens were pecking about, and as Chloe drew near them she was greeted with clucks of welcome as the pretty creatures ran towards her. "They know they belong to you, Chloe, you see," said Arminel. "They are asking for their breakfast! See, what is that sack in the corner? it looks like corn for them." So it was, and in another moment Chloe had thrown them out a good handful, in which her old hens were allowed to share. Poor things, they had not had too much to eat just lately, and evidently the new-comers were of most amiable dispositions. All promised peace and prosperity. The sisters made their way back to their little kitchen, but though they had now eggs in plenty and new milk for their coffee they felt too excited to eat. "How can it have come about?" said Arminel. "Chloe, have you wished for anything without telling me?" "Have you?" said Chloe, in her turn. "One of us wishing alone would not have been enough. All I know is, that in the night I felt so sorry for you that I said to myself if only _your_ wish could be fulfilled I would give up my own." "How strange!" exclaimed Arminel; "the very same thing happened to me. I woke up and saw traces of tears on your face, and the thought went through me that if _your_ wish could come to pass, I should be content." "Then we have found the secret," said Chloe. "Each of us was to forget herself for the sake of the other; and the dwarf has indeed been a good friend." It would be difficult to describe the happiness that now reigned in the cottage, or the pride with which the sisters set off to market the next time with their well-filled baskets. And all through the winter it was the same. Never did the little cow's milk fail, nor the number of eggs fall off, so that the sisters became quite famous in the neighbourhood for always having a supply of butter, poultry, and eggs of the best quality. One evening, when the spring-time had come round again, the sisters were strolling in the outskirts of the forest, everything was looking calm and peaceful--the ground covered with the early wood-flowers, the little birds twittering softly before they settled to roost for the night. "How sweet it is here," said Arminel. "I never feel now as if I could be the least afraid of the forest, nor of a whole army of dwarfs if we met them." "I wish we could meet our dwarf," said Chloe. "I would love to thank him for all the happiness he has given us." This was a wish they had often expressed before. "Somehow," said Arminel, "I have an idea that the dwarfs no longer inhabit the forest. Everything seems so much brighter and less gloomy than it used to do here. Besides, if our friend were still anywhere near, I cannot help thinking we should have seen him." As she said the words, they heard a rustling beside them. Where they stood there was a good deal of undergrowth, and for a moment or two they saw nothing, though the sound continued. Then suddenly a little figure emerged from among the trees and stood before them. It was their friend the dwarf. At first sight he looked much the same as when they had last seen him; but the moment he began to speak they felt there was a difference. His voice was soft and mellow, instead of harsh and croaking; his brown eyes had lost the hunted, suspicious look which had helped to give him such a miserable expression. "I am pleased that you have wished to see me again," he said, kindly. "Oh yes, indeed!" the sisters exclaimed; "we can never thank you enough for the happiness you have given us." "You have yourselves to thank for it as much as me, my children," said the little man; "and in discovering the secret which has brought you prosperity, you have done for others also what you had no idea of. The spell under which I and my comrades have suffered so long is broken, now that one of us has been able to be of real and lasting benefit to some beings of the race who, ages ago, were the victims of our cruelty. We are now leaving the forest for ever. No longer need the young men and maidens shrink from strolling under these ancient trees, or the little children start away in terror from every rustle among the leaves for fear of seeing one of us." "Are you going to be giants again?" said Arminel, curiously. The dwarf smiled. "That I cannot tell you," he said, as he shook his head; "and what does it matter? In some far-off land we shall again be happy, for we shall have learnt our lesson." And before the sisters had time to speak, he had disappeared; only the same little rustle among the bushes was to be heard for a moment or two. Then all was silent, till a faint "tu-whit--" from an owl waking up in the distance, and the first glimmer of the moonlight among the branches, warned Arminel and Chloe that it was time for them to be turning homewards. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE SUMMER PRINCESS. All was silent too in the little kitchen as the old woman's voice died away and the click of her knitting-needles ceased. Alix was the first to speak. "That was a lovely story," she said approvingly. "It will give Rafe and me a lot to talk about. It is so interesting to think what we would wish for if we had the chance." "I'm afraid you mustn't stay with me any longer to talk about it to-day," said the old woman. "It is quite--time--for you--to go home;" and somehow her voice seemed to grow into a sort of singing, and the needles began to click again, though very faintly, as if heard from some way off. What was the matter? Alix felt as if she were going to sleep. She rubbed her eyes, but Rafe's voice speaking to her quite clearly and distinctly woke her up again. "Alix," he was saying, "don't you see where we are?" and glancing up, she found that she and her brother were sitting on a moss-grown stone in the old garden, not very far from the gate by which the wren had invited them to enter. It was growing towards evening. Already the "going to bed" feeling seemed about in the air. The birds' voices came softly; a little chill evening breeze made the children shiver slightly, though it only meant to wish them "good-night." "It feels like the end of the story," said Alix. "Let's go home, Rafe." This was how the next story came to be told. The days had passed happily for Rafe and Alix; the weather had been very fine and mild, and they had played a great deal in the old garden, which grew lovelier every day. "I hardly feel as if we had anything to wish for just now," said Alix, one afternoon, when, tired with playing, she and her brother were resting for a little while on the remains of a rustic bench which they had found in a corner under the trees. "We've been so happy lately, Rafe; haven't we? Ever since that day!" Somehow they had not talked very much to each other of their visit to the old caretaker; but now and then they had amused themselves by planning what they would have wished for had they come across a dwarf with magic power. Rafe did not answer for a moment. He was looking up, high up among the branches. "Hush," he said, in a half whisper. "Do you hear that bird, Alix? I never heard a note like it before." "Two notes," said Alix, in the same low voice. "It's two birds talking to each other, I feel certain." "It does sound like it," said Rafe. "Oh, I say, Alix, wouldn't you like to understand what they're saying?" "Yes," said his sister. "I do wish we could. There must be some sense in it. It sounds so real and--Look, Rafe," she went on, "they're coming nearer us;" and so they were. Still chirping, the birds flew downwards till they lighted on a branch not very far above the children's heads. Suddenly Alix caught hold of Rafe's arm. "Be quite, quite still," she whispered. "I have an idea that if we listen very carefully we can make sense of what they're saying." She almost held her breath, so eager was she; and Rafe, too, sat perfectly motionless. And Alix was not mistaken. After a while the birds' chirps took shape to the children's ears. Bit by bit the "tweet, tweet" varied and changed, like a voice heard in the distance, which, as it draws nearer, grows from a murmur into syllables and words. One bird was answering the other; in fact, there was a lively discussion going on between them. "No, no," said the first. "I tell you it is my turn to begin, brother. I have my story quite ready, just as I heard it down there in the sunny lands from one of my companions, and I must tell it at once before I forget it." "Mine is ready too," replied the other bird. "At least almost. I have just to--think over a few little points, and I am just as anxious as you to amuse the dear children. However, it would be setting them a bad example if we began to quarrel about it, so I will give in. I will fly to a higher branch to meditate a little undisturbed, while you can hop lower still and attract their attention." Alix and Rafe looked at each other with a smile as the little fellow fluttered downwards and alighted on a branch still nearer them. There he flapped his wings and cleared his throat. "Cheep, cheep," he began. At least that is what it would have sounded to any one else, but the children knew it meant "good-afternoon." "Thank you," they said. That was not exactly a reply to "good-afternoon," certainly; but they meant to thank him for his kind intentions. "Oh, so you know all about it, I see," said the bird. "If you do not mind, I should prefer your making no further observations. It interrupts the thread of my narration." The children were perfectly silent. One has to be very careful, you see, when a bird is telling a story; you can't catch hold of him and push him back into the arm-chair, as if he was a big person to be coaxed into entertaining you. "The title of my story," began the bird, "is `The Summer Princess,'" and again he cleared his throat. Once upon a time, in a country far to the north of the world, lived a King and a Queen, who had everything they could wish for except an heir to their throne. When I say they had everything they could wish for, that does not mean they had no troubles at all. The Queen thought she had a good many; and the King had one which was more real than any of her fancied ones. He had a wife who was a terrible grumbler. She was a grumbler by nature, and besides this she had been a spoilt child. As she was very beautiful and could be very sweet and charming when in a contented mood, the King had fallen deeply in love with her when he was on his travels round the world, and had persuaded her to leave her own home in the sunny south to accompany him to his northern kingdom. There she had much to make her happy. Her husband was devoted to her, and while the first bright summer lasted, she almost forgot to grumble, but when the winter came, fierce and boisterous as it always is in those lands, she grew very miserable. She shivered with the cold and instead of bracing herself to bear it, she wrapped herself in her furs and sat from morning till night cowering over a huge fire. In vain the King endeavoured to persuade her to go out with him in his beautiful sledge drawn by the fleetest reindeer, or to make one in the merry skating parties which were the great amusement of his court. "No, no," she cried fretfully. "It would kill me to do anything of the kind." And though she brightened up as each summer came round, with the return of each winter it was again the same sad story. As the years passed on another and more real trouble came upon the discontented young Queen. She had no children. She longed so grievously to have a little baby that sometimes she almost forgot her other causes for complaint and left off looking out for the signs of the winter's approach in the melancholy way she was wont to do. So that one day late in the autumn she actually forgot her terror of the cold so far as to remain out walking in the grounds of the palace, though the snow clouds were gathering thick and heavy overhead. She was alone. For sometimes in her saddest moods she could bear no one, not even the most faithful of her ladies, near her. "If only I had a little baby, a dear little baby of my own, I would never complain of anything again." No doubt she quite meant what she said. And I must say if her only complaints had been of the cold northern winter, I could indeed find it in my heart to pity her--not that I have any experience of them myself (and the bird gave a little shiver), but I can imagine how terrible they must be. Indeed the friend from whom I have this story has often described his sufferings to me, one year when he was belated in the north, owing to an injured wing. That is how he came to know the story. As the Queen uttered her wish, she raised her eyes upwards, and was startled to see some snowflakes already falling; she turned to hasten indoors, exclaiming as she went: "To think that winter is upon us already; I shall no longer have even the small pleasure of a stroll in the garden. But if I had a little baby to play with and care for, even the dreary winter would not seem long. Everything would be bright and sunshiny to me." "Are you sure of that?" said a voice beside her, and glancing up the Queen saw a lovely figure. It was that of a beautiful woman, with golden hair wreathed with flowers. But her face was somewhat pale and she drew round her a mantle of russet brown as if to protect her from the cold. "I am the Spirit of the Summer," she said. "I knew you well in your childhood in the south, and here too I have watched you, though you did not know it. Your wish shall be fulfilled. When I return to my northern home, I will bring you the child you are longing for. But remember, the gift will lead to no lasting happiness unless you overcome your habit of discontent. For I can only do my part. My brother, the powerful Spirit of the Winter, though good and true and faithful, is stern and severe. He has heard your murmurings already, and if, when your great wish is granted, you still continue them, I tremble for the fate of your child." The Queen could hardly speak, so overcome was she with delight. "Thank you, oh, thank you, sweet spirit," she said. "I will indeed take heed for the future and never murmur again." "I trust so," replied the fairy, "for listen what will happen if you forget your resolution. The slightest touch of snow would, in that case, put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you would find yourself terribly punished. Beware, therefore! Now I must hasten away. I have lingered too long this year, and though my brother and I work together and trust each other, he brooks no interference." And as she said this, the gracious figure seemed to disappear in a rosy haze, and almost at the same moment a cold blast, driving the snowflakes before it, came with a rush from behind where the young Queen stood, almost lifting her from her feet. "That must surely be the Spirit of the Winter himself," she thought as she hurried indoors. But her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. It was whispered in the palace that evening that for the first time the young Queen had the brave and fearless air of a true daughter of the north. And that winter was far the happiest that the King and his wife had yet spent. Scarce a murmur was heard to escape from the Queen's lips, and in her anxiety to win the good-will of the Winter Spirit, she often went out sleighing and joined in the other amusements which hitherto she had refused to take any part in during the cold season. More than once, even, she was heard to express admiration of the snow-covered mountains, or of the wonderful northern sunsets and clear star-bespangled skies. Nevertheless, the return of the warm and sunny days was watched for by her most eagerly. And the Summer Spirit was true to her promise. On the loveliest morning of all that year was born a baby Princess, the prettiest baby that ever was seen, with dark-blue eyes and little golden curls all over her head. "A true child of the summer," said the happy Queen. "And strong to brave and enjoy the winter too, I trust," added the King. "She must be a true Princess of the north, as her mother is fast becoming, I hope," he went on with a smile. But his words did not please the Queen, though they were so kindly meant. With the possession of the baby, though she was so overjoyed to have her, the young Queen's wayward and dissatisfied spirit began to return. She seemed to think the Princess was to be only hers, that the nation and even the King, who naturally felt they had a share in her, must give way, in everything that concerned the child, to its mother's will. She was even displeased one day when she overheard some of her ladies admiring the beautiful colour of the baby's hair and saying that it showed her a true daughter of the north. "No such thing," said the Queen. "It shows her a child of the sunshine and the summer. My sweet Rose!" for so, to please the Queen, the baby had been named. On the whole, however, while the summer lasted the Queen was too happy with her baby to give way to any real murmuring, and once or twice when she might perhaps have done so, there was wafted to her by the breeze the sound of a gentle "Beware!" and she knew that the summer fairy was near. So for the first winter of the baby's life she was on her guard, and nothing went wrong, except now and then when the King reproached his wife with overcare of the child when the weather was at all severe. "Do you wish to kill her?" the Queen would reply, angrily. "I wish to make her brave and hardy, like all the daughters of our race," replied the King. But not wishing to distress his wife, he said no more, reflecting that it would be time enough when the little girl could walk and run to accustom her to the keen and bracing air of the northern winter. But in some strange, mysterious way, the princess, baby though she was, seemed to understand what her father felt about her. It was noticed that before she could speak at all, she would dance in her nurse's arms and stretch out her little hands with glee at the sight of the snowflakes falling steadily. And once or twice when a draught of the frosty air blew upon her she laughed with delight, instead of shrinking or shivering. But so well were the Queen's feelings understood that no one ventured to tell her of these clear signs that little Rose felt herself at home in the land of the snow. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SUMMER PRINCESS--CONTINUED. The winter passed and the summer came again--the second summer of the baby's life. She had grown like the flowers, and was as happy as the butterflies. Never was a sweeter or a merrier child. The Queen idolised her, and the King loved her quite as dearly, though in a wiser way. And that summer passed very happily. Unfortunately, however, the warm fine days came to an end unusually early that year. Many of the birds took flight for the south sooner than their wont, and the flowers drooped and withered as if afraid of what was coming. The Queen noticed these signs with a sinking heart. Standing one chilly morning at the palace windows, she watched the grey autumn sky and sighed deeply. "Alas, alas!" she said. "All the beauty and brightness are going again." She did not know that the King had entered the room, and was standing behind her. "Nay," he said, cheerfully. "You have no reason to feel so sad. If you have no other flower you have our little Rose, blooming as brightly in the winter as in the warmth." He meant it well, but it would have been wiser if he had said nothing. The Queen turned towards him impatiently. "It is not so," she said angrily. "Rose is like me. She loves the summer and the sunshine! I do not believe she would live through your wretched northern winters but for my incessant care and constant watchfulness. And the anxiety is too much for me; it will wear me to death before she is grown up. Indeed there are times when I almost regret that she ever was born. The life in this country is but half a life. Would that I had known it before I ever came hither." It was rarely, discontented and complaining though she was, that the Queen had so yielded to her temper. The King was deeply hurt and disappointed, and he left the room without speaking. He was generally so kind and patient that this startled her, and brought her to her senses. "How wrong of me to grieve him so by my wild words," she thought, penitently. "And--" A sudden horror came over her. What had she been saying? What had she done? And the fairy's warning returned to her memory: "If you forget your resolution, the slightest touch of snow will put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you will find yourself terribly punished." The poor Queen shivered. Already to her excited fancy, as she glanced at the sky, it seemed that the lurid grey which betokened snow was coming over it. "Oh, sweet Summer Spirit!" she cried; "forgive me and plead for me." But a melancholy wail from the cold wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the palace was the only reply; the summer fairy was far away. The sky cleared again later that day, and for some short time the cold did not increase. But it would be difficult to describe what the Queen went through. It was useless to hope that the winter would pass without snow; for, so far north, such a thing had never been known. Still, no doubt, its coming appeared to be delayed, and the weather prophets felt somewhat at fault. The Queen began to breathe rather more freely again, in the hope that possibly her appeal to the Summer Spirit had, after all, been heard. Every one had noticed her pale and anxious looks; every one had noticed also how very gentle and uncomplaining she had become. She was so eager to make all the amends she could, that one day, when the King remarked that he thought it very wrong for the Princess to be so guarded from the open air as she had been lately, the Queen, though with fear and trembling, gave orders that the baby should be taken out. "I will accompany her myself," she said to the attendants; so the little Princess was wrapped up in her costly furs and placed in her tiny chariot drawn by goats, the Queen walking beside her. The little girl laughed with delight, and chattered in her baby way about everything she saw. She seemed like a little prisoner suddenly set at liberty; for the last few weeks had been spent by the poor little thing in rooms specially prepared, where no breath of the outer air could find its way in. "For who knows," thought the Queen, "how some tiny flake of snow might be wafted down the chimney, or through the slightest chink of the window." To-day, in spite of her anxiety, the baby's happy face made her mother's heart feel lighter. "Surely," she said to herself, "it must be a sign that I am forgiven, and that all will yet be well." And to please her little daughter she took her farther than she had intended, even entering a little way into a pine wood skirting the palace grounds at one side, a favourite resort of hers in the summer. The Princess's nurse picked up some fir-cones and gave them to the little girl, who threw them about in glee and called out for more. They were all so busy playing with her that they did not notice how, above the heads of the tall fir-trees, the sky was growing dark and overcast, till suddenly a strange, chill blast made the Queen gather her mantle round her and gaze up in alarm. "We must hasten home," she said; "it is growing so cold." "Yes, indeed," said one of the ladies; "it almost looks like--" But the Queen interrupted her; she could not bear even the mention of the fatal word. "Wrap up the Princess!" she exclaimed. "Cover her over, face and all! Never mind if she cries! My darling, we shall be home directly. The cold wind would hurt you," added she to the little girl. Then they hurried back to the palace as quickly as the goats could be persuaded to go, even the Queen herself running fast to keep up with the little carriage. They were within a short distance of the palace before any snow fell, though it was clear to be seen that it was not far off; and the Queen was beginning to breathe again more freely, when suddenly Princess Rose, who had behaved beautifully till now, with a cry of baby mischief, pushed away the shawl that was over her face, shouting with glee. At that very moment the first fluttering snowflakes began to fall. The little Princess opened wide her eyes as she caught sight of them, and smiled as if in greeting; and alas! before the terrified Queen had time to replace the covering the child had thrown off, one solitary flake alighted on her cheek, melting there into a tiny drop which looked like a tear, though still the little Princess smiled. The Queen seized the child in her arms, and, though her heart had almost ceased beating with terror, rushed up the long flights of steps, all through the great halls and corridors like a mad creature, nor stopped even to draw breath till she had reached the Princess's apartments, and had her safe in the rooms specially prepared for her during the winter. But was she safe? Was it not already too late? With trembling dread the Queen drew away the furs and shawls wrapped round the baby, almost expecting to find her changed in some strange way, perhaps even dead; and it was with thankfulness that she saw that little Rose was still herself--sweet and smiling in her sleep. For she was fast asleep. "The darling, the precious angel," thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot, just as the ladies, and nurses, and all the attendants came trooping into the room. "She is only asleep," said the Queen, in a whisper. "Nothing has happened to her--she is sleeping sweetly." The ladies stared--the Queen's behaviour had been so strange they could not understand her. "It is a pity to be so anxious about the child," they said to each other. "It will bring no blessing," for they thought it all came from the Queen's foolish terror lest the little Princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads. But the Queen seemed full of thankfulness, very gentle, and subdued. Many times that afternoon she came back to see if little Rose was well-- the baby looked a picture of health, but--she was still sleeping. "The fresh keen air has made her drowsy, I suppose," said the head nurse, late in the evening when the Queen returned again. "And she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day," said the mother, anxiously. "I almost think if she does not wake of herself in an hour or so, you will have to rouse her." To this the nurse agreed. But two hours later, on the Queen's next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. The nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. Little Rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb her. She was so very sleepy. "I think we must let the Princess have her sleep out--children are like that sometimes," said the nurse. And the Queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the King when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully. "No doubt she will awake in the morning quite bright and merry," he said,--"all the brighter and merrier for sleeping a good round and a half of the clock." The morning dawned--the slow-coming winter daylight of the north found its way into the Princess's nursery through the one thickly glazed window--a tiny gleam of ruddy sunshine even managed to creep in to kiss her dimpled cheek, but still the baby slept--as soundly as if the night was only beginning. And matters grew serious. It was no use trying to wake her. They all did their best--King, Queen, ladies, nurses; and after them the great court physicians and learned men of every kind. All were summoned and all consulted, and as the days went on, a hundred different things were tried. They held the strongest smelling salts to her poor little nostrils; the baby only drew up her small nose the least bit in the world and turned over again with a tiny snore. They rang the bells, they had the loudest German bands to be found far or near to play all at once in her room; they fetched all the pet dogs in the neighbourhood and set them snarling and snapping at each other close beside her; as a last resource they lifted her out of bed and plunged her into a cold bath--she did not even shiver! And with tears rolling down their faces, the Queen and the ladies and the nurses wrapped her up again and put her back cosily to bed, where she seemed as contented as ever, while they all sat down together to have a good cry, which, sad to say, was of no use at all. "She is bewitched," said the cleverest of all the doctors, and as time went on, everybody began to agree with him. Even the King himself was obliged to think something of the kind must be at the bottom of it, and at last one day the Queen, unable to endure her remorse any longer, told him the whole story, entreating him to forgive her for having by her discontent and murmuring brought upon him so great a sorrow. The King was very kind but very grave. "I understand it now," he said. "The summer fairy told you true. Our northern Winter Spirit is indeed stern and implacable; we must submit-- if we are patient and resigned it is possible that in the future even his cold heart may be melted by the sight of our suffering." "It is only I who deserve it," wept the poor Queen. "The worst part of it all is to know that I have brought this sorrow upon you, my dear husband." And so repentant was she that she almost forgot to think of herself-- never had she been so sweet and loving a wife. She did everything she possibly could to please and cheer the King, concealing from him the many bitter tears she shed as she sat for hours together beside the sleeping child. The winter was terribly severe--never had the snow lain more thickly, never had the wind-blasts raged and howled more furiously. Often did the Queen think to herself that the storm spirits must be infuriated at her very presence in their special domain. "They might pity me now," she thought, "now that I am so punished;" but she bore all the winter cold and terrors uncomplainingly, nay, even cheerfully, nerving herself to go out alone in the bitterest weather with a sort of hope of pleasing the winter fairy; possibly if she could but see him, of making an appeal to him. But for many months he held his icy sway--often indeed it seemed as if gentler times were never to return. Then suddenly one night the frost went; a mild soft breeze replaced the fierce blast; spring had come. And wonderful to relate, the very next morning the Queen was roused by loud knockings and voices at her door; trembling, she knew not why, she opened it; and the head nurse fell at her feet laughing and crying at once. The Princess had awakened! Yes; there she was, chattering in her baby way, smiling and rosy, as if nothing had been the matter. She held out her arms to her mother, calling "Mamma," in the most delightful way; she knew her father again quite well; she was very hungry for her breakfast. Oh! the joy of her parents, and the jubilation all through the palace! I could not describe it. And all through the summer little Rose was wide awake, in the day-time that is to say, just like other children. She was as well and strong and happy as a baby could be. But--the summer will not last for ever; again returned the autumn bringing with it the signs of the approaching winter, and one morning when her nurse went to awaken the Princess, she found it was no use--Rose was sleeping again, with a smile on her face, calm and content, but alas! not to be awakened! And then it was remembered that the first snow had fallen during the night. More to satisfy the Queen than with the hope of its doing any good, all the efforts of the year before were repeated, but with no success. And gradually the child's distressed parents resigned themselves to the sad truth: their daughter was to be theirs only for half her life; for full six months out of every twelve, she was to be in a sense as far away from them as if the winter monarch had carried her off to his palace of ice altogether. But no; it was not quite so bad as that would have been. And the Queen, who was fast learning to count her blessings instead of her troubles, smiled through her tears as she said to the King what a mercy it was that they were still able to watch beside their precious child--to kiss her soft warm cheek every morning and every night. And so it went on. In the spring the Princess woke up again, bright and well and lively, and in every way six months older than when she had fallen asleep; so that, to see her in the summer time, no one could have guessed the strange spell that was over her. She became the sweetest and most charming girl in the world; only one thing ever saddened her, and that was any mention of the winter, especially of snow. "What does it mean?" she would ask sometimes. "What are they talking of? Show me this wonderful thing! Where does it grow? I want to see it." But no one could make her understand; and at these times a very strange look would come into her blue eyes. "I must see it," she said. "Some day I shall go away and travel far, far, till I find it." These words used to distress her mother more, than she could say; and she would shower presents and treasures on her daughter, of flowers and singing-birds, and lovely embroidered dresses--all to make her think of the sunshine and the summer. And for the time they would please the girl, till again she shook her head and murmured--"I want the snow." So the years followed each other, till Rose was sixteen. Every winter the Queen had a faint hope, which, however, grew ever fainter and fainter, that the spell was perhaps to be broken. But it was not so. And strange stories got about concerning the Princess--some saying she was a witch in disguise; others that she had no heart or understanding; others that she turned into a bird or some animal during half her life-- so that the neighbouring Princes, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, were afraid to ask her in marriage. And this brought new sorrow to her parents. For she was their only child. "What will become of her after we are dead and gone?" they said. "Who will care for and protect our darling? Who will help her to rule over our nation? No people will remain faithful to a sovereign who is only awake half the year. There will be revolts and rebellion, and our angel Rose may perhaps be put to death, or driven away." And they fretted so over this, that the hair of both King and Queen grew white long before its time. But Rose only loved them the more on this account, for she had heard some one say that white hair was like snow; though she kept the fancy to herself, for she knew it troubled the Queen if ever she mentioned the strange, mysterious word. She was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. And one of these portraits found its way to the court of a King who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the Princess. He was very angry about it, for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. So he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder Prince, who was away on a visit, came home. But the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger Prince one day in search of a pet kitten of his sister's which had strayed away; for he was a Prince of a most kind and amiable nature. The moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. He made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell. Then he arrayed himself for a journey, and came to bid his father farewell. "I go," he said, "to woo the Princess Rose for my bride." And in spite of all the king could say he kept firm. "If she is a witch," he said, "I would rather perish by her hands than live with any other." And amidst tears and lamentations he set out. He was received with great delight at the court of Princess Rose's parents, though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the King and Queen the reason of his visit. Knowing him to be a Prince of most estimable character, they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve. "I only trust," said the Queen, "that all may go well. But, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a strange spell." She then proceeded to tell him the whole matter, of which he had already heard garbled accounts. He was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the Princess. And when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait), he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her, even considering her strange affliction. "And who knows," he said to himself, "but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?" The Princess quickly learned to like him. She had never before had a companion so near her own age, and the last days of the summer passed most happily, till the time came when the Prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife. They were walking on the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. It had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly; and as the Princess listened to his words, a cold breath of wind passed near them. The Princess started; and, aware of the Queen's anxiety about her, the Prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but Rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen, and a strange smile broke over her face. "It is new life to me," she said. "Can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the north? Yes, Prince, I will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow--but on no other." Then she turned, and, without another word, walked slowly back to the palace. Prince Orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed. "The spell is upon her," he thought to himself. "She asks me to do what would probably kill her, or separate her for ever from all who love her." And the King and Queen, when they heard his story, were nearly as disappointed as he. But that very night the Prince had a strange dream. He thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast, but still more icy, swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. It sounded hoarse and stern. "Orso," it said, "you're as foolish as the rest. Have you no trust? See what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my many children as dearly as does my sister of the summer. Leave the Princess to the leadings of her own heart, and dare not to interfere." Then with a crash as of thunder the spirit went on his way. And the Prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen. But the next morning all was again calm. It almost seemed as if the milder weather was returning again; and the Queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the Princess, who was silent and almost sad. And so things continued for some days. At last the Prince could bear it no longer. One afternoon when he found himself alone with the Princess, he turned to her suddenly. "Princess," he said, "can you not give me another answer? You must know that I would fain promise anything you wish; but I dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury." Rose turned towards him impatiently. "That is just it," she said. "I am always met by excuses when I ask for the one thing I really desire. What is there about me different from others? Why should I so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? I am no longer a child; in my dreams I see things I cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is, I feel that I only half know it. I long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow, and they never come. Only the cold wind, which I have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy." The Prince hesitated. He understood her perfectly, for he was himself of the same brave and hardy race. Yet the Queen's forebodings made him tremble. The Princess's words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern Winter Spirit. And as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees, and lurid clouds began to gather overhead. The Princess's face lighted up. "Ah," she exclaimed, "it is coming again!" "I fear so indeed," said Orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace. But at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and glancing up they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. With a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as Rose gazed upwards in great concern, she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. All else was forgotten in the sight. "Poor bird," she cried. "Let me go, Prince; I must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his." The Prince loosed her hand; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so. "Leave her to the guidings of her own heart," resounded in his ears. Almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and lifting his eyes, he saw that the snowflakes were falling thickly. If harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety. It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess's robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless--her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands. And now I may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom I had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all. Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess. "Ah," he exclaimed, "my carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh! Winter Spirit, you have indeed deceived me." But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes. "No, Prince," she said. "I am not dead. I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always," and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her. "Orso," she went on, half shyly, "you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow," and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it. The Prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated. "I fear," he said, "that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart." "Poor little bird," she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. "It is not dead. I will do all I can for it! Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother too will be anxious about me." And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken. And her joy was past all words. My friend recovered slowly. He spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and tells me that in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far northern land. "Thank you," said the children, "Thank you, oh so much!" But whether the bird heard them or not they could not tell--he had already flown away. CHAPTER NINE. THE CHRISTMAS SURPRISE. For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds. Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had not _too_ many lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day--of every fine day at least--were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them--knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole. It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps _that_ had a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles. They were growing "quite to be trusted," nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which--next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix--her heart delighted. So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody. But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn't want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if she _did_, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them. "Unless, of course," said Alix, "she has gone. Perhaps she's like the birds, you know--only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she's started everything, and all the plants and things _are_ growing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she's not like a regular trim gardener--she doesn't want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere." "Still she must take great care of them somehow," said Rafe thoughtfully, "for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds--it's always here the nightingales are heard the best." Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees. "If we'd had any sense," she said, "we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here." The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed. "Rafe," she went on, "do you know I've seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in a _talking_ sort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there were _two_ birds that wanted to tell us stories." "Per--" began Rafe in his slow fashion. But before he had time to get to "haps" his sister caught hold of his arm. "Hush!" she whispered, "there he is." Yes, there he was, and "he" _was_ a robin. He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp. "I believe," said Alix, still in a whisper, "I believe he wants us to speak to him." "Try," replied Rafe. "Robin," said Alix, clearly though softly, "robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?" The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don't know that she could see it was _reproachfully_, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased. Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood--Alix's head resting on her brother's shoulder, and his arm thrown round her--_quite_ motionless. But they weren't asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them. "So you had forgotten all about me," in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. "I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don't care to hear mine." "Oh, dear robin, of course we do," said Alix. "But you see we didn't understand." "I've been following you about all these days. I'm sure you might have seen me, and I've been asking you over and over again if you didn't want to listen." "But you see, dear robin, we couldn't understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to--to your way of speaking, you know," said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more. "I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin's story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows--the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them--who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I'm only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It's quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I've made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I've never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect." He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been. "Please begin," said Rafe. "I'm sure we shall like your story. We don't want always to hear the same kind." The robin cleared his throat. "Such as it is," he began, "I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn't `have it' from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of `The Christmas Surprise.'" And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on. "I have often noticed," he began, "that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn't think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season--how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except by _very_ thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself," and here he plumed himself importantly, "I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs." "But," began Alix, rather timidly, "please don't mind my interrupting you, but doesn't Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden." "Exactly so, exactly so," said the robin, hastily, "far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an `old-fashioned one,'--though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again--ah, it _was_ cold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window. "There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement. "`The Manor House is open again,' he told me. `Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.' "I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We--for several of us were there--hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a `curious' disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful. "I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out. "Oh, how cold it is," said one of them shivering, "I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better." "So did I," said the other little girl. "I don't want to go a walk when it's so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don't know what to do in the house. I'm tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that's a good thing." The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long. "I don't care much for Christmas except for the toys," said the first little girl. "Do you, Miss Meadows?" "Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear," she said. "And I think in your heart you really care for it too--and Ivy also. You both know _why_ it should be so cared for." "Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it," said Norna, looking a little ashamed. "But it's different when you've lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice--all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven't any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?" Miss Meadows' eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again. "I had lots of brothers and sisters," she said, "and that's even better than cousins." It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy. "I wish we had!" sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got. "But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up," said Miss Meadows. "Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?" "No," sighed Ivy. "Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It's rubbish giving each other presents just to say they're presents." "Yes," said Miss Meadows. "I think it is. But--" She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,-- "I do believe there's a real little robin redbreast. Don't let's frighten him away." The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different. "It's the first _real_ one we've ever seen," said she and Norna together. "Poor little man!" said their governess; "he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won't mind. This terrace is a splendid place." The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself: "I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas," she said. "They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs." She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was. I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children--a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning--not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House--there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little. "There's robin," said Joyce. "Poor robin! we've nothing for you this morning." A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said. "No indeed," said Jem; "we've had nothing ourselves--not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold." I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me. "Mother's gone to Farmer Bantry's," said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one--"even a bird," some folk who know precious little about us would say--to tell her troubles to. "They're cleanin' up for Christmas, and she'll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we're tryin' to go to sleep again to make the time pass." "There was two sixpences yesterday," said Jem, mournfully; "and one would 'a got some coal, and t'other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin'--" (Jem was only five and Joyce eight)--"queer stuff--I forget the name--to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father's got the stuff, and he's asleep; but we've not had nuffin'." "And Christmas is coming next week, mother says," Joyce added. "Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner." I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off. "Robin doesn't care to stay," said Jem, dolefully. Later in the day I met the children's mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer's wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time. Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy--there was ivy over a great part of the walls--just outside one on the first floor. It was the children's bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna's bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire. But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends' slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don't know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you're asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being "sleepy," or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you're perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you--if I perched on your pillows at night when you're asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you'd have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream--each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it. I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window, _partly_, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen. They did not forget me--us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about--and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room. The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating. "Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream." "And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here," said Ivy. "I don't think there _could_ be; do you, Miss Meadows?" Miss Meadows shook her head. "I'm afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we'll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England." She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement. Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far--no indeed--I knew what I was about. The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry. "Miss Meadows, Norna," she said, "there is the robin. I'm sure it's our robin. Don't you think it is, Miss Meadows?" The governess smiled. "There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It's not very likely it's the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see." But, as _you_ know, Ivy was right. "Do let's follow him a little way down the lane," she said. "He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here." No, it was not _my_ home, but it was my little friends' home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched. "What a nice cottage," said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: "Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!" It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem's feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too. "Children," she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, "I don't think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for." Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House. "I know your mamma won't mind," she said. "I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,"--which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways. So that evening, when the woodcutter's wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them. Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you. Joyce and Jem woke early--long before it was light--but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before. "It's Christmas, Jem," said Joyce; "and we shall have a nice fire. They've sent mother some coals from the great house; and I _believe_ we're going to have meat for dinner." Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it. "Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?" he asked. "My boots is so drefful bad, I don't know as I could walk in them." "So's mine," said Joyce. "But p'r'aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage." And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them--somehow they had a feeling that things could not look _quite_ the same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were two _very_ big brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, "Joyce," on the other, "Jem." "_Jem_," she cried, "it must be fairies," and with trembling fingers they undid the packages. It is difficult to tell you their delight! There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both--stockings and socks--two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake. Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise. I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick. "Dear robin," said Joyce; "do you know, Jem, I do believe he's a fairy! I shouldn't wonder if he'd somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us." There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been. "Thank you _very_ much, dear robin," they said. "It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it's so nice to know it's quite true." The robin looked pleased. "Yes," he said, "there's that to be said for it. It's a very simple, homely story; but it's my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there's no saying but what we may meet again." He flew off. "Rafe," said Alix, "besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn't it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?" "Yes," Rafe agreed, "I think it would be." CHAPTER TEN. THE MAGIC ROSE. The days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. For it was August, and in a day or two Rafe and Alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. They were very pleased of course, but still there is always a _little_ sad feeling at "going away," especially from one's own home, even though it is only for a short time. They went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places. Then a sudden thought struck Alix. "Rafe," she said--it was the very evening before they left--"do let's say good-bye to the old garden too. And perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud, _perhaps_ Mrs Caretaker would hear us. It seems so funny that we've never seen her again. I think she _must_ be away." "I don't know, I'm sure," Rafe replied. "I've sometimes had a feeling like you, Alix, that she was there all the time." "And of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories," said Alix, "so we really should be very much obliged to her. Just think what nice games we've made out of them; and what nice things we've begun to get ready for the poor children next Christmas. I do think, Rafe, we've _never_ felt dull since we've played so much in the Lady wood garden." Rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. It was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. For they had had tea long ago, and it was not so _very_ far off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon's profile--for it was about half-way to full--to gleam pearl-like up among the branches. "We mustn't stay very long," said Rafe. "Nurse won't mind our being a little later than usual, as she's busy packing," said Alix. "And it's still so hot, indoors at least. Last night I _couldn't_ get to sleep, though I pushed off everything except one sheet. I was just boiling. And when I told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later." "I hope it will be cooler at the seaside," said Rafe. "It's pretty sure to be," Alix replied. "If it was just about as cool as it is here just now. Isn't it lovely? And that breeze is so refreshing." They were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. It seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. And then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. And it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. The children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. They just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place. The laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of Mrs Caretaker. She was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why. "And so you are going away, my dears," said their old friend. How she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. And again she laughed. "If you please, if it's not rude, we'd like to know what you're laughing at," said Alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not. "Only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke I was having all to myself. I hear so many funny stories, you see. They all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others that _you_ call living creatures. And the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes." "We're going to the seaside," said Rafe. Mrs Caretaker nodded. "I know," she said, "I know most things about my friends. I thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. I've been waiting for you. And if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you're away, you have only to tell me." "Thank you," said the children. But Alix did not feel quite pleased yet. "Mrs Caretaker," she said, "you shouldn't speak as if this was the only time we've come to see you. We've been and been _ever_ so often, but we never could find the door. And we've always kept saying how kind you'd been; making the birds tell us stories too." "It's all right, my dear," said the old woman. "Yes, I heard you on the other side of the wall. But I'm very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. I'm not busy to-night though, and it's getting chilly out here. Come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you're going to." "We mustn't stay long," said the children. "It's later than usual for us to be out, but it's been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer." "I will see you home. Don't be uneasy," said Mrs Caretaker. She led the way to the wall--almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen. The fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. Rafe and Alix almost screamed with surprise, but Mrs Caretaker only smiled. "You didn't know what a view I had out of my window," she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools--one on each side for the children. "Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight--the great sea itself." "Do you love the sea?" they asked. "Sometimes," Mrs Caretaker replied. "You said it told you stories," said Alix. "Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in." Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment. Then she said--and her voice sounded rather sad--"I can't tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They're not of the laughing kind, and it's best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?" "Oh yes!" cried the children, eagerly; "often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we do _so_ wish we could see them." Mrs Caretaker smiled. "I can't promise you that you ever will," she said; "but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees." "You're not knitting to-night," said Alix. "The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct." "It will be all right, never fear," said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children's heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker's clear voice began to tell. "It is called `The Magic Rose,'" said she; "but it is a story of those that live in the sea. Down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. Strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. Some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. For the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. They live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities. "But the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. The Queen--the beautiful Queen of the sea-country-- was ill, and the King was in despair. Now I must tell you that the Queen was not quite one of the sea race--so at least it was believed. Her grandmother--or her great-grandmother, maybe--was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. She had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come. "And now that the young Queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened." "I shall die," she said. "I shall surely die unless I can smell the scent of a rose--a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. It has come to me in my dreams. Though I have never seen one, I know what it must be like, and I feel that life would return--life and strength that are fast fading away--if I could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals." They were amazed to hear her speak thus. The great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. But she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the King, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer. "It all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride," said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were. The sea-doctors are not very wise, I fear, because they have so very little experience. It happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. And so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. But the King was not to be so put off. "Whatever it comes from," he said, "I am determined that the Queen's wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. What is this thing she is longing for?--what is a rose?" The doctors did not know; but seeing that the King was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. And after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. The Queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband's promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. And on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the King in order to tell him what they had discovered. The King awaited them eagerly. "Well," he said, "have you found out what the Queen means by a rose? And if so, how is one to be procured?" Yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. But a great difficulty remained. Even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the Queen? "Why not?" asked the King. For he had never been up to the surface of the sea. It is one of the sea-people's laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there. The learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the King listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. But after a few moments' silence, one of the doctors spoke again. They were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly. "It has occurred to us," he said, "that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea--the ancient mermaid who lives in the Anemone Cave. Not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and--" "Of course! of course!" exclaimed the King, impatiently; "she is the very person. Why did I not think of her before? Why--the story goes that she nursed the Queen's human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us." "I wish she had stayed away," muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the King to hear. Then the King ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds--they were dolphins--to be got ready at once, and off he set. It was rather a long swim to the Anemone Cave. I wish I could give you any idea of the wonderful things the King passed by on his way--the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. For of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything. The wise woman of the sea was at home. The King's heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. And King though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects. She was very strange to behold. Mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. Still there was something dignified about her, and she received the King as if quite prepared for his visit. She was not the least surprised. Very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the King's story as if she knew all about it. "Yes," she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog's, "you have done well to come to me. When the human baby, the great-grandmother of the Queen, was confided to my charge, I studied her fate and that of her descendants. The sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. He noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. Between us we found out some of the future. I read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which I was unable to understand fully. All I know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. Now you know all I have to tell you. Farewell, you have no time to lose." And not another word would the wise mermaid say. The King had to take leave. His dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, "You have no time to lose." Yet he knew not what to do. The conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks' country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. And for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. It was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people. For the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. Now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all. The King went straight to the Queen's bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. She was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. Even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her. Yet some of them were very beautiful. The King's glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the Queen's attendants. Their names were Ila and Orona. A sudden idea struck the King. "I will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the Queen's recovery," he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. And as he stooped over the sleeping Queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming. "The gift of love," were the only words he could distinguish. But he took the smile as a good omen. The next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. For it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering Queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the Queen herself. Ila and Orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. The King was delighted, and as Ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. She received many compliments on her daring, and the King thanked her most warmly. She accepted all that was said to her, but to Orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young Queen's fair skin. "I would do anything to win it," she said. "There is nothing in the world I admire so much as pearls, but if I gain it, Orona, I promise to lend it to you sometimes." "Many thanks," Orona replied, "but I do not care for jewels as you do. If _I_ have the chance of seeking the rose--that is to say if you fail-- my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the Queen. _That_ I should care far more for." Both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them. And the very next day Ila started on her upward journey. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE MAGIC ROSE--CONTINUED. Ila found it trying and toilsome, for she was not accustomed to swimming upwards so long together, and she did not like to lose time by resting on the way. But when at last she reached the surface, her surprise at all she saw there took away her fatigue. It was a lovely summer day, the sunshine was deliciously warm, and as the mermaid lay on some smooth rocks a little way from the shore she could see the green fields, and trees, and houses, and gardens bordering the coast, quite plainly. She could even perceive some people walking along, and she thought their way of moving most extremely awkward and ungraceful. "Thank goodness I am a mermaid and not a woman," she thought. "I cannot believe that anything to be found on land is as beautiful as our sea-treasures. How splendid the great pearls in the centre of the necklace would look in this brilliant light! When they are mine I must carry them up here some day for the sake of seeing them glisten on my neck in the sunshine." And her thoughts were so full of the jewels that she almost forgot what she had come for. Suddenly the sight of some red blossoms on a tree growing close to the water's edge reminded her of what she was there to do, and she looked about her wondering how best to set to work. The wise men had described roses to her; they had even found a picture of one in a book about the plants of the land, so she knew very fairly well what it should be like and that it must have a delicious scent. But that was all, and though she saw fields and gardens not far off, she knew not how to get to them. Suddenly glancing in another direction she caught sight of a barge, its white sails gleaming like the wings of a great bird, at anchor some little way from the shore. To and from this barge little boats were coming and going, laden with baskets and cases. Ila swam quietly towards it, taking care to keep almost entirely under water, so that she should not be seen. When she got quite close to the barge she saw that one of the little boats was approaching it, and this boat was filled with flowers and rowed by but one boy. The little vessel was in fact preparing for a pleasure trip, and the boats were employed in bringing all that could be wanted of decorations and provisions. The boy rowed quite close to the barge, and then throwing a rope on deck from his boat, he himself sprang on board to call some one to help him to unload his flowers. Now was the mermaid's chance--she swam up to the boat and stretching out her hand drew from a basket, filled with roses of all shades, the most beautiful red one she could see. She had no doubt of its being a rose, for the perfume had reached her even some little way off. The boy turned round at that moment and gave a cry of terror as he caught sight of a shining white arm and hand taking a flower from the basket of roses, and for long after, a story went about that the spirit of some one shipwrecked off that coast haunted that part of the bay. But Ila only laughed at the boy's fright, and swam off as fast as she could, delighted to have succeeded. She hid the rose carefully in the folds of the gauzy robe she wore, and after one breath of its fragrance prepared to hasten home as fast as she could go. "The pearls are mine," she thought with exultation, giving no thought to the poor Queen. "I can fancy already that I feel their smooth touch against my skin--so adorned I shall certainly be the most beautiful mermaid that has ever been seen." But alas for vain Ila's hopes! No sooner had she reached the bottom of the sea than she hastened to the palace, and sought at once for an audience of the King. Eager past words for her return, he hurried out to the hall where she stood. "I have got it," she exclaimed, and she slid her hand into the folds of her dress and drew out--a little crumpled rag--a few miserable leaves, sodden and colourless, with no scent or fragrance--the poor wretched ghost of what had once been a magnificent rose! The King's face fell. Ila gave a cry of despair. "I brought it so carefully," she said. "Your care was in vain," replied the King. "It is evident that some condition has not been complied with. How did you get the rose?" She told him all, and Orona, who had followed her, listened eagerly. "It may be," said the King, "that you took it without paying for it. I wish I had thought of that." But his hopes revived when he remembered that the "first effort was not to succeed." And too anxious to give much thought to Ila's disappointment, he turned to Orona. "Now," he said, "it is for you to try. But you must take with you payment." "Yes," said Orona calmly, "I have thought of that. I will select two or three of our most valuable shells, for I have been told that rare shells are greatly esteemed by the land-folk. I am not surprised that Ila has been punished for taking what was not hers without paying for it." She looked so calm and confident that the King felt as if she must succeed. It was too late to set off that day; but the next morning Orona started. She was far more business-like than Ila; when she reached the surface, instead of wasting time in dreaming about the pearl necklace, she swam round the bay as near the shore as she dared venture, peering about in all directions. And at last she came to a little creek, which worked its way into the land till it became a small stream, whose banks were bordered by trees. This the mermaid followed for some distance; till, tasting the water, she found it had almost lost its briny flavour altogether. This startled her, for no sea-folk could live many hours in fresh water, and she began to think she must turn back. But just then she saw that a few yards farther on the stream turned suddenly; and swimming still a little way, she discovered that here it entered a beautiful park, through which it wound its way till lost to view. And close to where Orona now was, stood a pretty cottage, whose garden at the back sloped down to the water, and here were growing in profusion flowers of many kinds; among them roses, red, white, and all shades between. For this was the cottage of the gardener of the great house, and he liked to have choice specimens of the flowers he tended near his own home. It was easy for the mermaid to choose and gather a beautiful rose, for no one was about, it being still what human beings call very early in the morning. Orona did so, selecting carefully a rose not too fully blown, and wrapping it in some large cool green leaves which she found growing on the bank. And there, just where she had plucked the flower, she laid down two magnificent shells, which she had brought, as payment. In her calm way, quite as triumphant as her sister mermaid had been, Orona swam back with all possible swiftness. She reached her own country without misadventure, and, smiling confidently, entered the great hall of the palace, where the King was awaiting her with intense eagerness. "Success!" she exclaimed, as she drew out her leafy parcel. The outside looked green and fresh enough, but, alas! inside there was only the same miserable little bundle of colourless rags as Ila had brought back the day before--nay, of the two, to-day's withered flower looked even less like a rose than the former one! Orona clenched her hands in rage; the King's face sank into utter despair, for the Queen's state was considered worse this morning. "Alas, alas!" he cried, as he turned away, "it is hopeless." But among those who overheard his words was one who was not satisfied with feeling very sorry for the poor King. This was a little mermaid named Chryssa. She was younger than Ila and Orona, and she was of far less exalted position; in fact, she was scarcely more than a little servant in the Queen's household. And probably no one would have spoken of her as beautiful if asked to describe her. But she _was_ beautiful, nevertheless, and wonderfully sweet and loving; and the living being she loved the most in the world was the Queen. Of course, like every one else, Chryssa had heard all about the quest of the rose which was to cure the Queen; and now the thought struck her, could _she_, unknown to any one, try in her turn to bring the earth-flower fresh and fragrant which alone would have magic power to save her royal mistress's life? There seemed something lucky in being the _third_ to try, "and, at least," thought Chryssa, "it would be, so far as I am concerned, `the gift of love,' as the poor Queen keeps murmuring." She determined to make the endeavour; and late that night, just for fear of being seen--though she was so insignificant a person that there was not much chance of her being missed--she set off. She was not by nature so strong or courageous as Ila and Orona; she knew very little, indeed, of anything but her own sea home, as she had been treated like a child, and had never heard the stories and descriptions of the world above, which were often related to entertain the Queen and her ladies. No wonder her poor little heart almost failed her through the long dark journey up to land. And at first when she reached the surface all was still as dark there as below. But as she lay there panting, almost doubting if she had done well to come, up above, over the land, there shone out a marvellous light, which at once filled her with hope and joy. It was the moon--slowly the silvery lamp glided out from behind the clouds, and the little mermaid almost cried aloud for joy. "Oh, beautiful light," she said, "thank you for coming. Show me what to do; I will follow your guidance," and a gleaming streak across the water shone out as if inviting her to follow it. Swiftly the mermaid swam in the direction of the land, full in the glow of the light; and a girl--an earth-maiden--standing at her window in the summer night thought that she saw a vision, and scarce knew if she were awake or dreaming. "It is late," she thought. "I must get to sleep or I shall be growing too fanciful." But before she lay down on her little bed she carefully unfastened a beautiful red rose which was pinned to her bodice and placed it in a glass of water, kissing it as she did so, for it was the first gift of her betrothed. Poor Chryssa reached the shore; but though the moonlight still shone pale and pure and clear, it gave her no help. For the radiance was now spread all over the land; and before her there stretched a steep and rocky coast, beyond which--far off it looked to the mermaid--she could dimly see trees and bushes and some darker, harder form among them. "It may be a house, such as the earth-folk live in," she thought. "And there perhaps these flowers they call roses are growing. But how am I to get there? and how should I find the flower if I were there?" Still she must try. Slowly and painfully she drew herself some little way up the shore, catching hold of the stones with her hands; then she stopped to rest, and set off again. It was really not very distant, but to poor Chryssa it seemed terrible: she could only go a few yards at a time without resting. The night was far gone, the dawn at hand, when the little mermaid, gasping and exhausted, her tender hands bruised and bleeding, sank for the last time, unable to drag herself any farther, on a grass plot just below the window whence the young girl had seen her in the moonlight like a vision, floating towards the shore. Hebe, for so the maiden was called, woke early, and after glancing at her rose, threw open the window and leant out to watch the sunrise. "How lovely it is," she thought, "and how happy I am!" for her betrothal had only taken place the day before. "Dear rose, I will keep you always--even when withered--always, till--" But a low sob or wail, just below the window, startled her. What could it be? Leaning farther out, she saw at first nothing but a long tangle of shining hair covering some unseen object, for Chryssa's hair was like a golden cloak. "What is it? Who is lying there?" A faint voice answered-- "Oh, lady, I think I am dying! I have lain here all night, torn and bleeding, and none of my race can live many hours on land." Half-terrified at the strange words, but still more pitiful, Hebe hastened out. The window opened on to a little balcony, and steps led down to the garden. She would almost have been too frightened to approach Chryssa--for though there were old legends of mer-folk about that coast, generations had passed since any had actually been seen--but for the sweet expression in the little mermaid's face and eyes, dying though she seemed. This gave Hebe courage to go near her, and with the ointment and linen she quickly fetched, to bind up her cuts and bruises. Then Chryssa told her story in gasping words. "If I could but live to take a rose to the Queen," she said, "I would not mind dying; though, for one of my race, life should last for full five hundred years, and life is very beautiful." "Alas!" said the earth-maiden, "there are no roses in our garden, the soil does not suit them; and before I could procure one for you, you would die, I fear. But,"--and she made a great effort--"I will do for you what I had thought I could never do but a few minutes ago. I will give you my own rose--the first gift of my best beloved." And with the words, she ran back to her chamber and returned, the red rose fresh and blooming in her hand. She kissed it as she gave it to Chryssa. "Carry healing in your fragrance," she murmured. And, strange to say, as a breath of its perfume reached the mermaid, she herself in some magical way began to revive. Her eyes sparkled as she blessed Hebe for her generous sacrifice. "I feel," she said, "that the conditions are all fulfilled. My Queen will be saved." But Hebe's eyes looked over the fields to where the waves were lapping the shore. "The tide is coming in," she said, "you will not now have so far to go. But I must help you. Clasp me firmly round the neck, and I will carry you to the nearest creek, where already you will find the ocean water, which is to you what this fresh, balmy air is to us." And little Chryssa did as she was told, and Hebe, lifting the light burden in her strong young arms, carried the daughter of the strange unknown race of the sea as tenderly as if she had been a fragile sister of her own. For, after all, there was the greatest of all bonds between them--love and self-sacrifice in their hearts. All went well. Chryssa reached the sea-king's palace feeling stronger and better than when she set out, and the rose, too, seemed to have gained fresh beauty and fragrance by its contact with the waves. No sooner did the almost dying Queen breathe its perfume than her strength began to return, and in a few hours she was cured. No reward would have been too great for the King and Queen to bestow upon the little mermaid; but she asked for none save to be her mistress's constant attendant. They say--so, at least, the waves, who told me the story, whispered-- that down in the ocean depths, somewhere in a wonderful palace, there blooms still a flower of earth--a red rose--endowed with a magic gift of health and healing. Mrs Caretaker's voice stopped. For a moment or two the children did not move. Then she laid her hand gently on their heads, and they lifted them. "It is a lovely story," said Alix, with a sigh of content. "Do you think, dear Mrs Caretaker, that _perhaps_ we may see Chryssa some day when we are bathing?" Mrs Caretaker shook her head. "At least we may _look_ for her; perhaps she comes up to the shore sometimes--we _might_ catch a peep of her face among the surf. You might send her a message by one of the fishes you know, Mrs Caretaker." The old woman smiled. But suddenly Rafe started. "I was forgetting," he said. "Haven't we been here a great while? What _will_ nurse say?" "Never mind," said their friend. "Remember, I promised to see you home," and again she stroked their heads. And that was all that happened, till-- "You must be getting up, my dear; to-day you are going to the sea, remember," sounded first by one little bedside and then by the other. "Were we very late of coming in last night?" asked the children at breakfast. "Not so very, I don't think," nurse replied. "But you see I can't tell exactly, as I found you both undressed and in bed fast asleep when I came up from my supper. You did give me a surprise." Rafe and Alix looked at each other and smiled. Nurse thought it was only that they were pleased at the trick they had played her. The seaside visit was delightful. But before it came to an end a very unexpected thing happened. The children's father, who was a very clever man, was chosen for an important post out of England. It all came about in a great hurry, and Rafe and Alix have never since returned to the country house where, for most of the years of their life, they had been so happy. And all this time their home has been a long way off. They often speak of Ladywood, and declare that when they come back to England they _must_ go there and try to find the old caretaker again. But I almost hope they will not do so; for, I am sorry to say, Ladywood has been bought and all changed. A new house has been built at last on the site of the old one, and the foundations all opened out. I feel sure Mrs Caretaker is no longer there. Still, there is no saying but that Rafe and Alix may come across her again _some_ day and _some_ where. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
38829	----	GARDEN-CRAFT OLD AND NEW BY THE LATE JOHN D. SEDDING WITH MEMORIAL NOTICE BY THE REV. E. F. RUSSELL _WITH NINE ILLUSTRATIONS_ NEW EDITION LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., LTD. PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD 1895 [Illustration: A GARDEN ENCLOSED.] PREFACE. "_What am I to say for my book?" asks Mr Stevenson in the Preface to "An Inland Voyage." "Caleb and Joshua brought back from Palestine a formidable bunch of grapes; alas! my book produces naught so nourishing; and, for the matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer a definition to any quantity of fruit._" _As this apology is so uncalled for in the case of this fruitful little volume, I would venture to purloin it, and apply it where it is wholly suitable. Here, the critic will say, is an architect who makes gardens for the houses he builds, writing upon his proper craft, pandering to that popular preference for a definition of which Mr Stevenson speaks, by offering descriptions of what he thinks a fine garden should be, instead of useful figured plans of its beauties!_ _And yet, to tell truth, it is more my subject than myself that is to blame if my book be unpractical. Once upon a time complete in itself, as a brief treatise upon the technics of gardening delivered to my brethren of the Art-worker's Guild a year ago, the essay had no sooner arrived with me at home, than it fell to pieces, lost gravity and compactness, and became a garden-plaything--a sort of gardener's "open letter," to take loose pages as fancies occurred. So have these errant thoughts, jotted down in the broken leisure of a busy life, grown solid unawares and expanded into a would-be-serious contribution to garden-literature._ _Following upon the original lines of the Essay on the For and Against of Modern Gardening, I became the more confirmed as to the general rightness of the old ways of applying Art, and of interpreting Nature the more I studied old gardens and the point of view of their makers; until I now appear as advocate of old types of design, which, I am persuaded, are more consonant with the traditions of English life, and more suitable to an English homestead than some now in vogue._ _The old-fashioned garden, whatever its failings in the eyes of the modern landscape-gardener (great is the poverty of his invention), represents one of the pleasures of England, one of the charms of that quiet beautiful life of bygone times that I, for one, would fain see revived. And judged even as pieces of handicraft, apart from their poetic interest, these gardens are worthy of careful study. They embody ideas of ancient worth; they evidence fine aims and heroic efforts; they exemplify traditions that are the net result of a long probation. Better still, they render into tangible shapes old moods of mind that English landscape has inspired; they testify to old devotion to the scenery of our native land, and illustrate old attempts to idealise its pleasant traits._ _Because the old gardens are what they are--beautiful yesterday, beautiful to-day, and beautiful always--we do well to turn to them, not to copy their exact lines, nor to limit ourselves to the range of their ornament and effects, but to glean hints for our garden-enterprise to-day, to drink of their spirit, to gain impulsion from them. As often as not, the forgotten field proves the richest of pastures._ _J. D. S._ THE CROFT, WEST WICKHAM, KENT, _Oct. 8, 1890_. MEMOIR. The Manuscript of this book was placed complete in the hands of his publishers by John Sedding. He did not live to see its production. At the wish of his family and friends, I have, with help from others, set down some memories and impressions of my friend. My acquaintance with John Sedding dates from the year 1875. He was then 37 years of age, and had been practising as an architect almost exclusively in the South-West of England. The foundations of this practice were laid by his equally talented brother, Edmund Sedding, who, like himself, had received his training in the office of Mr Street. Edmund died in 1868, and John took up the business, but his clients were so few, and the prospect of an increase in their number so little encouraging, that he left Bristol and came to London, and here I first met him. He had just taken a house in Charlotte Street, Bedford Square, and the house served him on starting both for home and office. The first years in London proved no exception to the rule of first years, they were more or less a time of struggle and anxiety. John Sedding's happy, buoyant nature, his joy in his art, and invincible faith in his mission, did much to carry him through all difficulties. But both at this time, and all through his life, he owed much, very much, to the brave hopefulness and wise love of his wife. Rose Sedding, a daughter of Canon Tinling, of Gloucester, lives in the memory of those who knew her as an impersonation of singular spiritual beauty and sweetness. Gentle and refined, sensitive and sympathetic to an unusual degree, there was no lack in her of the sterner stuff of character--force, courage, and endurance. John Sedding leaned upon his wife; indeed, I cannot think of him without her, or guess how much of his success is due to what she was to him. Two days before his death he said to me, "I have to thank God for the happiest of homes, and the sweetest of wives." Many will remember with gratitude the little home in Charlotte Street, as the scene of some of the pleasantest and most refreshing hours they have ever known. John Sedding had the gift of attracting young men, artists and others, to himself, and of entering speedily into the friendliest relations with them. He met them with such taking frankness, such unaffected warmth of welcome, that they surrendered to him at once, and were at once at ease with him and happy. On Sundays, when the religious duties of the day were over, he was wont to gather a certain number of these young fellows to spend the evening at his house. No one of those who were privileged to be of the party can forget the charming hospitality of these evenings. The apparatus was so simple, the result so delightful; an entire absence of display, and yet no element of perfect entertainment wanting. On these occasions, when supper was over, Mrs Sedding usually played for us with great discernment and feeling the difficult music of Beethoven, Grieg, Chopin, and others, and sometimes she sang. More than one friendship among their guests grew out of these happy evenings. In course of time the increase of his family and the concurrent increase of his practice obliged him to remove, first his office to Oxford Street, and later on his home to the larger, purer air of a country house in the little village of West Wickham, Kent. This house he continued to occupy until his death. Work of all kinds now began to flow in upon him, not rapidly, but by steady increase. His rich faculty of invention, his wide knowledge, his skill in the manipulation of natural forms, the fine quality of his taste, were becoming more and more known. He produced in large numbers designs for wall-papers, for decoration, and for embroidery. These designs were never repetitions of old examples, nor were they a réchauffé of his own previous work. Something of his soul he put into all that he undertook, hence his work was never commonplace, and scarcely needed signature to be known as his, so unmistakably did it bear his stamp, the "marque de fabrique," of his individuality. I have known few men so well able as he to press flowers into all manner of decorative service, in metal, wood, stone or panel, and in needlework. He understood them, and could handle them with perfect ease and freedom, each flower in his design seeming to fall naturally into its appointed place. Without transgressing the natural limits of the material employed, he yet never failed to give to each its own essential characteristics, its gesture, and its style. Flowers were indeed passionately loved, and most reverently, patiently studied by him. He would spend many hours out of his summer holiday in making careful studies of a single plant, or spray of foliage, painting them, as Mr Ruskin had taught him, in siena and white, or in violet-carmine and white. Leaves and flowers were, in fact, almost his only school of decorative design. This is not the place to attempt any formal exposition of John Sedding's views on Art and the aims of Art. They can be found distinctly stated and amply, often brilliantly, illustrated in his Lectures and Addresses, of which some have appeared in the architectural papers and some are still in manuscript.[1] But short of this formal statement, it may prove not uninteresting to note some characters of his work which impressed us. [Footnote 1: It is much to be wished that these Lectures and Addresses should be collected and published.] Following no systematic order, we note first his profound sympathy with ancient work, and with ancient work of all periods that might be called periods of living Art. He never lost an opportunity of visiting and intently studying ancient buildings, sketching them, and measuring them with extraordinary care, minuteness, and patience. "On one occasion," writes Mr Lethaby, "when we were hurried he said, 'We cannot go, it is life to us.'" A long array of sketch-books, crowded with studies and memoranda, remains to bear witness to his industry. In spite of this extensive knowledge, and copious record of old work, he never literally reproduced it. The unacknowledged plagiarisms of Art were in his judgment as dishonest as plagiarisms in literature, and as hopelessly dead. "He used old forms," writes Mr Longden, "in a plastic way, and moulded them to his requirements, never exactly reproducing the old work, which he loved to draw and study, but making it his starting-point for new developments. This caused great difference of opinion as to the merit of his work, very able and skilful judges who look at style from the traditional point of view being displeased by his designs, while others who may be said to partake more of the movement of the time, admired his work." His latest and most important work, the Church of the Holy Trinity, Sloane Street, is a case in point. It has drawn out the most completely opposed judgments from by no means incompetent men; denounced by some, it has won the warmest praise from others, as, for instance, from two men who stand in the very front rank of those who excel, William Morris has said of it, "It is on the whole the best modern interior of a town church"; and the eminent painter, E. Burnes-Jones, writing to John Sedding, writes: "I cannot tell you how I admire it, and how I longed to be at it." Speaking further of this sympathy with old work, Mr Longden, who knew him intimately, and worked much with him, writes, "The rather rude character of the Cornish granite work in the churches did not repel him, indeed, he said he loved it, because he understood it. He has made additions to churches in Cornwall, such as it may well be imagined the old Cornishmen would have done, yet with an indescribable touch of modernness about them. He also felt at home with the peculiar character of the Devonshire work, and some of his last work is in village churches where he has made a rather ordinary church quite beautiful and interesting, by repairing and extending old wooden screens, putting in wooden seats, with an endless variety of symbolic designs, marble font and floor, fine metal work, simple but well-designed stained glass, good painting in a reredos, all, as must be with an artist, adding to the general effect, and falling into place in that general effect, while each part is found beautiful and interesting, if examined in detail." "The rich Somersetshire work, where the fine stone lends itself to elaborate carving, was very sympathetic to Sedding, and he has added to and repaired many churches in that county, always taking the fine points in the old work and bringing them out by his own additions, whether in the interior or the exterior, seizing upon any peculiarity of site or position to show the building to the best advantage, and never forgetting the use of a church, but increasing the convenience of the arrangements for worship, and emphasizing the sacred character of the buildings on which he worked." In his lectures to Art students, no plea was more often on his lips than the plea for living Art, as contrasted with "shop" Art, or mere antiquarianism. The artist is the product of his own time and of his own country, his nature comes to him out of the past, and is nourished in part upon the past, but he lives in the present, and of the present, sharing its spirit and its culture. John Sedding had great faith in the existence of this art gift, as living and active in his own time, he recognised it reverently and humbly in himself, and looked for it and hailed it with joy and generous appreciation in others. Hence the value he set upon association among Art workers. "Les gens d'esprit," says M. Taine, speaking of Art in Italy, "n'ont jamais plus d'esprit que lorsqu'ils sont ensemble. Pour avoir des oeuvres d'art il faut d'abord des artistes, mais aussi des ateliers. Alors il y avait des ateliers, et en outre les artistes faisaient des corporations. Tous se tenaient, et dans la grande société, de petites sociétés unissaient étroitement et librement leurs membres. La familiarité les rapprochait; la rivalité les aiguillonnait."[2] [Footnote 2: _Philosophie de l'art en Italie_ (p. 162).--H. TAINE.] He gave practical effect to these views in the conduct of his own office, which was as totally unlike the regulation architect's office, as life is unlike clockwork. Here is a charming "interior" from the pen of his able chief assistant and present successor, Mr H. Wilson:-- "I shall not readily forget my first impressions of Mr Sedding. I was introduced to him at one of those delightful meetings of the Art Workers' Guild, and his kindly reception of me, his outstretched hand, and the unconscious backward impulses of his head, displaying the peculiar whiteness of the skin over the prominent temporal and frontal bones, the playful gleam of his eyes as he welcomed me, are things that will remain with me as long as memory lasts. "Soon after that meeting I entered his office, only to find that he was just as delightful at work as in the world. "The peculiar half shy yet eager way in which he rushed into the front room, with a smile and a nod of recognition for each of us, always struck me. But until he got to work he always seemed preoccupied, as if while apparently engaged in earnest discussion of some matter an under-current of thought was running the while, and as if he were devising something wherewith to beautify his work even when arranging business affairs. "This certainly must have been the case, for frequently he broke off in the midst of his talk to turn to a board and sketch out some design, or to alter a detail he had sketched the day before with a few vigorous pencil-strokes. This done, he would return to business, only to glance off again to some other drawing, and to complete what would not _come_ the day before. In fact he was exactly like a bird hopping from twig to twig, and from flower to flower, as he hovered over the many drawings which were his daily work, settling here a form and there a moulding as the impulse of the moment seized him. "And though at times we were puzzled to account for, or to anticipate his ways, and though the work was often hindered by them, we would not have had it otherwise. "Those 'gentillesses d'oiseaux,' as Hugo says, those little birdy ways, so charming from their unexpectedness, kept us constantly on the alert, for we never quite knew what he would do next. It was not his custom to move in beaten tracks, and his everyday life was as much out of the common as his inner life. His ways with each of us were marked by an almost womanly tenderness. He seemed to regard us as his children, and to have a parent's intuition of our troubles, and of the special needs of each with reference to artistic development. "He would come, and taking possession of our stools would draw with his left arm round us, chatting cheerily, and yet erasing, designing vigorously meanwhile. Then, with his head on one side like a jackdaw earnestly regarding something which did not quite please him, he would look at the drawing a moment, and pounce on the paper, rub all his work out, and begin again. His criticism of his own work was singularly frank and outspoken even to us. I remember once when there had been a slight disagreement between us, I wrote to him to explain. Next morning, when he entered the office, he came straight to the desk where I was working, quietly put his arm round me, took my free hand with his and pressed it and myself to him without a word. It was more than enough. "He was, however, not one of those who treat all alike. He adapted himself with singular facility to each one with whom he came in contact; his insight in this respect was very remarkable, and in consequence he was loved and admired by the most diverse natures. The expression of his face was at all times pleasant but strangely varied, like a lake it revealed every passing breath of emotion in the most wonderful way, easily ruffled and easily calmed. "His eyes were very bright and expressive, with long lashes, the upper lids large, full, and almost translucent, and his whole face at anything which pleased him lit up and became truly radiant. At such times his animation in voice, gesture, and look was quite remarkable, his talk was full of felicitous phrases, happy hits, and piquant sayings. "His was the most childlike nature I have yet seen, taking pleasure in the simplest things, ever ready for fun, trustful, impulsive, and joyous, yet easily cast down. His memory for details and things he had seen and sketched was marvellous, and he could turn to any one of his many sketches and find a tiny scribble made twenty or thirty years ago, as easily as if he had made it yesterday. "His favourite attitude in the office was with his back to the fireplace and with his hands behind him, head thrown back, looking at, or rather through one. He seldom seemed to look at anyone or anything, his glance always had something of divination in it, and in his sketches, however slight, the soul of the thing was always seized, and the accidental or unnecessary details left to others less gifted to concern themselves with. "His love of symbolism was only equalled by his genius for it, old ideas had new meanings for him, old symbols were invested with deeper significance and new ones full of grace and beauty discovered. In this his intense, enthusiastic love of nature and natural things stood him in good stead, and he used Nature as the old men did, to teach new truths. For him as well as for all true artists, the universe was the living visible garment of God, the thin glittering rainbow-coloured veil which hides the actual from our eyes. He was the living embodiment of all that an architect should be, he had the sacred fire of enthusiasm within, and he had the power of communicating that fire to others, so that workmen, masons, carvers could do, and did lovingly for him, what they would not or could not do for others. We all felt and still feel that it was his example and precept that has given us what little true knowledge and right feeling for Art we may possess, and the pity is there will never be his like again. "He was not one of those who needed to pray 'Lord, keep my memory green,' though that phrase was often on his lips, as well as another delightful old epitaph: 'Bonys emonge stonys lys ful steyl Quilst the soules wanderis where that God will.'"[3] [Footnote 3: In Thornhill Church.] This delightful and assuredly entirely faithful picture is in itself evidence of the contagion of John Sedding's enthusiasm. Beyond the inner circle of his own office, he sought and welcomed the unfettered co-operation of other artists in his work; in the words of a young sculptor, "he gave us a chance." He let them say their say instead of binding them to repeat his own. God had His message to deliver by them, and he made way that the world might hear it straight from their lips. The same idea of sympathetic association, "fraternité généreuse--confiance mutuelle--communauté de sympathies et d'aspirations," has found embodiment in the Art Workers' Guild, a society in which artists and craftsmen of all the Arts meet and associate on common ground. John Sedding was one of the original members of this Guild, and its second Master. Of his connection with the Guild the Secretary writes: "No member was ever more respected, none had more influence, no truer artist existed in the Guild." And Mr Walter Crane: "His untiring devotion to the Guild throughout his term of office, and his tact and temper, were beyond praise." It must not be inferred from these facts that John Sedding's sympathies were only for the world of Art, art-workers, and art-ideals. He shared to the full the ardour of his Socialist friends, in their aspirations for that new order of more just distribution of all that makes for the happiness of men, the coming "city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God." He did not share their confidence in their methods, but he honoured their noble humanity, and followed their movements with interest and respect, giving what help he could. The condition of the poor, especially the London poor, touched him to the quick sometimes with indignation at their wrongs, sometimes with deep compassion and humbled admiration at the pathetic patience with which they bore the burden of their joyless, suffering lives. His own happy constitution and experience never led him to adopt the cheap optimism with which so many of us cheat our conscience, and justify to ourselves our own selfish inertness. The more ample income of his last years made no difference in the simple ordering of his household, it did make difference in his charities. He gave money, and what is better, gave his personal labour to many works for the good of others, some of which he himself had inaugurated. John Sedding was an artist by a necessity of his nature. God made him so, and he could not but exercise his gift, but apart from the satisfaction that comes by doing what we are meant for, it filled him with thankfulness to have been born to a craft with ends so noble as are the ends of Art. To give pleasure and to educate are aims good indeed to be bound by, especially when by education we understand, not mind-stuffing, but mind-training, in this case the training of faculty to discern and be moved by the poetry, the spiritual suggestiveness of common everyday life. This brought his calling into touch with working folk. As a man, John Sedding impressed us all by the singular and beautiful simplicity and childlikeness of his character, a childlikeness which never varied, and nothing, not even the popularity and homage which at last surrounded him, seemed able to spoil it. He never lost his boyish spontaneity and frankness, the unrestrained brightness of his manners and address, his boyish love of fun, and hearty, ringing laugh. Mr Walter Crane speaks of his "indomitable gaiety and spirits which kept all going, especially in our country outings." "He always led the fun," writes Mr Lethaby, "at one time at the head of a side at 'tug of war,' at another, the winner in an 'egg and spoon race.'" His very faults were the faults of childhood, the impulsiveness, the quick and unreflecting resentment against wrong, and the vehement denunciation of it. He trusted his instincts far more than his reason, and on the whole, his instincts served him right well, yet at times they failed him, as in truth they fail us all. There were occasions when a little reflection would have led him to see that his first rapid impressions were at fault, and so have spared himself and others some pain and misunderstanding. Let a thing appear to him false, unfair, or cowardly, he would lower his lance and dash full tilt at it at once, sometimes to our admiration, sometimes to our amusement when the appearance proved but a windmill in the mist, sometimes to our dismay when--a rare case--he mistook friend for foe. No picture of John Sedding could be considered at all to represent him which failed to express the blameless purity of his character and conduct. I do not think the man lives who ever heard a tainted word from his lips. There was in him such depth and strength of moral wholesomeness that he sickened at, and revolted against the unseemly jest, and still more against the scenes, and experiences of the sensuous (to use no stronger word) upon which in the minds of some, the artist must perforce feed his gift. With his whole soul he repudiated the idea that Art grew only as a flower upon the grave of virtue, and that artists could, or desired to, lay claim to larger moral licence than other less imaginative men. I have kept till last the best and deepest that was in him, the hidden root of all he was, the hallowing of all he did. I mean his piety--his deep, unfeigned piety. In his address at the annual meeting of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, a singularly outspoken and vigorous exhortation to laymen to keep their practice abreast of their faith, he used the following words: "In the wild scene of 19th century work, and thought, and passion, when old snares still have their old witchery, and new depths of wickedness yawn at our feet, when the world is so wondrous kind to tired souls, and neuralgic bodies, and itself pleads for concessions to acknowledged weakness; when unfaith is so like faith, and the devil freely suffers easy acquiescence in high gospel truth, and even holds a magnifying-glass that one may better see the sweetness of the life of the 'Son of Man,' it is well in these days of sloth, and sin, and doubt, to have one's energies braced by a 'girdle of God' about one's loins! It is well, I say, for a man to have a circle of religious exercises that can so hedge him about, so get behind his life, and wind themselves by long familiarity into his character that they become part of his everyday existence--bone of his bone." Out of his own real knowledge and practice he spoke these words. The "circle of religious exercise," the girdle of God, had become for him part of his everyday existence. I can think of no better words to express the unwavering consistency of his life. It is no part of my duty to tell in detail what and how much he did, and with what whole-heartedness he did it. Turning to outward things, every associate of John Sedding knew his enthusiasm for the cause of the Catholic revival in the English Church. It supplied him with a religion for his whole nature. No trouble seemed too great on behalf of it, though often his zeal entailed upon him some material disadvantage. Again and again I have known him give up precious hours and even days in unremunerated work, to help some struggling church or mission, or some poor religious community. It was a joy to him to contribute anything to the beauty of the sanctuary or the solemnity of its offices. From the year 1878 to 1881 he was sidesman, from 1882 to 1889 churchwarden of St. Alban's, Holborn, doing his work thoroughly, and with conspicuous kindliness and courtesy. It was one of the thorns to the rose of his new life in the country that it obliged him to discontinue this office. For eleven years he played the organ on Sunday afternoons for a service for young men and maidens, few of whom can forget the extraordinary life and pathos that he was wont by some magic to put into his accompaniment to their singing. This present year, 1891, opened full of promise for John Sedding. In a marvellously short time he had come hand over hand into public notice and public esteem, as a man from whom excellent things were to be expected,--things interesting, original, and beautiful. Mr Burne Jones writes: "My information about Sedding's work is very slight,--my interest in him very great, and my admiration too, from the little I had seen. I know only the church in Sloane Street, but that was enough to fill me with the greatest hope about him ... I saw him in all some half-dozen times--liked him instantly, and felt I knew him intimately, and was looking forward to perhaps years of collaboration with him." Work brought work, as each thing he did revealed, to those who had eyes to see, the gift that was in him. At Art Congresses and all assemblies of Art Workers his co-operation was sought and his presence looked for, especially by the younger men, who hailed him and his words with enthusiasm. To these gatherings he brought something more and better than the sententious wisdom, the chill repression which many feel called upon to administer on the ground of their experience.[4] He put of the fire that was in him into the hearts that heard him, he made them proud of their cause and of their place in it, and hopeful for its triumph and their own success. It was a contribution of sunshine and fresh air, and all that is the complete opposite of routine, red-tape, and the conventional. [Footnote 4: Qu'est-ce l'expérience? Une pauvre petite cabane construite avec les débris de ces palais d'or et de marbre appelés nos illusions.--_Joseph Roux._] We who have watched his progress have noticed of late a considerable development in his literary power, a more marked individuality of style, a swifter and smoother movement, a richer vocabulary, and new skill in the presentation of his ideas. He was exceedingly happy in his illustrations of a principle, and his figures were always interesting, never hackneyed. A certain "bonhomie" in his way of putting things won willing hearers for his words, which seemed to come to meet us with a smile and open, outstretched hands, as the dear speaker himself was wont to do. Something of course of the living qualities of speech are lost when we can receive it only from the cold black and white of print, instead of winged and full of human music from the man's own lips. Yet, in spite of this, unless I am mistaken, readers of this book will not fail to find in it a good deal to justify my judgment. It seems to have taken some of his friends by surprise that John Sedding should write on Gardens. They knew him the master of many crafts, but did not count Garden-craft among them. As a matter of fact, it was a love that appeared late in life, though all along it must have been within the man, for the instant he had a garden of his own the passion appeared full grown. Every evening between five and six, save when his work called him to distant parts, you might have seen him step quickly out of the train at the little station of West Wickham, run across the bridge, and greeting and greeted by everybody, swing along the shady road leading to his house. In his house, first he kissed his wife and children, and then supposing there was light and the weather fine, his coat was off and he fell to work at once with spade or trowel in his garden, absorbed in his plants and flowers, and the pleasant crowding thoughts that plants and flowers bring. After supper he assembled his household to say evening prayers with them. When all had gone to rest he would settle himself in his little study and write, write, write, until past midnight, sometimes past one, dashing now and again at a book upon his shelves to verify some one or other of those quaint and telling bits which are so happily inwoven into his text. One fruit of these labours is this book on Garden-craft. But I have detained the reader long enough. All is by no means told, and many friends will miss, I doubt not, with disappointment this or that feature which they knew and loved in him. It cannot be helped. I have written as I could, not as I would, within the narrow limits which rightly bound a preface. How the end came, how within fourteen days the hand of God took from our midst the much love, genius, beauty which His hand had given us in the person of John and Rose Sedding, a few words only must tell. On Easter Monday, March 30th, John Sedding spent two hours in London, giving the last sitting for the bust which was being modelled at the desire of the Art Workers' Guild. The rest of the day he was busy in his garden. Next morning he left early for Winsford, in Somersetshire, to look after the restoration of this and some other churches in the neighbourhood. Winsford village is ten miles from the nearest railway station Dulverton; the road follows the beautiful valley of the Exe, which rising in the moors, descends noisily and rapidly southwards to the sea. The air is strangely chill in the hollow of this woody valley. Further, it was March, and March of this memorable year of 1891. Lines of snow still lay in the ditches, and in white patches on the northern side of hedgerows. Within a fortnight of this time men and cattle had perished in the snow-drifts on the higher ground. Was this valley the valley of death for our friend, or were the seeds of death already within him? I know not. Next morning, Wednesday, he did not feel well enough to get up. His kind hostess, and host, the Vicar of the parish, did all that kindness--kindness made harder and therefore more kind by ten miles' distance from a railway station--could do. John sent for his wife, who came at once, with her baby in her arms. On Saturday at midnight he received his last Communion. The next day he seemed to brighten and gave us hopes. On Monday there was a change for the worse, and on Tuesday morning he passed away in perfect peace. At the wish of his wife, his grave was prepared at West Wickham. The Solemn Requiem, by her wish also, was at the church he loved and served so well, St. Alban's, Holborn. That church has witnessed many striking scenes, but few more impressive than the great gathering at his funeral. The lovely children's pall that John Sedding had himself designed and Rose Sedding had embroidered, covered the coffin, and on the right of it in a dark mass were gathered his comrades of the Art Workers' Guild. The tragedy does not end here. On that day week, at that very same hour and spot, beneath the same pall, lay the body of his dear and devoted wife. Side by side, near the tall elms of the quiet Kentish churchyard, the bodies of John and Rose Sedding are sleeping. The spot was in a sense chosen by Rose Sedding, if we may use the term 'choice' for her simple wish that it might be where the sun shines and flowers will grow. The western slope of the little hill was fixed upon, and already the flowers they loved so well are blooming over them. Among the papers of Rose Sedding was found, pencilled in her own handwriting, the following lines of a 17th century poet: "'Tis fit one flesh one house should have, One tomb, one epitaph, one grave; And they that lived and loved either Should dye, and lye, and sleep together."[5] [Footnote 5: The words "'Tis fit one flesh one house should have," &c., form part of the epitaph of Richard Bartholomew and his wife in the parish church of Burford. How strange that the words should have found in her own case such exact fulfilment. E. F. RUSSELL. ST ALBAN'S CLERGY HOUSE, BROOKE STREET, HOLBORN. _June 1891._ It stands thus:-- Lo Hudled up, Together lye Gray Age, Greene Youth, White Infancy. If Death doth Nature's law dispence, And reconciles all difference, 'Tis fit One Flesh One House should have, One Tombe, One Epitaph, One Grave; And they that lived and loved either Should dye and Lye and sleep together. Goe Reader, whether goe or stay, Thou must not hence be long away.] CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE THEORY OF A GARDEN 1 II. ART IN A GARDEN 28 III. HISTORICAL AND COMPARATIVE SKETCH 41 IV. THE STIFF GARDEN 70 V. THE "LANDSCAPE-GARDEN" 98 VI. THE TECHNICS OF GARDENING 133 VII. THE TECHNICS OF GARDENING (_CONTINUED_) 153 ON THE OTHER SIDE. VIII. A PLEA FOR SAVAGERY 183 IX. IN PRAISE OF BOTH 202 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. A GARDEN ENCLOSED _FRONTISPIECE_ PLAN OF ROSARY WITH SUNDIAL TO FACE P. 156 PLAN OF TENNIS LAWN, TERRACES, AND FLOWER GARDEN 158 GENERAL PLAN OF THE PLEASAUNCE, VILLA ALBANI, ROME 160 PLAN SHOWING ARRANGEMENT OF SUNK FLOWER GARDEN, YEW WALK, AND TENNIS COURT 164 PLAN OF SUNK FLOWER GARDEN AND YEW HEDGES 166 PLAN SHOWING ARRANGEMENT OF FOUNTAIN, YEW WALK, AND FLOWER BEDS FOR A LARGE GARDEN 180 PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF GARDEN IN THE PRECEDING PLAN 180 PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF A DESIGN FOR A GARDEN, WITH CLIPPED YEW HEDGES AND FLOWER BEDS 182 GARDEN-CRAFT CHAPTER I. ON THE THEORY OF A GARDEN. "Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather." Some subjects require to be delineated according to their own taste. Whatever the author's notions about it at starting, the subject somehow slips out of his grasp and dictates its own method of treatment and style. The subject of gardening answers to this description: you cannot treat it in a regulation manner. It is a discursive subject that of itself breeds laggard humours, inclines you to reverie, and suggests a discursive style. This much in defence of my desultory essay. The subject, in a manner, drafts itself. Like the garden, it, too, has many aspects, many side-paths, that open out broken vistas to detach one's interest and lure from the straight, broad terrace-platform of orderly discourse. At first sight, perhaps, with the balanced beauty of the thing in front of you, carefully parcelled out and enclosed, as all proper gardens are, the theme may appear so compact, that all meandering after side-issues may seem sheer wantonness. As you proceed, however, it becomes apparent that you may not treat of a garden and disregard the instincts it prompts, the connection it has with Nature, its place in Art, its office in the world as a sweetener of human life. True, the garden itself is hedged in and neatly defined, but behind the garden is the man who made it; behind the man is the house he has built, which the garden adorns; and every man has his humours; every house has its own conditions of plan and site; every garden has its own atmosphere, its own contents, its own story. So now, having in this short preamble discovered something of the rich variety and many-sidedness of the subject, I proceed to write down three questions just to try what the yoke of classification may do to keep one's feet within bounds: (1) What is a garden, and why is it made? (2) What ornamental treatment is fit and right for a garden? (3) What should be the relation of the garden to the house? Forgive me if, in dealing with the first point, I so soon succumb to the allurements of my theme, and drop into flowers of speech! To me, then, a garden is the outward and visible sign of man's innate love of loveliness. It reveals man on his artistic side. Beauty, it would seem, has a magnetic charm for him; and the ornamental display of flowers betokens his bent for, and instinctive homage of beauty. And to say this of man in one grade of life is to say it of all sorts and conditions of men; and to say it of one garden is to say it of all--whether the garden be the child of quality or of lowliness; whether it adorn castle, manor-house, villa, road-side cottage or signalman's box at the railway siding, or Japanese or British tea-garden, or Babylonian terrace or Platonic grove at Athens--in each case it was made for eye-delight at Beauty's bidding. Even the Puritan, for all his gloomy creed and bleak undecorated life, is Romanticist here; the hater of outward show turns rank courtier at a pageant of flowers: he will dare the devil at any moment, but not life without flowers. And so we have him lovingly bending over the plants of his home-garden, packing the seeds to carry with him into exile, as though these could make expatriation tolerable. "There is not a softer trait to be found in the character of these stern men than that they should have been sensible of their flower-roots clinging among the fibres of their rugged hearts, and have felt the necessity of bringing them over sea and making them hereditary in the new land." (Hawthorne, "Our Old Home," p. 77.) But to take a higher point of view. A garden is, in many ways, the "mute gospel" it has been declared to be. It is the memorial of Paradise lost, the pledge of Paradise regained. It is so much of earth's surface redeemed from the scar of the fall: "Who loves a garden still keeps his Eden." Its territories stand, so to speak, betwixt heaven and earth, so that it shares the cross-lights of each. It parades the joys of earth, yet no less hints the joys of heaven. It tells of man's happy tillage of his plot of ground, yet blazes abroad the infinite abundance of God's wide husbandry of the world. It bespeaks the glory of earth's array, yet publishes its passingness.[6] [Footnote 6: Think of "a paradise not like this of ours with so much pains and curiosity made with hands"--says Evelyn, in the middle of a rhapsody on flowers--"eternal in the heavens, where all the trees are trees of life, the flowers all amaranths; all the plants perennial, ever verdant, ever pregnant, and where those who desire knowledge may taste freely of the fruit of that tree which cost the first gardener and posterity so dear." (Sylva, "Of Forest-trees," p. 148.)] Again. The punctual waking of the flowers to new life upon the ruin of the old is unfavourable to the fashionable theory of extinction, for it shows death as the prelude of life. Nevertheless, be it admitted, the garden-allegory points not all one way; it is, so to speak, a paradox that mocks while it comforts. For a garden is ever perplexing us with the "riddle of the painful earth," ever challenging our faith with its counter-proof, ever thrusting before our eyes the abortive effort, the inequality of lot (two roses on a single stem, the one full-blown, a floral paragon, the other dwarfed and withered), the permitted spite of destiny which favours the fittest and drives the weak to the wall--ever preaching, with damnable iteration, the folly of resisting the ills that warp life and blight fair promise. And yet while this is so, the annual spectacle of spring's fresh repair--the awakening from winter's trance--the new life that grows in the womb of the tomb--is happy augury to the soul that passes away, immature and but half-expressed, of lusty days and consummate powers in the everlasting garden of God. It is this very garden's message, "the best is yet to be," that smothers the self-pitying whine in poor David Gray's Elegy[7] and braces his spirit with the tonic of a wholesome pride. To the human flower that is born to blush unseen, or born, perchance, not to bloom at all, but only to feel the quickening thrill of April-passion--the first sweet consciousness of life--the electric touch in the soul like the faint beatings in the calyx of the rose--and then to die, to die "not knowing what it was to live"--to such seemingly cancelled souls the garden's message is "trust, acquiesce, be passive in the Master's hand: the game of life is lost, but not for aye-- ... "There is life with God In other Kingdom of a sweeter air: In Eden every flower is blown." [Footnote 7: "My Epitaph." "Below lies one whose name was traced in sand-- He died, not knowing what it was to live; Died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood And maiden thought electrified his soul: Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh In a proud sorrow! There is life with God, In other Kingdom of a sweeter air; In Eden every flower is blown. Amen." David Gray ("A Poet's Sketch-book," R. Buchanan, p. 81.)] To come back to lower ground, a garden represents what one may call the first simplicity of external Nature's ways and means, and the first simplicity of man's handling of them, carried to distinction. On one side we have Nature's "unpremeditated art" surpassed upon its own lines--Nature's tardy efforts and common elementary traits pushed to a masterpiece. On the other side is the callow craft of Adam's "'prentice han'," turned into scrupulous nice-fingered Art, with forcing-pits, glass-houses, patent manures, scientific propagation, and the accredited rules and hoarded maxims of a host of horticultural journals at its back. Or, to run still more upon fancy. A garden is a place where these two whilom foes--Nature and man--patch up a peace for the nonce. Outside the garden precincts--in the furrowed field, in the forest, the quarry, the mine, out upon the broad seas--the feud still prevails that began as our first parents found themselves on the wrong side of the gate of Paradise. But "Here contest grows but interchange of love"-- here the old foes have struck a truce and are leagued together in a kind of idyllic intimacy, as is witnessed in their exchange of grace for grace, and the crowning touch that each puts upon the other's efforts. The garden, I have said, is a sort of "betweenity"--part heaven, part earth, in its suggestions; so, too, in its make-up is it part Nature, part man: for neither can strictly say "I made the garden" to disregard the other's share in it. True, that behind all the contents of the place sits primal Nature, but Nature "to advantage dressed," Nature in a rich disguise, Nature delicately humoured, stamped with new qualities, furnished with a new momentum, led to new conclusions, by man's skill in selection and artistic concentration. True, that the contents of the place have their originals somewhere in the wild--in forest or coppice, or meadow, or hedgerow, swamp, jungle, Alp, or plain hillside. We can run each thing to earth any day, only that a change has passed over them; what in its original state was complex or general, is here made a chosen particular; what was monotonous out there, is here mixed and contrasted; what was rank and ragged there, is here taught to be staid and fine; what had a fugitive beauty there, has here its beauty prolonged, and is combined with other items, made "of imagination all compact." Man has taken the several things and transformed them; and in the process, they passed, as it were, through the crucible of his mind to reappear in daintier guise; in the process, the face of Nature became, so to speak, humanised: man's artistry conveyed an added charm. Judged thus, a garden is, at one and the same time, the response which Nature makes to man's overtures, and man's answer to the standing challenge of open-air beauty everywhere. Here they work no longer in a spirit of rivalry, but for the attainment of a common end. We cannot dissociate them in the garden. A garden is man's transcript of the woodland world: it is common vegetation ennobled: outdoor scenery neatly writ in man's small hand. It is a sort of twin-picture, conceived of man in the studio of his brain, painted upon Nature's canvas with the aid of her materials--a twin-essay where Nature's ... "primal mind That flows in streams, that breathes in wind" supplies the matter, man the style. It is Nature's rustic language made fluent and intelligible--Nature's garrulous prose tersely recast--changed into imaginative shapes, touched to finer issues. "What is a garden?" For answer come hither: be Fancy's guest a moment. Turn in from the dusty high-road and noise of practical things--for "Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love"; descend the octagonal steps; cross the green court, bright with great urns of flowers, that fronts the house; pass under the arched doorway in the high enclosing wall, with its gates traceried with rival wreaths of beaten iron and clambering sprays of jasmine and rose, and, from the vantage-ground of the terrace-platform where we stand, behold an art-enchanted world, where the alleys with their giddy cunning, their gentle gloom, their cross-lights and dappled shadows of waving boughs, make paths of fantasy--where the water in the lake quivers to the wind's soft footprints, or sparkles where the swallows dip, or springs in jets out of shapely fountain, or, oozing from bronze dolphin's mouth, slides down among moss-flecked stones into a deep dark pool, and is seen anon threading with still foot the careless-careful curved banks fringed with flowering shrubs and trailing willows and brambles--where the flowers smile out of dainty beds in the sunny ecstasy of "sweet madness"--where the air is flooded with fragrance, and the mixed music of trembling leaves, falling water, singing birds, and the drowsy hum of innumerable insects' wings. "What is a garden?" It is man's report of earth at her best. It is earth emancipated from the commonplace. Earth is man's intimate possession--Earth arrayed for beauty's bridal. It is man's love of loveliness carried to excess--man's craving for the ideal grown to a fine lunacy. It is piquant wonderment; culminated beauty, that for all its combination of telling and select items, can still contrive to look natural, debonair, native to its place. A garden is Nature aglow, illuminated with new significance. It is Nature on parade before men's eyes; Flodden Field in every parish, where on summer days she holds court in "lanes of splendour," beset with pomp and pageantry more glorious than all the kings'. "Why is a garden made?" Primarily, it would seem, to gratify man's craving for beauty. Behind fine gardening is fine desire. It is a plain fact that men do not make beautiful things merely for the sake of something to do, but, rather, because their souls compel them. Any beautiful work of art is a feat, an essay, of human soul. Someone has said that "noble dreams are great realities"--this in praise of unrealised dreams; but here, in the fine garden, is the noble dream and the great reality. Here it may be objected that the ordinary garden is, after all, only a compromise between the common and the ideal: half may be for the lust of the eye, yet half is for domestic drudgery; half is for beauty, half for use. The garden is contrived "a double debt to pay." Yonder mass of foliage that bounds the garden, with its winding intervals of turf and look of expansiveness, it serves to conceal villadom and the hulking paper-factory beyond; that rock-garden with its developed geological formation, dotted over with choice Alpine plants, that the stranger comes to see. It is nothing but the quarry from whence the stone was dug that built the house. Those banks of evergreens, full of choice specimens, what are they but on one side the screen to your kitchen stuff, and on the other side, the former tenant's contrivance to assist him in forgetting his neighbour? Even so, my friend, an it please you! You are of those who, in Sainte-Beuve's phrase, would sever a bee in two, if you could! The garden, you say, is a compromise between the common and the ideal. Yet nobility comes in low disguises. We have seen that the garden is wild Nature elevated and transformed by man's skill in selection and artistic concentration--wild things to which man's art has given dignity. The common flowers of the cottager's garden tell of centuries of collaboration. The flowers and shrubs and trees with which you have adorned your own grounds were won for you by the curiosity, the aspiration, the patient roaming and ceaseless research of a long list of old naturalists; the design of your garden, its picturesque divisions and beds, a result of the social sense, the faculty for refined enjoyment, the constructive genius of the picked minds of the civilised world in all ages. The methods of planting approved of to-day, carrying us back to the admirably-dressed grounds of the ancient castles and abbeys, to the love of woodland scenery, which is said to be a special characteristic of Teutonic people, which is evidenced in the early English ballads; to the slowly acquired traditions of garden-masters like Bacon, Temple, Evelyn, Gilpin, and Repton, as well as to the idealised landscapes of Constable, Gainsborough, Linnell, and Turner; it is, in fact, the issue of the practical insight, the wood-craft, and idealistic skill of untold generations. In this matter of floral beauty and garden-craft man has ever declared himself a prey to the "malady of the ideal"; the Japanese will even combine upon his trees the tints of spring and autumn.[8] But everywhere, and in all ages of the civilised world, man spares no pains to acquire the choicest specimens, the rarest plants, and to give to each thing so acquired the ideally best expression of which it is capable. It is as though Eden-memories still haunted the race with the solicitude of an inward voice that refused to be silenced, and is satisfied with nothing short of the best. [Footnote 8: "This strange combination of autumn and spring tints is a very usual sight in Japan.... It is worth noting that in Japan a tree is considered chiefly for its form and tint, not for use.... I heard the cherry-trees were now budding, so I hurried up to take advantage of them, and found them more beautiful than I had ever imagined. There are at least fifty varieties, from delicately tinted white and pink to the richest rose, almost crimson blossom."--Alfred East's "Trip to Japan," _Universal Review_, March, 1890.] And yet, as some may point out, this homage of beauty that you speak of is not done for nought; there enters into gardening the spirit of calculation. A garden is a kind of investment. The labour and forethought man expends upon it must bring adequate return. For every flower-bed he lays down, for every plant, or shrub, or tree put into the ground, his word is ever the same, "Be its beauty Its sole duty." It was not simply to gratify his curiosity, to serve as a pretext for adventure, that the gardener of old days reconnoitred the globe, culled specimens, and spent laborious days in studying earth's picturesque points; it was with a view to the pleasure the things would ultimately bring. And why not! Had man not served so long an apprenticeship to Nature on her freehold estate, the garden would not so directly appeal to our imaginations and command our spirits. A garden reveals man as master of Nature's lore; he has caught her accents, rifled her motives; he has transferred her bright moods about his own dwelling, has tricked out an ordered mosaic of the gleanings of her woodland carpet; has, as it were, stereotyped the spontaneous in Nature, has entrapped and rendered beautifully objective the natural magic of the outer world to gratify the inner world of his own spirit. The garden is, first and last, made "for delectation's sake." So we arrive at these conclusions. A garden is made to express man's delight in beauty and to gratify his instincts for idealisation. But, lest the explanation savour too much of self-interest in the gardener, it may be well to say that the interest of man's investment of money and toil is not all for himself. What he captures of Nature's revenues he repays with usury, in coin that bears the mint-mark of inspired invention. This artistic handling of natural things has for result "the world's fresh ornament,"[9] and for plant, shrub, or tree subject to it, it is the crowning and completion of those hidden possibilities of perfection that have lain dormant in them since the world began. An artist has been defined as one who reproduces the world in his own image and likeness. The definition is perhaps a little high-flown, and may confer an autobiographical value to an artist's performances that would astonish none more than himself. Yet if the thought can be truthfully applied anywhere, it is where it occurred to Andrew Marvell--in a garden. [Footnote 9: "If you look into our gardens annexed to our houses" (says William Harrison in Holinshed's "Chronicles") "how wonderful is their beauty increased, not only with flowers, which Columella calleth _Terrena Sydera_, saying 'Pingit et in varias terrestria, sydera flores,' and variety of curious and costly workmanship, but also with rare and medicinable herbs.... How Art also helpeth Nature in the daily colouring, doubling and enlarging the proportions of our flowers it is incredible to report, for so curious and cunning are our gardeners now in these days that they presume to do, in a manner, what they list with Nature, and moderate her course in things as if they were her superiors. It is a world also to see how many strange herbs, plants, and annual fruits are daily brought unto us from the Indies, Americans, Taprobane, Canary Isles, and all parts of the world, the which, albeit that his respect of the constitutions of our bodies, they do not grow for us (because God hath bestowed sufficient commodities upon every country for her own necessity) yet for delectation's sake unto the eye, and their odoriferous savours unto the nose, they are to be cherished, and God also glorified in them, because they are His good gifts, and created to do man help and service. There is not almost one nobleman, gentleman, or merchant that hath not great store of these flowers, which now also begin to wax so well acquainted with our evils that we may almost account of them as parcel of our own commodities."--(From "Elizabethan England," pp. 26-7.)] "The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade." And where can we find a more promising sphere for artistic creation than a garden? Do we boast of fine ideas and perceptions of beauty and powers of design! Where can our faculties find a happier medium of expression or a pleasanter field for display than the garden affords? Nay, to have the ideas, the faculties, and the chance of their exercise and still to hold back were a sin! For a garden is, so to speak, the compliment a man of ideas owes to Nature, to his friends, and to himself. Many are the inducements to gardening. Thus, if I make a garden, I need not print a line, nor conjure with the painter's tools, to prove myself an artist. Again, a garden is the only form of artistic creation that is bound by the nature of things to be more lovely in realisation than in the designer's conception. It is no mere hint of beauty--no mere tickling of the fancy--that we get here, such as all other arts (except music) are apt to give you. Here, on the contrary, we are led straight into a world of actual delights patent to all men, which our eyes can see, and our hands handle. More than this; whilst in other spheres of labour the greater part of our life's toil and moil will, of a surety, end as the wise man predicted, in vanity and vexation of spirit, here is instant physical refreshment in the work the garden entails, and, in the end, our labour will be crowned with flowers. Nor have I yet exhausted the scene of a garden's pleasures. A man gets undoubted satisfaction in the very expression of his ideas--"the joy of the deed"--in the sense of Nature's happy response, the delight of creation,[10] the romance of possibility. [Footnote 10: Here is Emerson writing to Carlyle of his "new plaything"--a piece of woodland of forty acres on the border of Walden Pond. "In these May mornings, when maples, poplars, walnut, and pine are in their spring glory, I go thither every afternoon and cut with my hatchet an Indian path thro' the thicket, all along the bold shore, and open the finest pictures." (John Morley's Essays, "Emerson," p. 304.) But, as Mr Morley points out, he finds the work too fascinating, eating up days and weeks; "nay, a brave scholar should shun it like gambling, and take refuge in cities and hotels from these pernicious enchantments."] Some joy shall also come of the identity of the gardener with his creation.[11] He is at home here. He is intimate with the various growths. He carries in his head an infinity of details touching the welfare of the garden's contents. He participates in the life of his plants, and is familiar with all their humours; like a good host, he has his eye on all his company. He has fine schemes for the future of the place. The very success of the garden reflects upon its master, and advertises the perfect understanding that exists between the artist and his materials. The sense of ownership and responsibility brings him satisfaction, of a cheaper sort. His the hand that holds the wand to the garden's magic; his the initiating thought, the stamp of taste, the style that gives it circumstance. Let but his hand be withdrawn a space, and, at this signal, the gipsy horde of weeds and briars--that even now peer over the fence, and cast clandestine seeds abroad with every favouring gust of wind--would at once take leave to pitch their tents within the garden's zone, would strip the place of art-conventions, and hurry it back to its primal state of unkempt wildness. [Footnote 11: "I like your Essays," said Henry the Third to Montaigne. "Then, sire, you will like me. I am my Essays."] Someone has observed that when wonder is excited, and the sense of beauty gratified, there is instant recreation, and a stimulus that lifts one out of life's ordinary routine. This marks the function of a garden in a world where, but for its presence, the commonplace might preponderate; 'tis man's recreation ground, children's fairyland, bird's orchestra, butterfly's banquet. Verse and romance have done well, then, to link it with pretty thoughts and soft musings, with summer reveries and moonlight ecstasies, with love's occasion, and youth's yearning. No fitter place could well be found than this for the softer transactions of life that awaken love, poesy, and passion. Indeed, were its winsomeness not balanced by simple human enjoyments--were its charmed silences not broken by the healthy interests of common daily life--the romps of children, the clink of tea-cups, the clatter of croquet-mallets, the _mêlée_ of the tennis-courts, the fiddler's scrape, and the tune of moving feet, it might well seem too lustreful a place for this work-a-day world. Apart from its other uses, there is no spot like a garden for cultivating the kindly social virtues. Its perfectness puts people upon their best behaviour. Its nice refinement secures the mood for politeness. Its heightened beauty produces the disposition that delights in what is beautiful in form and colour. Its queenly graciousness of mien inspires the reluctant loyalty of even the stoniest mind. Here, if anywhere, will the human hedgehog unroll himself and deign to be companionable. Here friend Smith, caught by its nameless charm, will drop his brassy gabble and dare to be idealistic; and Jones, forgetful of the main chance and "bulls" and "bears," will throw the rein to his sweeter self, and reveal that latent elevation of soul and tendency to romance known only to his wife! "There be delights," says an ancient writer, "that will fetch the day about from sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a delightful dream." This tells, in terse English, the pleasures of a garden and the instincts that are gratified in its making. For a garden is Arcady brought home. It is man's bit of gaudy make-believe--his well-disguised fiction of an unvexed Paradise--standing witness of his quest of the ideal--his artifice to escape the materialism of a world that is too actual and too much with him. A well-kept garden makes credible to modern eyes the antique fable of an unspoiled world--a world where gaiety knows no eclipse, and winter and rough weather are held at bay. In this secluded spot the seasons slip by unawares. The year's passing-bell is ignored. Decay is cheated of its prize. The invading loss of cold, or wind, or rain--the litter of battered Nature--the "petals from blown roses on the grass"--the pathos of dead boughs and mouldering leaves, the blighted bloom and broken promise of the spring, autumn's rust or winter's wreckage are, if gardeners be brisk sons of Adam, instantly huddled out of sight, so that, come when you may, the place wears a mask of steady brightness; each month has its new dress, its fresh counterfeit of permanence, its new display of flowers or foliage, as pleasing, if not so lustrous as the last, that serves in turn to prolong the illusion and to conceal the secret irony and fond assumption of the thing. "I think for to touche also The world which neweth everie daie, So far as I can, so as I maie." This snatch of Gower's rhyme expresses in old phrase the gardener's desire, or clothed in modern prose by Mr Robinson ("English Flower-Garden," Murray), it is "to make each place at various seasons, and in every available situation, an epitome of the great flower-garden of the world." We hinted a moment ago of the interest that a garden gathers from the mark of man's regard and tendence; and if this be true of a modern garden, how much more true of an old one! Indeed, this is undeniable in the latter case, for Time is ever friendly to gardens. Ordinarily his attitude towards all that concerns the memories of man is that of a jealous churl. Look at history. What is history but one long record of men who, in this sphere or that, have toiled, striven, sold their souls even, to perpetuate a name and have their deeds written upon the tablets of eternity, not reckoning upon the "all oblivious enmity" of Time, who, with heedless hand, cuts their past into fragments, blots out their name, confuses their story, and frets with gnawing tooth each vestige of their handiwork. How, then, we ask-- "How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?" Yet so it is. He who has no respect for antique glories, who snaps his fingers at earth's heroes, who overturns the statues of the laurelled Cæsars, encrusts the hieroglyphics of the Pharaohs, and commits their storied masonry to the mercies of the modern Philistine, will make exception in a garden. "Time's pencil" helps a garden. In a garden not only are the solemn shapes and passing conceits of grey epochs treasured up, even to their minutest particulars, but the drift of the years, elsewhere so disastrous, serves only to heighten their fascination and power of appeal. Thus it comes to pass, that it were scarcely possible to name a more pathetic symbol of the past than an old garden,[12] nor a spot which, by its tell-tale shapes, sooner lends itself to our historic sense if we would recall the forms and reconstruct the life of our ancestors. For we have here the very setting of old life--the dressed stage of old drama, the scenery of old gallantry. Upon this terrace, in front of these flower-beds with these trees looking on, was fought out the old battle of right and wrong--here was enacted the heroic or the shameful deeds, the stirring or the humdrum passages in the lives of so many generations of masters, mistresses, children, and servants, who in far-off times have lived, loved, and died in the grey homestead hard by. "Now they are dead," as Victor Hugo says--"they are dead, but the flowers last always." [Footnote 12: Time does much for a garden. There is a story of an American plutocrat's visit to Oxford. On his tour of the Colleges nothing struck him so much as the velvety turf of some of the quadrangles. He asked for the gardener, and made minute enquiries as to the method of laying down and maintaining the grass. "That's all, is it?" he exclaimed, when the process had been carefully described. "Yes, sir," replied the gardener with a twinkle in his eye, "That's all, but we generally leave it three or four centuries to settle down!"] Admit, then, that for their secret quality, no less than for their obvious beauty, these old gardens should be treasured. For they are far more than they seem to the casual observer. Like any other piece of historic art, the old garden is only truly intelligible through a clear apprehension of the circumstances which attended its creation. Granted that we possess the ordinary smattering of historical knowledge, and the garden will serve to interpret the past and make it live again before our eyes. For the old place is (to use the journalist's phrase) an "object lesson" of old manners; it is a proof of ancient genius, a clue to old romance, a legacy of vague desire. The many items of the place--the beds and walks with their special trick of "style" the parterre, the promenoir, the maze, the quincunx, the terraces, the extravagances in ever-green sculptures of which Pope spoke--what are they but the mould and figure of old-world thought, down to its most characteristic caprice! The assertive air of these things--their prominence in the garden-scenery--bespeak their importance in the scenery of old life. It was _thus_ that our forefathers made the world about them picturesque, _thus_ that they coloured their life-dreams and fitted an adjunct pleasure to every humour, _thus_ that they climbed by flower-strewn stairs to the realm of the ideal and stimulated their sense of beauty. And if further proof be needed of the large hold the garden and its contents had of the affections of past generations, we have but to turn to the old poets, and to note how the texture of the speech, the groundwork of the thought, of men like Milton, Herrick, Vaughan, Herbert, Donne (not to mention prose-writers) is saturated through and through with garden-imagery. In the case of an old garden, mellowed by time, we have, I say, to note something that goes beyond mere surface-beauty. Here we may expect to find a certain superadded quality of pensive interest, which, so far as it can be reduced to words, tells of the blent influences of past and present, of things seen and unseen, of the joint effects of Nature and Man. The old ground embodies bygone conceptions of ideal beauty; it has absorbed human thought and memories; it registers the bequests of old time. Dead men's traits are exemplified here. The dead hand still holds sway, the pictures it conjured still endure, its cunning is not forgotten, its strokes still make the garden's magic, in shapes and hues that are unchanged save for the slow moulding of the centuries. _Really_, not less than metaphorically, the garden-growths do keep green the memories of the men and women who placed them there, as the flower that is dead still holds its perfume. And few will say that the chronicles of the dead do not "Shine more bright in these contents Than unwept stone besmeared with sluttish time." There is a wealth of quiet interest in an old garden. We feel instinctively that the place has been warmed by the sunshine of humanity; watered from the secret spring of human joy and sorrow. Sleeping echoes float about its glades; its leafy nooks can tell of felicities sweeter than the bee-haunted cups of flowers; of glooms graver than the midnight blackness of the immemorial yews. It is their suggestion of antique experiences that endues the objective elements in an old garden like Haddon, or Berkeley, or Levens, or Rockingham, with a strange eloquence. The recollections of many a child have centred round these objects: the one touch of romance in a narrow, simple life is linked with them. Hearts danced or hearts drooped in this vicinity. Eyes that brimmed over with laughter or that were veiled with tears looked on these things as we look on them now--drank in the shifting lights and shadows on the grass--watched the waving of the cedar's dark layers of shade against an angry sky, "stern as the unlashed eye of God," and all the birds were silent--once took in the sylvan vistas of trees, lawn, fir-ridge, the broad-water where the coots and moor-hens now play (as then) among the green lily-pads and floating weeds, regardless of Regulas in lead standing in their midst; once dwelt upon the lustrous flower-beds, on the sundial on the terrace--noonday rendezvous of fantails--on the "Alley of Sighs," with its clipped beeches, its grey-stone seat half-way down, its rustle of dying leaves, and traditions of intrigue; on the lime avenue full of perfume in the sweet-o'-the-year, on the foot-bridge across the moat, on the streak of blue autumn mist that tracks the stream in yonder meadows where the landrail is croaking, and that brings magically near the beat of hoofs, the jingle of horses' bells, the rumble of homeward wagons on the road, and whiffs of the reapers' songs; on the brief brilliance of the garden-panorama as the wintry-moon gives the black clouds the slip and suddenly discloses a white world of snow-muffled forms, that gleams with the eerie pallor of a ghost, and is as suddenly dissolved into darkness. Simple sights, you will say, and familiar! and yet, when connected with some unique occasion, some epoch of a life, when seen on such a day, at such a supreme, all-absorbing moment from window, open door, terrace, arbour; in the stillness or in the wild rhetoric of the night, the familiar scene, momentarily flashed upon the brain's retina, may have subtly and unconsciously influenced the act, or coloured the thought of some human being, and the brand of that moment's impress may have accompanied that soul to the edge of doom. Because of its hoarded memories we come to look upon an old garden as a sort of repository of old secrets; wrapped within its confines, as within the covers of a sacred book, repose so many pages of the sad and glad legend of humanity. We have before us the scenery of old home idylls, of old household reverences and customs, of old life's give and take--its light comedy or solemn farce, its dark tragedy, its summer masque, its stately dance or midnight frolic, its happy wedlock or its open sorrow, its endured wrong. The place is identified with the fortunes of old families: for so many generations has the old place been found favourable for lovers' tales, for youths' golden dreams, for girls' chime of fancy, for the cut and thrust of friendly wrangles, for the "leisures of the spirit" of student-recluse, for children's gambols and babies' lullabies. Seated upon this mossy bank, children have spelt out fairy tales, while birds, trees, brooks, and flowers listened together. The marvel of its cloistered grace has been God-reminder to the saint; its green recesses have served for Enoch's walk,[13] for poet's retreat; as refuge for the hapless victim of broken endeavour; as enisled shelter for the tobacco-loving sailor-uncle with a wrecked fame; as invalid's Elysium; as haunt of the loafing, jesting, unambitioned man ("Alas, poor Yorick!"); as Death's sweet ante-room for slow-footed age. [Footnote 13: "There is no garden well contrived, but that which hath an Enoch's walk in it."--SIR W. WALLER.] What wonder that Sir William Temple devised that his heart should rest where its memories were so deep-intrenched--in his garden; or that Waterton should ask to be buried between the two great oaks at the end of the lake! (Norman Moore's Introduction to "Wanderings in South America.") And if human affections be, as the poets declare, immortal, we have the reason why an old garden, in the only sense in which it ever is old, by the almanack, has that whisper and waving of secrecy, that air of watchful intentness, that far-reaching, mythological, unearthly look, that effect of being a kind of twilighted space common to the two worlds of past and present. Who will not agree with me in this? It matters not when you go there--at dawn, at noonday, no less than when the sky is murky and night-winds are sighing--and although you shall be the only visible human being present, it is not alone that you feel. A thrill comes over you, a mysterious sense warns you that this is none other than the sanctuary of "the dead," as we call them; the place where, amid the hush of passionless existence, the wide leisure of uncounted time, the shades of once familiar presences keep their "tongueless vigil." They fly not at the "dully sound" of human footsteps; they ask no sympathy for regret which dare not tell the secret of its sorrow; but, with the gentle gait of old-world courtesy, they move aside, and when you depart resume occupation of ground which, for the sake of despairing wishes and memories of an uneffaced past, they may not quit. After life's fitful fever these waifs of a vanished world sleep not well; here are some consumed with covetousness, who are learning not to resent the word "mine" applied by the living owner of hall and garden, field and store; some that prey on withered bliss--the "bitter sweet of days that were"--this, the miser whose buried treasure lies undiscovered here, and who has nothing in God's bank in the other world; this, the author of the evil book; and this loveless, unlovely pair, the ruined and ruiner, yoked for aye; a motley band, forsooth, with "Satan's sergeants" keeping guard! It is ever the indirect that is most eloquent. Someone says: Hence these tokens of a dead past open out vistas for one's imagination and drop hints of romance that would make thrilling reading in many volumes, but which shall never reach Mudie's. Even Nature is not proof against the spell of an old garden. The very trees have an "ancient melody of an inward agony": "The place is silent and aware It has had its scenes, its joys, and crimes, But that is its own affair"-- even Nature forgets to be her cold, impassive self, and puts on a sympathetic-waiting look in a spot so intricately strewn and meshed over with the fibres of human experience. Long and close intimacy with mankind under various aspects--witness of things that happened to squires, dames, priests, courtiers, servitors, page, or country-maid, in the roundabout of that "curious, restless, clamorous being which we call life"--has somehow tinged the place with a sensibility (one had almost said a _wizardry_) not properly its own. And this superadded quality reaches to the several parts of the garden and is not confined to the scene as a whole. Each inanimate item of the place, each spot, seems invested with a gift of attraction--to have a hidden tongue that could syllable forgotten names--to possess a power of fixing your attention, of fastening itself upon your mind, as though it had become, in a sense, humanised, and claimed kindred with you as related to that secret group with whose fortunes it was allied, with whose passions it had held correspondence, and were letting you know it could speak an if it would of "All the ways of men, so vain and melancholy." CHAPTER II. ON ART IN A GARDEN. "O world, as God has made it! All is beauty." ROBERT BROWNING. In dealing with our second point--the ornamental treatment that is fit and right for a garden--we are naturally brought into contact with the good and bad points of both the old and the new systems of gardening. This being so, it may be well at once to notice the claims of the modern "Landscape-gardener" to monopolise to himself all the right principles of garden-craft: all other moods than his are low, all figures other than his are symbols of error, all dealings with Nature other than his are mere distortions. If you have any acquaintance with books upon landscape-gardening written by its professors or their admirers, you will have learnt that in the first half of the eighteenth century, two heaven-directed geniuses--Kent and Brown--all of a sudden stumbled upon the green world of old England, and, perceiving its rural beauties, and the hitherto unexplored opportunities for ornamental display that the country afforded, these two put their heads together, and out of their combined cogitations sprang the English garden. This, in brief, is what the landscape-gardener and his adherents say, and would have you believe; and, to prove their point, they lay stress upon the style of garden in vogue at the time Kent and Brown began their experiments, when, forsooth, traditional garden-craft was in its dotage and had lost its way in the paths of pedantry. Should you, however, chance to have some actual knowledge of old gardens, and some insight into the principles which, consciously or unconsciously governed their making, it may occur to you to ask the precise points wherein the new methods claim to be different from the old, what sources of inspiration were discovered by the new school of gardeners that were not shared by English gardeners from time immemorial. Are there, then, _two_ arts of gardening? or two sorts of Englishmen to please? Is not modern garden-craft identical with the old, so far, indeed, as it hath art enough to stand any comparison with the other at all? Let us here point to the fact, that any garden whatsoever is but Nature idealised, pastoral scenery rendered in a fanciful manner. It matters not what the date, size, or style of the garden, it represents an idealisation of Nature. _Real_ nature exists outside the artist and apart from him. The Ideal is that which the artist conceives to be an interpretation of the outside objects, or that which he adds to the objects. The garden gives imaginative form to emotions the natural objects have awakened in man. The _raison d'être_ of a garden is man's feeling the _ensemble_. One fine day you take your architect for a jaunt along a country-lane, until stopping shyly in front of a five-barred gate, over which is nailed an ominous notice-board, you introduce him to your small property, the site of your new house. It is a field very much like the neighbouring fields--at least, so think the moles, and the rooks, and the rabbits; not you, for here is to be your "seat" for life; and before you have done with it, the whole country far and near will be taught to look as though it radiated round the site and the house you will build upon it--an honour of which, truth compels me to say, the land betrays not the remotest presentiment just now! The field in question may be flat or undulating, it may be the lap of a hillside, the edge of a moor, a treeless stretch of furrowed land with traces of "rude mechanical's" usage, or suggestions of mutton or mangels. The particular character of the place, or its precise agricultural past, matters not, however; suffice it to say that it is a bit of raw, and more or less ungroomed, Nature. Upon this plain, unadorned field, you set your man of imagination to work. He must absorb both it and its whole surroundings into his brain, and seize upon all its capabilities. He must produce symmetry and balance where now are ragged outlines of hillocks and ridges. He must trim and cherish the trees here, abolish the tree there; enlarge this slope, level that; open out a partial peep of blue distance here, or a gleam of silver water there. He must terrace the slope, step by step, towards the stream at the base, select the sunniest spots for the flower-beds, and arrange how best the gardens at their varying levels shall be approached or viewed from the house. In this way and that he must so manoeuvre the perspective and the lights and shades, so compose or continue the sectional lines and general bearings of the ground as to enforce the good points that exist, and draw out the latent possibilities of the place, and this with as easy a hand, and as fine tact as the man can muster. And now to come to our point. A dressed garden, I said, is Nature idealised--pastoral scenery put fancifully, in man's way. A gardener is a master of what the French writer calls "the charming art of touching up the truth." Emerson observes that all the Arts have their origin in some enthusiasm; and the art of gardening has for its root, man's enthusiasm for the woodland world. It indicates a taste for flowers and trees and landscapes. It is admiration that has, so to speak, passed from the stage of emotion to that of form. A garden is the result of the emulation which the vision of beauty in the world at large is ever provoking in man-- "Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures While the landskip round it measures." What of Nature has affected man on various occasions, what has pleased his eye in different moods, played upon his emotions, pricked his fancy, suggested reverie, stirred vague yearnings, brought a sense of quickened joy--pastoral scenery, the music of leaves and waters, the hues and sweetness of country flowers, the gladness of colour, picturesque form of tree or contour of land, spring's bright laugh, autumn's glow, summer's bravery, winter's grey blanched face--each thing that has gone home to him has, in its way, fostered in man the garden mania. Inspired by their beauty and mystery, he has gathered them to himself about his home, has made a microcosm out of the various detached details which sum up the qualities, features, and aspects of the open country; and the art of this little recreated world is measured by the happy union of naturalness and of calculated effect. What sources of inspiration were discovered by the new school of gardeners, I asked a moment ago, which were not shared by English gardeners from time immemorial? The art of gardening, I said, has its root in man's enthusiasm for the woodland world. See how closely the people of old days must have observed the sylvan sights of Nature, the embroidery of the meadows, the livery of the woods at different seasons, or they would not have been capable of building up that piece of hoarded loveliness, the old-fashioned English garden! The pleasaunce of old days has been mostly stubbed up by the modern "landscape gardener," but if no traces of them were left we have still here and there the well-schemed surroundings of our English homes--park, avenue, wood, and water--the romantic scenery that hems in Tintern, Fountains, Dunster, to testify to the inborn genius of the English for planting. If the tree, shrub, and flower be gone from the grounds outside the old Tudor mansion, there still remains the blue-green world in the tapestries upon the walls, with their airy landscapes of trees and hills, hanging-gardens, flower-beds, terraces, and embowered nooks--a little fantastical it may be, but none the less eloquent of appreciation of natural beauty not confined to the gardener, but shared by the artist-maid, who ... "with her neeld composes Nature's own shape, of bird, branch, or berry, That even Art sisters the natural roses." And should these relics be gone, we still have the books in the library, rich in Nature-allusion. The simple ecstasies of the early ballad in the opening stanzas of "Robin Hood and the Monk"-- "In somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and longe, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song; To se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grene, Under the grene-wode tre"; or in a "Musical Dreame"-- "Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us. Love passions must not be withstood, Love everywhere will find us. I livde in fielde and downe, and so did he; I got me to the woods, love followed me." or shall we hear tell from Chaucer how "When that Aprille, with his showrës swoot The drought of March hath pierced to the root, * * * * * Then longen folk to gone on pilgrimages." Or hear from Stowe how the cockney of olden days "In the month of May, namely, on May-day in the morning, every man, except impediment, would walk in the sweet meddowes and green woods, ther to rejoyce their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers and with the harmonie of birds praysing God in their kinde." Or shall we turn to Shakespeare's bright incidental touches of nature-description as in Perdita's musical enumeration of the flowers of the old stiff garden-borders "to make you garlands of," or the Queen's bit in "Hamlet," beginning "There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream." Or to the old Herbals of Wyer, and Turner, and Gerard, whom Richard Jefferies[14] pictures walking about our English lanes in old days? "What wonderful scenes he must have viewed when they were all a tangle of wild flowers, and plants that are now scarce were common, and the old ploughs and the curious customs, and the wild red-deer--it would make a good picture, it really would, Gerard studying English orchids!" [Footnote 14: "Field and Hedgerow," p. 27.] Or shall we take down the classic volumes of Bacon, Temple, Evelyn, Cowley, Isaak Walton, Gilbert White, each in his day testifying to the inborn love of the English for woodland scenery, their study of nature, and their taste in trees, shrubs, and flowers. What a vindication is here of the old-fashioned garden and gardener! What nonsense to set up Kent and Brown as the discoverers of the green world of old England, when, as Mr Hamerton remarks in "The Sylvan Year" (p. 173), Chaucer hardly knows how or when to stop whenever he begins to talk about his enjoyment of Nature. "Chaucer," he says, "in his passion for flowers, and birds, and spring mornings in the woods, and by streams, is hard to quote, for he leads you down to the bottom of the page, and over the leaf, before you have time to pause." The question now before us--"What ornament is fit and right for a garden?"--of itself implies a tendency to err in the direction of ornament. We see that on the face of it the transposition of the simple of Nature into the subtle of Art has its dangers. Something may be put, or something may be left, which were best absent. This may be taken as an established fact. In making a garden you start with the assumption that something must be sacrificed of wild Nature, and something must be superadded, and that which is superadded is not properly of this real, visible world, but of the world of man's brain. The very enclosure of our garden-spaces signifies that Nature is held in duress here. Nature of herself cannot rise above Nature, and man, seeing perfections through her imperfections, capacities through her incapacities, shuts her in for cultivation, binds her feet, as it were, with the silken cord of art-constraint, and puts a gloss of intention upon her every feature. In a garden Nature is not to be her simple self, but is to be subject to man's conditions, his choice, his rejection. Let us briefly see, now, what conditions man may fairly impose upon Nature--what lengths he may legitimately go in the way of mimicry of natural effects or of conventionalism. Both books and our own observation tell us that where the past generations of gardeners have erred it has been through a misconception of the due proportions of realism and of idealism to be admitted into a garden. At this time, in this phase, it was _Art_, in that phase it was _Nature_, that was carried too far; here design was given too much rein, there not rein enough, and people in their silly revolt against Art have gone straight for the "veracities of Nature," copying her features, dead or alive, outright, without discrimination as to their fitness for imitation, or their suitableness to the position assigned to them. To what extent, we ask, may the forms of Nature be copied or recast? What are the limits to which man may carry ideal portraiture of Nature for the purposes of Art? Questions like these would, of course, only occur to a curious, debating age like ours; but put this way or that they keep alive the eternal problems of man's standing to the world of Nature, the laws of idealism and realism, the nice distinctions of "more and less." Now, it is not everything in Nature that can, or that may be, artificially expressed in a garden; nor are the things that it is permissible to use, of equal application everywhere. It were a palpable mistake, an artistic crime, so to speak, to follow the wild flights of Salvator Rosa and Gaspar Poussin, and with them to attempt a little amateur creation in the way of rent rocks, tumbled hillsides, and ruins that suggest a recent geological catastrophe, or antique monsters, or that imply by the scenery that we are living in the days of wattled abodes and savages with flint hatchets. Much, of course, may be done in this line in these days as in the past, if only one have sufficient audacity and a volcanic mind; yet, when it is done, both the value and the rightness of the art of the thing is questionable. "Canst thou catch Leviathan with a hook?" The primæval throes, the grand stupendous imagery of Nature should be held in more reverence. It were almost as fit to harness a polar bear to the gardener's mowing-machine as seek to appropriate the eerie phenomena of Nature in her untamed moods for the ornamental purposes of a garden. And as to the result of such work, the ass draped in the lion's skin, roaring horribly, with peaked snout and awkward shanks visible all the while, is not more ridiculous than the thinly-veiled savagery of an Italian garden of the seventeenth century. Here, then, I think we have some guidance as to the principles which should regulate the choice of the "properties" that are fit for the scenic show of a garden. We should follow the dictates of good taste and of common sense. Of things applied direct from Nature the line should be drawn at the gigantesque, the elemental, the sad, the gruesome, the crude. True, that in art of another kind--in Architecture or in Music--the artistic equivalents of these qualities may find place, but as garden effects they are eminently unsuitable, except, indeed, where it is desired to perpetrate a grim joke. Beyond these limitations, however, all is open ground for the imaginative handling of the true gardener; and what a noble residue remains! Nature in her health and wealth--green, opulent, lusty Nature is at his feet. Of things gay, debonair, subtle, and refined--things that stir poetic feelings or that give joy--he may take to himself and conjure with to the top of his bent. It is for him as for the poet in Sir Philip's Sidney's words--"So as he goeth hand in hand with Nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too-much loved earth more lovely: her world is brazen, _the poets only deliver a golden_." Animated with corresponding desire, the gardener resorts to lovely places in this "too-much loved earth," there to find his stock-in-trade and learn his craft. We watch him as he hies to the bravery of the spring-flowers in sunny forest-glades; to meadow-flats where lie the golden host of daffodils, the lady-smocks, and snake-spotted fritillaries; we see him bend his way to the field of bluebells, the hill of primroses that with "their infinitie Make a terrestrial gallaxie As the smal starres do the skie;" we follow him to the tangled thicket with its meandering walks carpeted with anemones and hung over with sweet-scented climbers; to the sombre boskage of the wood, where the shadows leap from their ambush in unexpected places and the brown bird's song floats upon the wings of silence: to the green dell with its sequestered pool edged round with alders, and willow-herb, and king-fern, and mountain-ash afire with golden fruit: to the corn-field "a-flutter with poppies": to the broad-terraced downs--its short, springy turf dotted over with white sheets of thorn-blossom: to the leaping, shining mountain-tarn that comes foaming out of the wood: to the pine-grove with its columned blackness and dense thatch of boughs that lisp the message of the wind, and "teach light to counterfeit a gloom"; to the widespread landscape with its undulating forest, its clumps of foliage, its gleams of white-beam, silver-birch, or golden yew, amid the dark blue of firs and hollies; its emerald meadows, yellow gorse-covers and purple heather; the many tones of leafage in the spring and fall of the year. And here I give but a few random sketches of Nature, taken almost at random from the portfolio of her painted delights--a dozen or more vignettes, shall we say?--ready-made for garden-distribution in bed, bank, wilderness, and park; things which the old gardener freely employed; features and images which he transferred to his dressed grounds, not copying them minutely but in an ideal manner; mixing his fancy with their fact, his compulsion with their consent; flavouring the simple with a dash of the strange and marvellous, combining dreams and actualities, things seen, with things born "within the zodiac of his own wit"; frankly throwing into the compacted glamour of the place all that will give _éclat_ to Nature and teach men to apprehend new joy. So, then, after separating the brazen from the golden in Nature--after excluding "properties" of the woodland world which are demonstrably unfit for the scenic show of a garden, how ample the scope for artistic creation in the things that remain! And, given an acre or two of land that has some natural capabilities, some charm of environment--given a generous client, a bevy of workmen, horses and carts, and, prime necessity of all, a pleasant homestead in the foreground to prompt its own adornment and be the centre of your efforts, and, upon the basis of these old tracks of Nature and old themes of Art, what may not one hope to achieve of pretty garden-effects that shall please the eye, flatter the taste, and captivate the imagination of such as love Beauty! CHAPTER III. HISTORICAL AND COMPARATIVE SKETCH OF THE ENGLISH GARDEN. "The Earth is the garden of Nature, and each fruitful country a Paradise."--Sir Thomas Browne. In the last chapter I observed that in dealing with our second point--the ornamental treatment that is fit for a garden--we should be brought into contact with the good and bad points of both the old and new systems of gardening. Hence the following discursus upon the historic English garden, which will, however, be as short as it can well be made, not only because the writer has no desire to wander on a far errand when his interest lies near home, but also because an essay, such as this, is ever bound to be an inconclusive affair; and 'twere a pity to lay a heavy burden upon a light horse! At the outset of this section of our enquiry it is well to realise that there is little known about the garden of earlier date than the middle of the sixteenth century. Our knowledge of the mediæval garden is only to be acquired piecemeal, out of casual references in old chronicles, and stray pictures in illuminated manuscripts, and in each case allowance must be made for the fluent fancy of the artist. Moreover, early notices of gardens deal mostly with the orchard, or the vegetable or herb garden, where flowers grown for ornament occur in the borders of the ground. It is natural to ascribe the first rudiments of horticultural science in this country to the Romans; and with the classic pastorals, or Pliny the Younger's Letter to Apollinaris before us, in which an elaborate garden is minutely and enthusiastically described, we need no further assurance of the fitness of the Roman to impart skilled knowledge in all branches of the science. Loudon, in his noble "Arboretum et fruticetum Britannicum," enters at large into the question of what trees and shrubs are indigenous to Britain, and gives the probable dates of the introduction of such as are not native to this country. According to Whitaker, whose authority Loudon adopts, it would appear that the Romans brought us the plane, the box, the elm, the poplar, and the chestnut. (The lime, he adds, was not generally planted here till after the time of Le Nôtre: it was used extensively in avenues planted here in the reign of Charles the Second.) Of fruit trees, the Roman gave us the pear, the fig, the damson, cherry, peach, apricot, and quince. The aboriginal trees known to our first ancestors are the birch, alder, oak, wild or Scotch pine, mountain-ash or rowan-tree, the juniper, elder, sweet-gale, dog-rose, heath, St John's wort, and the mistletoe. Authorities agree in ascribing the introduction of many other plants, fruit trees, and trees of ornament or curiosity now common throughout England, to the monks. And the extent of our indebtedness to the monks in this matter may be gathered from the fact that monasteries abounded here in early times; and the religious orders have in all times been enthusiastic gardeners. Further be it remembered, many of the inmates of our monasteries were either foreigners or persons who had been educated in Italy or France, who would be well able to keep this country supplied with specimens and with reminiscences of the styles of foreign gardens up to date. The most valuable authority on the subject of early English gardens is Alexander Necham, Abbot of Cirencester (1157-1217). His references are in the shape of notes from a commonplace-book entitled "Of the Nature of Things," and he writes thus: "Here the gardens should be adorned with roses and lilies, the turnsole (heliotrope), violets and mandrake; there you should have parsley, cost, fennel, southern-wood, coriander, sage, savery, hyssop, mint, rue, dittany, smallage, pellitory, lettuces, garden-cress, and peonies.... A noble garden will give thee also medlars, quinces, warden-trees, peaches, pears of St Riole, pomegranates, lemons, oranges, almonds, dates, which are the fruits of palms, figs, &c."[15] Here, in truth, is a delightful medley of the useful and the beautiful, just like life! Yet the very use of the term "noble," as applied to a garden, implies that even the thirteenth-century Englishman had a standard of excellence to stir ambition. Other garden flowers mentioned in Alexander's observations are the sunflower, the iris and narcissus. [Footnote 15: See "The Praise of Gardens."] The garden described by Necham bespeaks an amount of taste in the arrangement of the herbs, plants, and fruit-trees, but in the main it corresponds with our kitchen-garden. The next English writer upon gardens in point of date is Johannes de Garlandia, an English resident in France; but here is a description of the writer's garden at Paris. The ground here described consists of shrubbery, wood, grove, and garden, and from the account given it is inferred that both in matters of taste and in the horticultural and floral products of the garden, France had advanced farther than England in garden-craft in the fourteenth century, which is the date of the book. In Mr Hudson Turner's "Observations on the State of Horticulture in England"[16] in olden times he gives notices of the early dates in which the rose was under cultivation. In the thirteenth century King John sends a wreath of roses to his lady-love. Chronicles inform us that roses and lilies were among the plants bought for the Royal Garden at Westminster in 1276; and the annual rendering of a rose is one of the commonest species of quit-rent in ancient conveyances, like the "pepper-corn" of later times. The extent to which the culture of the rose was carried is inferred from the number of sorts mentioned in old books, which include the red, the sweet-musk, double and single, the damask, the velvet, the double-double Provence rose, and the double and single white rose. And the demand for roses seems to have been so great in old days that bushels of them frequently served as the payment of vassals to their lords, both in France and England. England has good reason to remember the distinction between the red and the white rose. [Footnote 16: "Archæological Journal," vol. v. p. 295.] Of all the flowers known to our ancestors, the gilly-flower was perhaps the most common. "The fairest flowers o' the season Are our carnations and streak'd gilly flower." _Winter's Tale._ "Their use," says a quaint writer, "is much in ornament, and comforting the spirites by the sence of smelling." The variety of this flower, that was best known in early times, was the wall gilly-flower, or bee-flower. Another flower of common growth in mediæval gardens and orchards is the periwinkle. "There sprang the violet all newe, And fresh periwinkle, rich of hewe, And flowers yellow, white and rede, Such plenty grew there nor in the mede." It is not considered probable that much art was expended in the laying out of gardens before the fifteenth century; but I give a list of illuminated MSS. in the Library of the British Museum, where may be found illustrations of gardens, and which I take from Messrs Birch and Jenner's valuable Dictionary of Principal Subjects in the British Museum[17] under the head of Garden. [Footnote 17: "Early Drawings and Illuminations." Birch and Jenner. (Bagster, 1879, p. 134.) "Gardens. 19 D. i. ff. I. etc. 20 A. xvii. f. 7b. 20 B. ii. f. 57. 14 803 f. 63. 18 851 f. 182. 18 852 f. 3. b. 26667 f. i. Harl. 4425. f. 12. b. Kings 7. f. 57. 6 E. ix. f. 15. b. 14 E. vi. f. 146. 15 E. iii. f. 122. 15 E. vi. f. 146. 16 G. v. f. 5. 17 F. i. f. 149 _b_. 19 A. vi. f. 2. 109. 19 C. vii. f. i. 20 C. v. ff. 7. _etc._ Eg. 2022. f. 36. _b_. Harl. 4425. f. 160 _b_. 19720. 19 A. vi. f. 109."] There is also a typical example of a fourteenth-century garden in the Romaunt d'Alexandre (Bodleian Library). Here the flower garden or lawn is separated by a wooden paling from the orchard, where a man is busy pruning. An old painting at Hampton Court, of the early part of the sixteenth century, gives pretty much the same class of treatment, but here the paling is decorated with a chevron of white and red colour. To judge from old drawings, our forefathers seem to have been always partial to the greensward and trees, which is the landscape garden in the "egg"! A good extent of grass is always provided. Formal flower-beds do not often occur, and, where shown, they are sometimes surrounded by a low wattled fence--a protection against rabbits, probably. Seats and banks of chamomile are not unusual. A bank of earth seems to have been thrown up against the enclosing wall; the front of the bank is then faced with a low partition of brick or stone, and the mould, brought to an even surface, is planted in various ways. Numerous illustrations of the fifteenth century give a bowling-green and butts for archery. About this date it is assumed the style of English gardening was affected by French and Flemish methods, which our connection with Burgundy at that time would bring about. To this period is also ascribed the introduction of the "mount" in England, although one would almost say that it is but a survival of the Celtic "barrow." It is a feature that came, however, into very common use, and is thus recommended by Bacon: "I wish also, in the very middle, a fair Mount, with three Ascents and Alleys, enough for four to walk abreast, which I would have to be perfect circles, without any Bulwarks or Imbossments, and the whole Mount to be thirty foot high, and some fine Banqueting House with some chimneys neatly cast, and without too much Glass." The "mount" is said to have been originally contrived to allow persons in the orchard to look over the enclosing wall, and would serve not only as a place from which to enjoy a pretty view, but as a point of outlook in case of attack. Moreover, when situated in a park where the deer grazed, the unscrupulous sportsman might from thence shoot a buck. In early days the mounts were constructed of wood or of stone, and were curiously adorned within and without. Later on they resumed the old barrow shape, and were made of earth, and utilized for the culture of fruit trees. Lawson, an old writer of the sixteenth century, describes them as placed in divers corners of the orchard, their ascent being made by "stares of precious workmanship." When of wood, the mount was often elaborately painted. An account of works done at Hampton Court in the time of Henry VIII., mentions certain expenses incurred for "anticke" works; and referring to Bailey's Dictionary, published early in the last century, the word "antick," as applied to curiously-shaped trees, still survives, and is explained as "odd figures or shapes of men, birds, beasts, &c., cut out." From the above references, and others of like nature, we know that the topiary art ("opus topiarum"), which dealt in quaintly-shaped trees and shrubs, was in full practice here throughout the latter half of the middle ages. Samuel Hartlib, in a book published in 1659, writes thus: "About fifty years ago Ingenuities first began to flourish in England." Lawson, writing in a jocose vein, tells how the lesser wood might be framed by the gardener "to the shape of men armed in the field ready to give battell; or swift-running greyhounds, or of well-scented and true-running hounds to chase the deere or hunt the hare"; adding as a recommendation that "this kinde of hunting shall not waste your corne, nor much your coyne!" I find that John Leland in his Itinerary, 1540, further confirms the use of highly-decorated mounts: as at Wressel Castle, Yorkshire, he tells of the gardens with the mote, and the orchards as exceeding fair; "and yn the orchardes were mounts writhen about with degrees, like the turnings in cokil shelles, to come to the top without payne." There is still to be seen, or according to Murray's Guide, 1876, was then to be seen, at Wotton, in Surrey, an artificial mount cut into terraces, which is a relic of Evelyn's work. The general shape of an old-fashioned garden is a perfect square, which we take to be reminiscent of the square patch of ground which, in early days, was partitioned off for the use of the family, and walled to exclude cattle, or to define the property. It also repeats the quadrangular court of big Tudor houses. We may also assume that the shape would commend itself to the taste of the Renascence School of the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, as being that of classic times; for the antique garden was fashioned in a square with enclosures of trellis-work, espaliers, and clipt box hedges, regularly ornamented with vases, fountains, and statuary. The square shape was common to the French and Italian gardens also. Old views of Du Cerceau, an architect of the time of Charles IX. and Henry III., show a square in one part of the grounds and a circular labyrinth in another: scarcely a plot but has this arrangement. The point to note, however, is, that while the English garden might take the same general outline as the foreign, it had its own peculiarities; and although each country develops the fantastic ornament common to the stiff garden of the period in its own way, things are not carried to the same pitch of extravagant fancy in England as in France, Holland, or Italy. Upon a general review of the subject of ornamental gardens, English and foreign, we arrive at the conclusion that the type of garden produced by any country is a question of soil and physical features, and a question of race. The character of the scenery of a country, the section of the land generally, no less than the taste of the people who dwell in it, prescribes the style of the type of garden. The hand of Nature directs the hand of Art. Thus, in a hilly country like Italy, Nature herself prompts the division of the garden-spaces into wide terraces, while Art, on her side, provides that the terraces shall be well-proportioned as to width and height, and suitably defined by masonry walls having balustraded fronts, flights of steps, arcades, temples, vases, statues, &c. Lady Mary Montagu's description of the _Giardino Jiusti_ is a case in point: she depicts, as far as words can, how admirably it complies with the conditions of the scenery. The palace lies at the foot of a mountain "near three miles high, covered with a wood of orange, lemon, citron, and pomegranate trees, which is all cut up into walks, and divided into terraces that you may go into a separate garden from every floor of the house, diversified with fountains, cascades, and statues, and joined by easy marble staircases, which lead from one to another." It is a hundred years since this description was written, but the place is little altered to this day: "Who will now take the pains to climb its steep paths, will find the same charm in the aged cypresses, the oddly clipped ilexes and boxes, the stiff terraces and narrow, and now overgrown, beds."[18] [Footnote 18: "The Garden."--WALTHER HOWE.] In France, where estates are larger, and the surface of the country more even and regular, the ornamental grounds, while following the Italian in certain particulars, are of wider range on the flat, and they attain picturesqueness upon lines of their own. The taste of the people, conveniently answering to the conditions of the country, runs upon long avenues and spacious grounds, divided by massive trellises into a series of ornamental sections--_Bocages_, _Cabinets de Verdure_, &c., which by their form and name, flatter the Arcadian sentiment of a race much given to idealisation. "I am making winding alleys all round my park, which will be of great beauty," writes Madame de Sévigné, in 1671. "As to my labyrinth, it is neat, it has green plots, and the palisades are breast-high; it is a lovable spot." The French have parks, says the travelled Heutzner, but nothing is more different, both in compass and direction, than those common to England. In France they invented the parks as fit surroundings to the fine palaces built by Mansard and Le Nôtre, and the owners of these stately chateaux gratified their taste for Nature in an afternoon promenade on a broad stone terrace, gazing over a carved balustrade at a world made truly artificial to suit the period. The style of Le Nôtre is, in fact, based upon the theory that Nature shall contribute a bare space upon which man shall lay out a garden of symmetrical character, and trees, shrubs, and flowers are regarded as so much raw material, out of which Art shall carve her effects. Indeed, the desire for symmetry is carried to such extravagant lengths that the largest parks become only a series of square or oblong enclosures, regularly planted walks, bounded by chestnuts or limes; while the gardens are equally cut up into lines of trellises and palisades. In describing the Paris gardens Horace Walpole says, "they form light corridors and transpicuous arbours, through which the sunbeams play and checker the shade, set off the statues, vases, and flowers, that marry with their gaudy hotels, and suit the gallant and idle society who paint the walks between their parterres, and realise the fantastic scenes of Watteau and Durfé!" In another place he says that "many French groves seem green chests set upon poles. In the garden of Marshall de Biron, at Paris, consisting of fourteen acres, every walk is button-holed on each side by lines of flower-pots, which succeed in their seasons. When I saw it there were nine thousand pots of asters or la Reine Marguerite." In Holland, which Butler sarcastically describes as "A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd, In which they do not live, but go aboard"-- the conditions are not favourable to gardening. Man is here indebted to Nature, in the first place, for next to nothing: Air, Earth, and Water are, as it were, under his control. The trees grow, the rivers run, as they are directed; and the very air is made to pay toll by means of the windmills. To begin with, Holland has a meagre list of indigenous trees and shrubs, and scarcely an indigenous ligneous flora. There is little wood in the country, for the heavy winds are calculated to destroy high-growing trees, and the roots cannot penetrate into the ground to any depth, without coming to water. The land is flat, and although artificial mountains of granite brought from Norway and Sweden have been erected as barriers against the sea, there is scarcely a stone to be found except in the Island of Urk. The conditions of the country being so unfavourable to artistic handling, it needs a determined effort on man's part to lift things above the dead-level of the mean and commonplace. Yet see how Nature's defects may only prove Art's opportunity! Indeed, it is singular to note how, as it were, in a spirit of noble contrariness, the Dutch garden exhibits the opposite grace of each natural defect of the land. The great plains intersected with sullen watercourses yield up only slight strips of land, _therefore_ these niggardly strips, snatched from "an amphibious world" (as Goldsmith terms it), shall be crammed with beauty. The landscape outside gapes with uniform dulness, _therefore_ the garden within shall be spick and span. The flat treeless expanse outside offers no objects for measuring distance, _therefore_ the perspective of the garden shall be a marvel of adroit planning and conjured proportions. The room is small, _therefore_ its every inch shall seem an ell. The garden is a mere patch, _therefore_ the patch shall be elaborately darned and pattern-stitched all over. The eye may not travel far, or can get no joy in a distant view, _therefore_ it shall rest in pure content, focussed upon a scene where rich and orderly garniture can no farther go. Thus have the ill-conditions of the land proved blessings in disguise. Necessity, the mother of invention, has produced the Dutch garden out of the most untoward geography, and if we find in its qualities and features traces of the conditions which surrounded its birth and development it is no wonder. Who shall blame the prim shapes and economical culture where even gross deception shall pass for a virtue if it be successful! Or the regular strips of ground, the long straight canals, the adroit vistas of grassy terraces long-drawn out, the trees ranged in pots, or planted in the ground at set intervals and carefully shorn to preserve the limit of their shade! Nay, one can be merciful to the garden's usual crowning touch, which you get at its far end--a painted landscape of hills and dales and clumps of trees to beguile the enamoured visitor into the fond belief that Holland is not Holland: and, in the foreground the usual smiling wooden boy, shooting arrows at nothing, happy in the deed, and tin hares squatting in likely nooks, whose shy hare eyes have worn the same startled gaze these sixty years or more, renewed with fresh paint from time to time as rust requires. Yet the Earth is richer and mankind happier for the Dutch garden! And, as though out of compassion for the Dutchman's difficulties, kind Nature has put into his hands the bulb, as a means whereby he may attain the maximum of gaudy colour within the minimum of space. Given a few square yards of rescued earth and sufficient manure, and what cannot the neat-handed, frugal-minded, microscopic-eyed Dutchman do in the way of concentrated design with his bulbs, his clipt shrubs, his trim beds, his trickles of water, and strips of grass and gravel! And should all other resources fail he has still his pounded brick-dust, his yellow sand, his chips of ores and spars and green glass, which, though they may serve only remotely to suggest Nature, will at all events carry your mind off to the gay gardens of precious stones of fairyland literature! Indeed, once embarked upon his style of piquancy-at-any-price, and it is hard to see where the Dutch gardener need stop! In this sophisticated trifling--this lapidary's mosaic--this pastry-cook's decoration--this child's puzzle of coloured earth, substituted for coloured living flowers--he pushes Art farther than the plain Englishman approves. It is, however, only one step farther than ordinary with him. All his dealings with Nature are of this abstract sort: his details are clever, and he is ingenious, if not imaginative, in his wholes. Still, I repeat, the Earth is richer, and mankind happier for the Dutch garden. There is an obvious excuse for its over-fancifulness in George Meredith's remark that "dulness is always an irresistible temptation for brilliance." That the Dutchman should be thus able to compete with unfriendly Nature, and to reverse the brazen of the unkind land of his birth, is an achievement that reflects most creditably upon the artistic capacities of his nation. But England-- "This other Eden, demi-paradise"-- suggests a garden of a less-constrained order than either of these. Not that the English garden is uniformly of the same type, at the same periods. The variety of the type is to be accounted for in two ways: firstly, by the ingrained eclecticism of the British mind; secondly, by the changeful character of the country--this district is flat and open, this is hilly--so that mere conformity to the lie of the land would produce gardens which belong now to the French type, now to the Italian. It is the same with British Art of all kinds, of all times: in days long before the Norman visitation and ever since, the English Designer has leant more or less upon foreign initiative, which goes to prove either how inert is his own gift of origination, or how devious may be the tastes of a mixed race. But if the English garden cannot boast of singular points of interest, if its art reflects foreign countries, it bears the mark of the English taste for landscape, which gives it distinction and is suggestive of very charming effects. The transcendent characteristic of the English garden is derived from and gets its impulse from the prevailing influence of Nature at home. It has the characteristics of the country. It is, I know, commonly held now-a-days that the taste for landscape is wholly of modern growth. So far as England is concerned it came in, they say, with Thomson in poetry, and with Brown in gardens. So far as relates to the _conscious_ relish for Nature, so far as relates to the love of Nature as a mirror of the moods of the mind, or as a refuge from man, this assertion may be true enough. Yet, surely the _conscious_ delight in landscape must have been preceded by an _unconscious_ sympathy this way: it could not have sprung without generation. Artistic sight is based upon instinct, feeling, perceptions that reach one knows not how far back in time, it does not come by magic. See also what a rude, slatternly affair this much-lauded landscape-garden of the "immortal Brown" was! Here are two sorts of gardens--the traditional garden according to Bacon, the garden according to Brown. Both are Nature, but the first is Nature in an ideal dress, the second is Nature with no dress at all. The first is a garden for a civilised man, the second is a garden for a gipsy. The first is a picture painted from a cherished model, the second is a photograph of the same model undressed. Brown's work, in fact, represents the garden's return to its original barbaric self--the reinauguration of the elemental. Let it not be said, then, that Brown discovered the model, for her fairness was an established fact or she would not have been so richly apparelled when he lighted upon her. In other words, the love of the Earth--"that green-tressed goddess," Coleridge calls her--was no new thing in Brown's day: the sympathy for the woodland world, the love of tree, flower, and grass is behind the manipulated stiff garden of the fifteenth and two succeeding centuries, and it is the abiding source of all enthusiasm in garden-craft. How long this taste for landscape had existed in pre-Thomsonian days it does not fall to us to determine. Suffice it to say that so long as there has been an English school of gardening this sympathy for landscape has found expression in the English garden.[19] The high thick garden-walls of the old fighting-days shall have ample outlooks in the shape of "mounts," from whence views may be had of the open country. The ornamental value of forest trees is well-known and appreciated. Even in the thirteenth century the English gardener is on the alert for new specimens and "trees of curiosity," and he is a master of horticulture. In Chaucer's day he revels in the greensward, "Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete." And the early ballads as I have already shown are full of allusion to scenery and woodland. In the days of fine gardens the Englishman must still have his four acres "to the green," his adjuncts of shrubbery, wilderness, and park. Nay, Henry VIII.'s garden at Nonsuch, had its wilderness of ten acres. "Chaucer opens his Clerke's Tale with a bit of landscape admirable for its large style," says Mr Lowell, "and as well composed as any Claude" ("My Study Windows," p. 22). "What an airy precision of touch is here, and what a sure eye for the points of character in landscape." So, too, can Milton rejoice in "Nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill and dale and plain," and Herrick: "Sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, Of April, May, of June, and July flowers." [Footnote 19: "English scenery of that special type which we call homely, and of which we are proud as only to be found in England, is, indeed, the production of many centuries of that conservatism which has spared the picturesque timber, and of that affectionate regard for the future which has made men delight to spend their money in imprinting on the face of Nature their own taste in trees and shrubs." ("Vert and Venery," by VISCOUNT LYMINGTON; _Nineteenth Century_, January, 1891.)] Nor is this taste for landscape surprising in a country where the natural scenery is so fair and full of meaning. There are the solemn woods, the noble trees of forest and park: the "fresh green lap" of the land, so vividly green that the American Hawthorne declares he found "a kind of lustre in it." There is the rich vegetation, and "in France, and still less in Italy," Walpole reminds us, "they could with difficulty attain that verdure which the humidity of our climate bestows." There are the leafy forest ways gemmed with flowers; the vast hunting-grounds of old kings, the woodland net of hazel coppice, the hills and dales, sunned or shaded, the plains mapped out with hedgerows and enlivened with the glitter of running water: the heather-clad moors, the golden gorse covers, the rolling downs dotted over with thorns and yews and chalk cliffs, the upland hamlets with their rosy orchards, the farm homesteads nestling in green combes, the grace of standing corn, the girdle of sea with its yellow shore or white, red, or grey rocks, its wolds and tracts of rough uncultivated ground, with bluffs and bushes and wind-harassed trees--Nature's own "antickes"--driven like green flames, and carved into grotesque shapes by the biting gales. There are the "Russet lawns, and fallows grey Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest, Meadows prim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide"-- the land that Richard Jefferies says "wants no gardening, it _cannot_ be gardened; the least interference kills it"--English woodland whose beauty is in its detail. There is nothing empty and unclothed here. Says Jefferies, "If the clods are left a little while undisturbed in the fields, weeds spring up and wild flowers bloom upon them. Is the hedge cut and trimmed, lo! the bluebells flower the more, and a yet fresher green buds forth upon the twigs." "Never was there a garden like the meadow," cries this laureate of the open fields; "there is not an inch of the meadow in early summer without a flower." And if the various parts and details of an English landscape are so beautiful in themselves, what shall we say of the scenery when Nature, turned artist, sweeps across it the translucent tints of dawn or sunset, or wind and cloud-fantasy; or veil of purple mist, or grey or red haze, or drift of rain-shower thrown athwart the hills, for the sunbeams to try their edge upon; or any of the numberless atmospheric changes, pure and tender, stern and imperious, that our humid climate has ever ready to hand! Shut in, as we in England are, with our short breadths of view ("on a scale to embrace," remarks George Meredith), folded, as it were, in a field-sanctuary of Nature-life--girt about with scenery that is at once fair, compact, sweetly familiar and companionable, yet so changefully coloured, so full of surprises as the day jogs along to its evensong as to hold observation on the stretch, to force attention to Nature's last word, to fill the fallow-mind of lonely country folk with gentle wonder, and swell the "harvest of a quiet eye," is it strange that a land like ours should have bred an unrivalled school of Nature-readers among gardeners, painters, and poets? "As regards grandeur," says Hawthorne, "there are loftier scenes in many countries than the best that England can show; but, for the picturesqueness of the smallest object that lies under its gentle gloom and sunshine, there is no scenery like it anywhere." ("Our Old Home," p. 78.) The _real_ world of England, then, is, in the Englishman's opinion, itself so fair "it wants no gardening." Our school of gardeners seem to have found this out; for the task of the gardener has been rather that of translator than of creator; he has not had to labour at an artificial world he himself had made, but only to adorn, to interpret the world as it is, in all its blithe freedom. "The earth is the garden of Nature, and each fruitful country a Paradise;" and in England, "the world's best garden," man has only had to focus the view and frame it. Flowers, odours, dews, glistening waters, soft airs and sounds, noble trees, woodland solitudes, moonlight bowers, have been always with us. It might seem ungenerous to institute a comparison between the French and English styles of gardening, and to put things in a light unfavourable to the foreigner, had not the task been already done for us by a Frenchman in a most outspoken manner. Speaking of the French gardens, Diderot, in his Encyclopædia (_Jardin_) says: "We bring to bear upon the most beautiful situations a ridiculous and paltry taste. The long straight alleys appear to us insipid; the palisades cold and formless. We delight in devising twisted alleys, scroll-work parterres, and shrubs formed into tufts; the largest lots are divided into little lots. It is not so with a neighbouring nation, amongst whom gardens in good taste are as common as magnificent palaces are rare. In England, these kinds of walks, practicable in all weathers, seem made to be the sanctuary of a sweet and placid pleasure; the body is there relaxed, the mind diverted, the eyes are enchanted by the verdure of the turf and the bowling-greens; the variety of flowers offers pleasant flattery to the smell and sight, Nature alone, modestly arrayed, and never made up, there spreads out her ornaments and benefits. How the fountains beget the shrubs and beautify them! How the shadows of the woods put the streams to sleep in beds of herbage." This is poetry! but it is well that one French writer (and he so distinguished) should be found to depict an English garden, when architects like Jussieu and Antoine Richard signally failed to reproduce the thing, to order, upon French soil! And the _Petit Trianon_ was in itself an improvement upon, or rather a protest against, the sumptuous splendour of the _Orangerie_, the basins of Latona and of Neptune, and the superb _tapis vert_, with its bordering groves of clipt trees and shrubs. Yet here is Arthur Young's unflattering description of the Queen's _Jardin Anglois_ at Trianon: "It contains about 100 acres, disposed in the taste of what we read of in books of Chinese gardening, whence it is supposed the English style was taken. There is more of Sir William Chambers here than of Mr Brown,[20] more effort than Nature, and more expense than taste. It is not easy to conceive anything that Art can introduce in a garden that is not here; woods, rocks, lawns, lakes, rivers, islands, cascades, grottoes, walks, temples, and even villages." Truly a _Jardin Anglois_! [Footnote 20: Miss Edwards (and I quote from her edition of Young's "Travels in France," p. 101) has a note to the effect that the Mr Brown here referred to is "Robert Brown, of Markle, contributor to the _Edinburgh Magazine_, 1757-1831." Yet, surely this is none other than Mr "Capability" Brown, discoverer of English scenery, reputed father of the English garden!] We may well prefer Diderot's simile for the English garden as "the sanctuary of a sweet and placid pleasure" to the bustling crowd of miscellaneous elements that took its name in vain in the _Petit Trianon_! For an English garden is at once stately and homely--homely before all things. Like all works of Art it is conventionally treated, and its design conscious and deliberate. But the convention is broad, dignified, quiet, homogeneous, suiting alike the characteristics of the country and of the people for whom it is made. Compared with this, the foreign garden must be allowed to be richer in provocation; there is distinctly more fancy in its conceits, and its style is more absolute and circumspect than the English. And yet, just as Browning says of imperfection, that it may sometimes mean "perfection hid," so, here our deficiencies may not mean defects. In order that we may compare the English and foreign garden we must place them on common ground; and I will liken each to a pastoral romance. Nature is idealised, treated fancifully in each, yet how different the quality of the contents, the method of presentment, the style, the technique of this and that, even when the design is contemporaneous! A garden is, I say, a sort of pastoral romance, woven upon a background of natural scenery. In the exercise of his pictorial genius, both the foreign and English artist shall run upon natural things, and transcribe Nature imaginatively yet realisably; each composition shall have a pastoral air, and be rustic after its fashion. But how different the platform, how different the mental complexion, the technique of the artists! How different the detail and the atmosphere of the garden. The rusticity of the foreign garden is dished up in a more delectable form than is the case in the English, but there is not the same open-air feeling about this as about that; it does not convey the same sense of unexhausted possibilities--not the same tokens of living enjoyment of Nature, of heart-to-heart fellowship with her. The foreign garden is over-wrought, too full: it is a passionless thing--like the gaudy birds of India, finely plumed but songless; like the prize rose, without sweetness. Of the garden of Italy, who shall dare to speak critically. Child of tradition: heir by unbroken descent, inheritor of the garden-craft of the whole civilised world. It stands on a pinnacle high above the others, peerless and alone: fit for the loveliest of lands-- ... "Woman-country, wooed not wed, Loved all the more by Earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead"-- and it may yet be seen upon its splendid scale, splendidly adorned, with straight terraces, marble statues, clipped ilex and box, walks bordered with azalea and camellia, surrounded with groves of pines and cypresses--so frankly artistic, yet so subtly blending itself into the natural surroundings--into the distant plain, the fringe of purple hills, the gorgeous panorama of the Alps with its background of glowing sky. With such a radiant country to conjure with, we may truly say "The richly provided, richly require." If we may speak our mind of the French and Dutch gardens, they in no wise satisfy English taste as regards their relation to Nature. Diderot has said that it is the peculiarity of the French to judge everything with the mind. It is from this standpoint that the Frenchman treats Nature in a garden. He is ever seeking to unite the accessory portions with the _ensemble_. He overdoes design. He gives you the impression that he is far more in love with his own ideas about Nature than with Nature herself; that he uses her resources not to interpret them or perfect them along their own lines, but express his own interesting ideas. He must provide stimulus for his imagination; his nature demands food for reverie, point for ecstasy, for delicious self-abandonment, for bedazzlement with ideal beauty, and the garden shall supply him with these whatever the cost to the materials employed. Hence a certain unscrupulousness towards Nature in the French garden; hence the daring picturesqueness, its legerdemain. Nature edited thus, is to the Englishman but Nature in effigy, Nature used as a peg for fantastical attire, Nature with a false lustre that tells of lead alloy--Nature that has forgotten what she is like. In an English garden, as Diderot notes, Nature is handled with more reverence, her rights are more respected. I am willing to allow that something of the reserve traceable in English art is begotten of the phlegmatic temper of the race that rarely gets beyond a quiescent fervour; and this temper, exhibited in a garden would incline us always to let well alone and not press things too hard. If the qualities of an English garden that I speak of are to be attributed to this temper, then, to judge by results, _laissez faire_ is not a bad motto for the gardener! Certain it is that the dominance of man is more hinted at here than proclaimed. Compared with foreign examples we sooner read through its quaintnesses and braveries their sweet originals in Nature: nay, even when we have idealised things to our hearts' full bent, they shall yet retain the very note and rhythm of the woodland world from whence they sprang--"English in all, of genius blithely free."[21] [Footnote 21: Lowell's "Ode to Fielding."] And this is true even in that extreme case, the Jacobean garden, where we have much the same quips and cranks, the same quaint power of metrical changes and playful fancy of the poetry of Herbert, Vaughan, Herrick, and Donne; even the little clean-cut pedantries of this artfullest of all phases of English garden-craft make for a kind of bland stateliness and high-flown serenity, that bases its appeal upon placid beauty rather than upon mere ingenuity or specious extravagance. The conventionalities of its borders, its terraces and steps and images in lead or marble, its ornamental water, its trim geometrical patterns, its quincunx, clipped hedges, high hedges, and architectural adornments shall be balanced by great sweeps of lawn and noble trees that are not constrained to take hands, as in France, across the road and to look proper, but are left to grow large and thick and wide and free. True that there is about the Jacobean garden an air of scholarliness and courtliness; a flavour of dreamland, Arcadia, and Italy--a touch of the archaic and classical--yet the thing is saved from utter affectation by our English out-of-door life which has bred in us an innate love of the unconstrained, a sympathy that keeps its hold on reality, and these give an undefinable quality of freshness to the composition as a whole.[22] [Footnote 22: "Mr _Evelyn_ has a pleasant villa at _Deptford_," writes Gibson, "a fine garden for walks and hedges (especially his holly one which he writes of in his 'Sylva') ... In his garden he has four large round philareas, smooth-clipped, raised on a single stalk from the ground, a fashion now much used. _Part of his garden is very woody and shady for walking_; but his garden not being walled, has little of the best fruits."] To sum up. The main difference in the character of the English and the foreign schools of gardening lies in this, that the design of the foreign leans ever in the direction of artificiality, that of England towards natural freedom. And a true garden should have an equal regard for Nature and Art; it should represent a marriage of contraries, should combine finesse and audacity, subtilty and simplicity, the regular and the unexpected, the ideal and the real "bound fast in one with golden ease." In a French or Dutch garden the "yes" and "no" of Art and Nature are always unequally yoked. Nature is treated with sparse courtesy by Art, its individuality is ignored, it sweats like a drudge under its load of false sentiment. "Sike fancies weren foolerie." But in England, though we hold Nature in duress, we leave her unbound; if we mew her up for cultivation, we leave her inviolate, with a chance of vagrant liberty and a way of escape. Thus, you will note how the English garden stops, as it were, without ending. Around or near the house will be the ordered garden with terraces and architectural accessories, all trim and fit and nice. Then comes the smooth-shaven lawn, studded and belted round with fine trees, arranged as it seems with a divine carelessness; and beyond the lawn, the ferny heather-turf of the park, where the dappled deer browse and the rabbits run wild, and the sun-chequered glades go out to meet, and lose themselves "by green degrees" in the approaching woodland,--past the river glen, the steep fields of grass and corn, the cottages and stackyards and grey church tower of the village; past the ridge of fir-land and the dark sweep of heath-country into the dim waving lines of blue distance. So that however self-contained, however self-centred the stiff old garden may seem to be, it never loses touch with the picturesque commonplaces of our land; never loses sympathy with the green world at large, but, in a sense, embraces and locks in its arms the whole country-side as far as eye can see. CHAPTER IV. HISTORICAL SKETCH--CONTINUED. THE STIFF GARDEN. "All is fine that is fit." The English garden, as I have just tried to sketch it, was not born yesterday, the bombastic child of a landscape-gardener's recipe. It epitomises a nation's instincts in garden-craft; it is the slow result of old affection for, old wonder at, beauty in forms, colours, tones; old enthusiasm for green turf, wild flower, and forest tree. Take it at its best, it records the matured taste of a people of Nature-readers, Nature-lovers: it is that which experience has proved to be in most accord with the character and climate of the country, and the genius of the race. Landscape has been from the first the central tradition of English art. Life spent amidst pictorial scenery like ours that is striking in itself and rendered more impressive and animated by the rapid atmospheric changes, the shifting lights and shadows, the life and movement in the sky, and the vivid intense colouring of our moist climate, has given our tastes a decided bent this way, and fashioned our Arts of Poetry, Painting, and Gardening. Out-of-door life among such scenery puts our senses on the alert, and the impressions of natural phenomena supply our device with all its images. The English people had not to wait till the eighteenth century to know to what they were inclined, or what would suit their country's adornment. From first to last, we have said, the English garden deals much with trees and shrubs and grass. The thought of them, and the artistic opportunities they offer, is present in the minds of accomplished garden-masters, travelled men, initiated spirits, like Sir Thomas More, Bacon, Shaftesbury, Temple, and Evelyn, whose aim is to give garden-craft all the method and distinctness of which it is capable. However saturated with aristocratic ideas the courtier-gardener may be, however learned in the circumspect style of the Italian, he retains his native relish for the woodland world, and babbles of green fields. A sixteenth-century English gardener (Gerarde) adjured his countrymen to "Go forwarde in the name of God, graffe, set, plant, and nourishe up trees in every corner of your grounde." A seventeenth-century gardener (Evelyn) had ornamental landscape and shady woods in his garden as well as pretty beds of choice flowers. "There are, besides the temper of our climate," writes another seventeenth-century garden-worthy (Temple), "two things particular to us, that contribute to the beauty and elegance of our gardens, which are the gravel of our walks and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf; the first is not known anywhere else, which leaves all their dry walks in other countries very unpleasant and uneasy; the other cannot be found in France or in Holland as we have it, the soil not admitting that fineness of blade in Holland, nor the sun that greenness in France during most of the summer." And following upon this is a long essay upon the ornamental disposition of the grounds in an English garden and the culture of fruit trees. "I will not enter upon any account of flowers," he says, "having only pleased myself with the care, which is more the ladies' part than the men's,[23] but the success is wholly in the gardener." [Footnote 23: This remark of Temple's as to the small importance the flower-beds had in the mind of the gardener of his day, is significant: as indicating the different methods employed by the ancient and modern gardener. It was not that he was not "pleased with the care" of flowers, but that these were not his chiefest care; his prime idea was to get broad, massive, well-defined effects in his garden generally. Hence the monumental style of the old-fashioned garden, the carefully-disposed ground, the formality, the well-considered poise and counter-poise, the varying levels and well-defined parts. And only inwoven, as it were, into the argument of the piece, are its pretty parts, used much as the jewellery of a fair woman. I should be sorry to be so unjust to the modern landscape gardener as to accuse him of caring over-much for flowers, but of his garden-device generally one may fairly say it has no monumental style, no ordered shape other than its carefully-schemed _disorder_. It is not a masculine affair, but effeminate and niggling; a little park-scenery, curved shrubberies, wriggling paths, emphasised specimen plants, and flower-beds of more or less inane shape tumbled down on the skirts of the lawn or drive, that do more harm than good to the effect of the place, seen near or at a distance. How true it is that to believe in Art one must be an artist!] And Bacon is not so wholly enamoured of Arcadia and with the embodiment of far-brought fancies in his "prince-like" garden as to be callous of Nature's share therein. "The contents ought not well to be under thirty acres of ground, and to be divided into three parts; a green in the entrance, a heath or desert in the going forth, and the main garden in the midst, besides alleys on both sides; and I like well that four acres be assigned to the Green, six to the Heath, four and four to either side, and twelve to the main Garden. The Green hath two pleasures: the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may go in front upon a stately hedge, which is to enclose the garden." "For the heath, which was the third part of our plot, I wished it be framed as much as may be to a natural wildness," &c. Of which more anon.[24] [Footnote 24: Nonsuch had its wilderness of ten acres.] Whether the garden of Bacon's essay is the portrait of an actual thing, whether the writer--to use a phrase of Wordsworth--"had his eye upon the subject," or whether it was built in the man's brain like Tennyson's "Palace of Art," we cannot tell. From the singular air of experience that animates the description, the sure touch of the writer, we may infer that Gorhambury had some such garden, the fruit of its master's "Leisure with honour," or "Leisure without honour," as the case may be. But what seems certain is, that the essay is only a sign of the ordinary English gentleman's mind on the subject at that time; and in giving us this masterpiece, Bacon had no more notion of posing as the founder of the English garden (_pace_ Brown) than of getting himself labelled as the founder of Modern Science for his distinguished labours in that line. "I only sound the clarion," he says, "but I enter not into the battle." Moderns are pleased to smile at what they deem the over-subtilty of Bacon's ideal garden. For my own part, I find nothing recommended there that a "princely garden" should not fitly contain (especially as these things are all of a-piece with the device of the period), even to those imagination-stirring features which one thinks he may have described, not from the life, but from the figures in "The Dream of Poliphilus" (a book of woodcuts published in Venice, 1499), features of the Enchanted Island, to wit the two fountains--the first to spout water, to be adorned with ornaments of images, gilt or of marble; the "other, which we may call a bathing-pool that admits of much curiosity and beauty wherewith we will not trouble ourselves; as that the bottom be finely paved with images, the sides likewise; and withal embellished with coloured glass, and such things of lustre; encompassed also with fine rails of low statues."[25] [Footnote 25: _Nineteenth Century Magazine_, July, 1890.] No artist is disposed to apologise for the presence of subtilty in Art, nor I for the subtle device of Bacon's garden. All Art is cunning. Yet we must not simply note the deep intent of the old master, but must equally recognise the air of gravity that pervades his recommendations--the sweet reasonableness of suggestions for design that have as much regard for the veracities of Nature, and the dictates of common-sense, as for the nice elegancies and well-calculated audacities of consummate Art. "I only sound the clarion, but I enter not into the battle." Even so, Master! we will hold thy hand as far as thou wilt go; and the clarion thou soundest right well, and most serviceably for all future gardeners! I like the ring of stout challenge in the opening words, which command respect for the subject, and, if rightly construed, should make the heretic "landscape gardener,"--who dotes on meagre country-grass and gipsy scenery--pause in his denunciation of Art in a garden. "God almighty first planted a Garden; and indeed it is the purest of humane pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the Spirits of man, without which Buildings and Palaces are but gross Handyworks. And a man shall ever see, that when ages grow to Civility and Elegancy, men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely: as if Gardening were the Greater Perfection." This first paragraph has, for me, something of the stately tramp and pregnant meaning of the opening phrase of "At a Solemn Music." The praise of gardening can no further go. To say more were impossible. To say less were to belittle your subject. I think of Ben Jonson's simile, "They jump farthest who fetch their race largest." For Bacon "fetches" his subject back to "In the beginning," and prophesies of all time. Thus does he lift his theme to its full height at starting, and the remainder holds to the same heroic measure. If the ideal garden be fanciful, it is also grand and impressive. Nor could it well be otherwise. For when the essay was written fine gardening was in the air, and the master had special opportunities for studying and enjoying great gardens. More than this, Bacon was an apt craftsman in many fields, a born artist, gifted with an imagination at once rich and curious, whose performances of every sort declare the student's love of form, and the artist's nice discrimination of expression. Then, too, his mind was set upon the conquest of Nature, of which gardening is a province, for the service of man, for physical enjoyment, and for the increase of social comfort. Yet was he an Englishman first, and a fine gardener afterwards. Admit the author's sense of the delights of art-magic in a garden, none esteemed them more, yet own the discreet economy of his imaginative strokes, the homely bluntness of his criticisms upon foreign vagaries, the English sane-mindedness of his points, his feeling for broad effects and dislike of niggling, the mingled shrewdness and benignity of his way of putting things. It is just because Bacon thus treats of idealisms as though they were realisms, because he so skilfully wraps up his fanciful figures in matter-of-fact language that even the ordinary English reader appreciates the art of Bacon's stiff garden, and entertains art-aspirations unawares. Every reader of Bacon will recognise what I wish to point out. Here, however, are a few examples:-- "For the ordering of the Ground within the Great Hedge, I leave it to a Variety of Device. Advising, nevertheless, that whatsoever form you cast it into; first it be not too busie, or full of work; wherein I, for my part, do not like Images cut out in Juniper, or other garden stuffs; _they are for Children_. Little low Hedges, round like Welts, with some pretty Pyramids, I like well; and in some places Fair Columns upon Frames of Carpenters' work. I would also have the Alleys spacious and fair." "As for the making of Knots or Figures, with Divers Coloured earths, that they may lie under the windows of the House, on that side which the Garden stands, _they be but Toys, you may see as good sights many times in Tarts_." "For Fountains, they are a Great Beauty and Refreshment, _but Pools mar all, and make the Garden unwholesome and full of flies and frogs_." "For fine Devices, of arching water without spilling, and making it rise in several forms (of Feathers, Drinking Glasses, Canopies, and the like) (see "The Dream of Poliphilus") _they be pretty things to look on, but nothing to Health and Sweetness_." Thus throughout the Essay, with alternate rise and fall, do fancy and judgment deliver themselves of charge and retort, making a kind of logical see-saw. At the onset Fancy kicks the beam; at the middle, Judgment is in the ascendant, and before the sentence is done the balance rides easy. And this scrupulousness is not to be wholly ascribed to the fastidious bent of a mind that lived in a labyrinth; it speaks equally of the fineness of the man's ideal, which lifts his standard sky-high and keeps him watchful to a fault in attaining desired effects without running upon "trifles and jingles." The master-text of the whole Essay seems to be the writer's own apothegm: "Nature is commanded by obeying her." That a true gardener should love Nature goes without saying. And Bacon loved Nature passionately, and gardens only too well. He tells us these were his favourite sins in the strange document--half prayer, half Apologia--written after he had made his will, at the time of his fall, when he presumably concluded that _anything_ might happen. "Thy creatures have been my books, but Thy Scriptures much more. I have sought Thee in the courts, fields, and gardens, but I have found Thee in Thy temples." Three more points about the essay I would like to comment upon. First, That in spite of its lofty dreaming, it treats of the hard and dry side of gardening as a science in so methodical a manner that but for what it contains besides, and for its mint-mark of a great spirit, the thing might pass as an extract from a more-than-ordinary practical gardener's manual. Bacon does not write upon the subject like a man in another planet, but like a man in a land of living men. Secondly, As to the attitude of Bacon and his school towards external Nature. In them is no trace of the mawkish sentimentality of the modern "landscape-gardener," proud of his discoveries, bustling to show how condescending he can be towards Nature, how susceptible to a pastoral melancholy. There is nothing here of the maundering of Shenstone over his ideal landscape-garden that reads as though it would be a superior sort of pedants' Cremorne, where "the lover's walk may have assignation seats, with proper mottoes, urns to faithful lovers, trophies, garlands, etc., by means of Art"; and where due consideration is to be given to "certain complexions of soul that will prefer an orange tree or a myrtle to an oak or cedar." The older men thought first of the effects that they wished to attain, and proceeded to realise them without more ado. They had no "codes of taste" to appeal to, and no literary law-givers to stand in dread of. They applied Nature's raw materials as their art required. And yet, compared with the methods of the heavy-handed realist of later times such unscrupulousness had a merit of its own. To suit their purposes the old gardeners may have defied Nature's ways and wont; but, even so, they act as fine gentlemen should: they never pet and patronise her: they have no blunt and blundering methods such as mark the Nature-maulers of the Brown or Batty-Langley school: if they cut, they do not mince, nor hack, nor tear, they cut clean. In one's better moments one can almost sympathise with the "landscape-gardener's" feelings as he reads, if he ever does read, Evelyn's classic book "Sylva; or, a Discourse of Forest-trees," how they trimmed the hedges of hornbeam, "than which there is nothing more graceful," and the cradle or close-walk with that perplext canopy which lately covered the seat in his Majesty's garden at Hampton Court, and how the tonsile hedges, fifteen or twenty feet high, are to be cut and kept in order "with a scythe of four feet long, and very little falcated; this is fixed on a long sneed or straight handle, and _does wonderfully expedite the trimming of these and the like hedges_." Thirdly, Bacon's essay tells us all that an English garden _can_ be, or _may_ be. Bacon writes not for his age alone but for all time; nay, his essay covers so much ground that the legion of after-writers have only to pick up the crumbs that fall from this rich man's table, and to amplify the two hundred and sixty lines of condensed wisdom that it contains. Its category of effects reaches even the free-and-easy planting of the skirts of our dressed grounds, with flowers and shrubs set in the turf "framed as much as may be to a natural wildness"--a pretty trick of compromise which the modern book-writers would have us believe they invented themselves. On one point the modern garden has the advantage and is bound to excel the old, namely in its employment of foreign trees and shrubs. The decorative use of "trees of curiosity," as the foreign trees were then called, and the employment of variegated foliage, was not unknown to the gardener of early days, but it was long before foreign plants were introduced to any great extent. Loudon has taken the trouble to reckon up the number of specimens that came to England century by century, and we gather from this that the imports of modern times exceed those of earlier times to an enormous extent. Thus, he computes that only 131 new specimens of foreign trees were introduced into England in the seventeenth century as against 445 in the following century. Yet, to follow up this interesting point, we may observe that Heutzner, writing of English gardens in 1598, specially notes "the great variety of trees and plants at Theobalds." Furthermore, to judge by Worlidge's "Systema Horticulturæ" (1677) it would seem that the practice of variegating, and of combining the variegated foliage of plants and shrubs, was in existence at that time. "Dr Uvedale, of Enfield, is a great lover of plants," says Gibson, writing in 1691, "and is become master of the greatest and choicest collection of exotic greens that is perhaps anywhere in this land.... His flowers are choice, his stock numerous, and his culture of them very methodical and curious; but to speak of the garden in the whole, it does not lie fine to please the eye, his delight and care lying more in the ordering particular plants, than in the pleasing view and form of his garden." "_Darby_, at _Hoxton_, has but a little garden, but is master of several curious greens.... His Fritalaria Crassa (a green) had a flower on it of the breadth of half-a-crown, like an embroidered star of many colours.... He raises many striped hollies by inoculation," &c. ("Gleanings in Old Garden Literature," Hazlitt, p. 240.) And yet one last observation I would like to make, remembering Bacon's subtilty, and how his every utterance is the sum of matured analytical thought. This yearning for wild nature that makes itself felt all through the Essay, this scheme for a "natural wildness" touching the hem of artificiality; this provision for mounts of some pretty height "to look abroad in the fields"; this care for the "Heath or Desart in the going forth, planted not in any order;" the "little Heaps in the Nature of Molehills (such as are in wild Heaths) to be set with pleasant herbs, wild thyme, pinks, periwinkle, and the like Low Flowers being withall sweet and sightly"--what does it imply? Primarily, it declares the artist who knows the value of contrast, the interest of blended contrariness; it is the cultured man's hankering after a many-faced Nature readily accessible to him in his many moods; it tells, too, of the drift of the Englishman towards familiar landscape effects, the garden-mimicry which sets towards pastoral Nature; but above and beyond all else, it is a true Baconian stroke. Is not the man's innermost self here revealed, who in his eagerest moments struggled for detachment of mind, held his will in leash according to his own astute maxim "not to engage oneself too peremptorily in anything, but ever to have either a window open to fly out of, or a secret way to retire by"? In a sense, the garden's technique illustrates its author's personality. To change Montaigne's reply to the king who admired his essays, Bacon might say, "I am my garden." Many references to old garden-craft might be given culled from the writings of Sir Thomas More, John Lyly, Gawen Douglas, John Gerarde, Sir Philip Sidney, and others; all of whom are quoted in Mr Sieveking's charming volume, "The praise of Gardens." But none will serve our purpose so well as the notes of Heutzner, the German traveller, who visited England in the 16th century, and Sir William Temple's description of the garden of Moor Park. According to Heutzner, the gardens at Theobalds, Nonsuch, Whitehall, Hampton Court, and Oxford were laid out with considerable taste and extensively ornamented with architectural and other devices. The Palace at Nonsuch is encompassed with parks full of deer, with delicious gardens, groves ornamented with trellis-work, cabinets of verdure, and walks enclosed with trees. "In the pleasure and artificial gardens are many columns and pyramids of marble, two fountains that spout water one round the other like a pyramid, upon which are perched small birds that stream water out of their bills. In the grove of Diana is a very agreeable fountain, with Actaeon turned into a stag, as he was sprinkled by the goddess and her nymphs, with inscriptions." Theobalds, according to Heutzner's account, has a "great variety of trees and plants," labyrinths, fountains of white marble, a summerhouse, and statuary. The gardens had their terraces, trellis-walks, and bowling-greens, the beds being laid out in geometrical lines, and the hedges formed of yews, hollies, and limes, clipped and shaped into cones, pyramids, and other devices. Among the delights of Nonsuch was a wilderness of ten acres of extent. Of Hampton Court, he says: "We saw rosemary so planted and nailed to the walls as to cover them entirely, which is a method exceeding common in England." No book on English gardens can afford to dispense with Temple's description of the garden of Moor Park, which is given with considerable relish, as though it satisfied the ideal of the writer. "The perfectest figure of a Garden I ever saw, either at Home or Abroad."--"It lies on the side of a Hill (upon which the House stands), but not very steep. The length of the House, where the best Rooms and of most Use or Pleasure are, lies upon the Breadth of the Garden, the Great Parlour opens into the Middle of a Terras Gravel-Walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as I remember, about 300 Paces long, and broad in Proportion, the Border set with Standard Laurels, and at large Distances, which have the beauty of Orange-Trees, out of Flower and Fruit: From this Walk are Three Descents by many Stone Steps, in the Middle and at each End, into a very large Parterre. This is divided into Quarters by Gravel-Walks, and adorned with Two Fountains and Eight Statues in the several Quarters; at the End of the Terras-Walk are Two Summer-Houses, and the Sides of the Parterre are ranged with two large Cloisters, open to the Garden, upon Arches of Stone, and ending with two other Summer-Houses even with the Cloisters, which are paved with Stone, and designed for Walks of Shade, there are none other in the whole Parterre. Over these two Cloisters are two Terrasses covered with Lead and fenced with Balusters; and the Passage into these Airy Walks, is out of the two Summer-Houses, at the End of the first Terras-Walk. The Cloister facing the _South_ is covered with Vines, and would have been proper for an Orange-House, and the other for Myrtles, or other more common Greens; and had, I doubt not, been cast for that Purpose, if this Piece of Gardening had been then in as much Vogue as it is now. "From the middle of this Parterre is a Descent by many Steps flying on each Side of a Grotto, that lies between them (covered with Lead, and flat) into the lower Garden, which is all Fruit-Trees ranged about the several Quarters of a Wilderness, which is very Shady; the Walks here are all Green, the Grotto embellished with Figures of Shell-Rock work, Fountains, and Water-works. If the Hill had not ended with the lower Garden, and the Wall were not bounded by a Common Way that goes through the Park, they might have added a Third Quarter of all Greens; but this Want is supplied by a Garden on the other Side of the House, which is all of that Sort, very Wild, Shady, and adorned with rough Rock-work and Fountains." ("Upon the Garden of Epicurus, or of Gardening.") The "Systema Horticulturæ" of John Worlidge (1677) was, says Mr Hazlitt ("Gleanings in old Garden Literature," p. 40), apparently the earliest manual for the guidance of gardeners. It deals with technical matters, such as the treatment and virtue of different soils, the form of the ground, the structure of walls and fences, the erection of arbours, summer-houses, fountains, grottoes, obelisks, dials, &c. "The Scots Gardener," by John Reid (1683) follows this, and is, says Mr Hazlitt, the parent-production in this class of literature. It is divided into two portions, of which the first is occupied by technical instructions for the choice of a site for a garden, the arrangement of beds and walks, &c. Crispin de Passe's "Book of Beasts, Birds, Flowers, Fruits, &c.," published in London (1630), heralds the changes which set in with the introduction of the Dutch school of design. To speak generally of the subject, it is with the art of Gardening as with Architecture, Literature, and Music--there is the Mediæval, the Elizabethan, the Jacobean, the Georgian types. Each and all are English, but English with a difference--with a declared tendency this way or that, which justifies classification, and illustrates the march of things in this changeful modern world. The various types include the mediæval garden, the square garden, the knots and figures of Elizabethan times, with their occasional use of coloured earths and gravels; the pleach-work and intricate borders of James I.; the painted Dutch statues as at Ham House; the quaint canals, the winding gravel-walks, the formal geometrical figures; the quincunx and _étoile_ of William and Mary; later on, the smooth, bare, and bald grounds of Kent, the photographic copyism of Nature by Brown, the garden-farm of Shenstone, and other phases of the "Landscape style" which served for the green grave of the old-fashioned English garden. In the early years of George III. a reaction against tradition set in with so strong a current, that there remains scarcely any private garden in the United Kingdom which presents in all its parts a sample of the original design. Levens, near Kendal, of which I give two illustrations, is probably the least spoiled of any remaining examples; and this was, it would seem, planned by a Frenchman, but worked out under the restraining influences of English taste. A picture on the staircase of the house, apparently Dutch, bears the inscription, "M. Beaumont, gardener to King James II. and Colonel James Grahme. He laid out the gardens at Hampton Court and at Levens." The gardener's house at the place is still called "Beaumont Hall." (See an admirable monograph upon "Col. James Grahme, of Levens," by Mr Joscelin Bagot, Kendal.) One who is perhaps hardly in sympathy with the quaintness of the gardens, thus writes: "There along a wide extent of terraced walks and walls, eagles of holly and peacocks of yew still find with each returning summer their wings clipt and their talons; there a stately remnant of the old promenoirs such as the Frenchman taught our fathers,[26] rather I would say to _build_ than plant--along which in days of old stalked the gentlemen with periwigs and swords, the ladies in hoops and furbelows--may still to this day be seen." [Footnote 26: With regard to this remark, we have to note a certain amount of French influence throughout the reigns of the Jameses and Charleses. Here is Beaumont, "gardener to James II.;" and we hear also of André Mollet, gardener to James I.; also that Charles II. borrowed Le Nôtre to lay out the gardens of Greenwich and St James' Park.] With the pictures of the gardens at Levens before us, with memories of Arley, of Brympton, of Wilton,[27] of Montacute, Rockingham, Penshurst, Severn End, Berkeley,[28] and Haddon, we may here pause a moment to count up and bewail our losses. Wolsey's garden at Hampton Court is now effaced, for the design of the existing grounds dates from William III. Nonsuch in Surrey, near Epsom race-course, is a mere memory. In old days this was a favourite resort of Queen Elizabeth; the garden was designed by her father, but the greater part carried out by the last of the Fitzalans. Evelyn, writing of Nonsuch, says: "There stand in the garden two handsome stone pyramids and the avenue planted with rows of fair elms, but the rest of these goodly trees, both of this and of Worcester adjoining, were felled by those destructive and avaricious rebels in the late war." [Footnote 27: The gardens at Wilton are exceedingly beautiful, and contain noble trees, among which are a group of fine cedars and an ilex beneath which Sir Philip Sidney is supposed to have reclined when he wrote his "Arcadia" here. The Italian garden is one of the most beautiful in England.] [Footnote 28: Of Berkeley, Evelyn writes: "For the rest the forecourt is noble, so are the stables; and, above all, the gardens, which are incomparable by reason of the inequality of the ground, and a pretty _piscina_. The holly-hedges on the terrace I advised the planting of."] Theobalds, in Hertfordshire, had a noble garden; it was bought in 1564 by Cecil, and became the favourite haunt of the Stuarts, but the house was finally destroyed during the Commonwealth. My Lord _Fauconbergh's_ garden at _Sutton Court_ is gone too. As described by Gibson in 1691, it had many charms. "The maze, or wilderness, there is very pretty, being set all with greens, with a cypress arbour in the middle," &c. Sir _Henry Capell's_ garden at Kew, described by the same writer, "has as curious greens, and is as well kept as any about London.... His orange trees and other choice greens stand out in summer in two walks about fourteen feet wide, enclosed with a timber frame about seven feet high, and set with silver firs hedge-wise.... His terrace walk, bare in the middle and grass on either side, with a hedge of rue on one side next a low wall, and a row of dwarf trees on the other, shews very fine; and so do from thence his yew hedges with trees of the same at equal distance, kept in pretty shapes with tonsure. His flowers and fruits are of the best, for the advantage of which two parallel walls, about fourteen feet high, were now raised and almost finished," &c. Sir _Stephen Fox's_ garden at _Chiswick_, "excels for a fair gravel walk betwixt two yew hedges, with rounds and spires of the same, all under smooth tonsure. At the far end of this garden are two myrtle hedges that cross the garden. The other gardens are full of flowers and salleting, and the walls well clad." Wimbledon House, which was rebuilt by Sir Thomas Cecil in 1588, and surveyed by order of Parliament in 1649, was celebrated for its trees, gardens, and shrubs. In the several gardens, which consisted of mazes, wildernesses, knots, alleys, &c., are mentioned a great variety of fruit trees and shrubs, particularly a "faire bay tree," valued at £1; and "one very faire tree called the Irish arbutis, very lovely to look upon and worth £1, 10s." (Lysons, I., 397.) The gardens at Sherborne Castle were laid out by Sir Walter Raleigh. Coker, in his "Survey of Dorsetshire," written in the time of James I., says that Sir Walter built in the park adjoining the old Castle, "a most fine house which hee beautified with orchardes, gardens, and groves of much varietie and great delight; soe that whether that you consider the pleasantness of the seate, the goodnesse of the soyle, or the other delicacies belonging unto it, it rests unparalleled by anie in those partes" (p. 124). This same park, magnificently embellished with woods and gardens, was "improved" away by the "landscape-gardener" Brown, who altered the grounds. Cobham, near Gravesend, still famous in horticultural annals as Nonsuch is for its apples, was the seat of the Brookes. The extent to which fruit was cultivated in old time is seen by the magnitude of the orangery at Beddington House, Surrey, which was two hundred feet long; the trees mostly measured thirteen feet high, and in 1690 some ten thousand oranges were gathered. Ham is described with much gusto by Evelyn: "After dinner I walked to Ham to see the house and garden of the Duke of Lauderdale, which is indeed inferior to few of the best villas in Italy itself; the house furnished like a great Prince's, the parterres, flower-gardens, orangeries, groves, avenues, courts, statues, perspectives, fountains, aviaries, and all this at the banks of the sweetest river in the world, must needs be admirable." Bowyer House, Surrey, is described also by Evelyn as having a very pretty grove of oaks and hedges of yew in the garden, and a handsome row of tall elms before the court. This garden has, however, made way for rows of mean houses. At Oxford, where you would have expected more respect for antiquity, the walks and alleys, along which Laud had conducted Charles and Henrietta, the bowling-green at Christ Church of Cranmer's time--all are gone. The ruthless clearance of these gardens of renown is sad to relate: "For what sin has the plough passed over your pleasant places?" may be demanded of numberless cases besides Blakesmoor. Southey, writing upon this very point, adds that "feeling is a better thing than taste,"--for "taste" did it at the bidding of critics who had no "feeling," and who veered round with the first sign of change in the public mind about gardening. Not content with watching the heroic gardens swept away, he must goad the Vandals on to their sorry work by flattering them for their good taste. For what Horace Walpole did to expose the poverty-stricken design and all the poor bankrupt whimsies of the garden of his day, we owe him thanks; but not for including in his condemnation the noble work of older days. In touching upon Lord Burleigh's garden, and that at Nonsuch, he says: "We find the _magnificent though false taste_ was known here as early as the reigns of Henry VIII. and his daughter." This is not bad, coming from the man who built a cockney Gothic house adorned with piecrust battlements and lath-and-plaster pinnacles; who spent much of his life in concocting a maze of walks in five acres of ground, and was so far carried away by mock-rustic sentiment as to have rakes and hay-forks painted as leaning against the walls of his paddocks! But then Walpole, in his polished way, sneered at everybody and everything; he "spelt every man backward," as Macaulay observes; with himself he lived in eminent self-content. So too, after quoting Temple's description of the garden at Moor Park with the master's little rhapsody--"the sweetest place I think that I have seen in my life, either before or since, at home or abroad"--Walpole has this icy sneer: "Any man might design and _build_ as sweet a garden who had been born in and never stirred out of Holborn. It was not peculiar in Sir William Temple to think in that manner." It is not wise, however, to lay too much stress upon criticisms of this sort. After all, any phase of Art does but express the mind of its day, and it cannot do duty for the mind of another time. "The old order changeth, yielding place to new," and to take a critical attitude towards the forms of an older day is almost a necessity of the case; they soon become curiosities. Yet we may fairly regret the want of tenderness in dealing with these gardens of the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, for, by all the laws of human expression, they should be masterpieces. The ground-chord of the garden-enterprise of those days was struck by Bacon, who rates buildings and palaces, be they never so princely, as "but gross handiworks" where no garden is: "Men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the Greater Perfection"--the truth of which saying is only too glaringly apparent in the relative conditions of the arts of architecture and of gardening in the present day! By all the laws of human expression, I say, these old gardens should be masterpieces. The sixteenth century, which saw the English garden formulated, was a time for grand enterprises; indeed, to this period is ascribed the making of England. These gardens, then, are the handiwork of the makers of England, and should bear the marks of heroes. They are relics of the men and women who made our land both fine and famous in the days of the Tudors; they represent the mellow fruit of the leisure, the poetic reverie, the patient craft of men versed in great affairs--big men, who thought and did big things--men of splendid genius and stately notions--past-masters of the art of life who would drink life to the lees. As gardeners, these old statesmen were no dabblers. They had the good fortune to live in a current of ideas of formal device that touched art at all points and was well calculated to assist the creative faculty in design of all kinds. They lived before the art of bad gardening had been invented; before pretty thoughts had palled the taste, before gardening had learnt routine; while Nature smiled a virgin smile and had a sense of unsolved mystery. More than this, garden-craft was then no mere craze or passing freak of fashion, but a serious item in the round of home-life; --gardening was a thing to be done as well as it could be done. Design was fresh and open to individual treatment--men needed an outlet for their love of, their elation at, the sight of beautiful things, and behind them lay the background of far-reaching traditions to encourage, inspire, protect experiment with the friendly shadow of authority. An accomplished French writer has remarked that even the modest work of Art may contain occasion for long processes of analysis. "Very great laws," he says, "may be illustrated in a very small compass." And so one thinks it is with the ancient garden. Looked at as a piece of design, it is the blossom of English genius at one of its sunniest moments. It is a bit of the history of our land. It embodies the characteristics of the mediæval, the Elizabethan and Jacobean ages just as faithfully as do other phases of contemporary art. It contains the same principle of beauty, the same sense of form, that animated these; it has the same curious turns of expression, the same mixture of pedantry and subtle sweetness; the same wistful daring and humorous sadness; the same embroidery of nice fancy--half jocund, half grave, as--shall we say--Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, Spenser's "Faërie Queene," Milton's "Comus," More's "Utopia," Bacon's Essays, Purcell's Madrigals, John Thorpe's architecture at Longleat. The same spirit, the same wit and fancy resides in each; they differ only in the medium of expression. To condemn old English gardening, root and branch, for its "false taste" (and it was not peculiar to Walpole to think in that manner), was, in truth, to indict our nation on a line of device wherein we excelled, and to condemn device that represents the inspired dreams of some of England's elect sons. To our sorry groundling minds the old pleasaunce may seem too rich and fantastic, too spectacular, too much idealised. And if to be English one must needs be _bourgeois_, the objection must stand. Here is developed garden-craft, and development almost invariably means multiplicity of forms and a marked departure from primæval simplicity. Grant, if you will, that Art is carried too far, and Nature not carried far enough in the old garden, yet did it deserve better treatment. Judged both from its human and its artistic side, the place is as loveable as it is pathetic. It has the pathos of all art that survives its creators, the pathos of all abandoned human idols, of all high human endeavour that is blown upon. What is more, it holds, as it were, the spent passion of men of Utopian dreams, the ideal (in one kind) of the spoiled children of culture, the knight-errantry of the Renascence--whose imagination soared after illimitable satisfaction, who were avowedly bent upon transforming the brazen of this world into the golden, to whom desire was but the first step to attainment, and failure an unknown experience. But even yet some may demur that the interest of the antique garden, as we see it, is due to Nature direct, and not to art-agencies. It is Nature who gives it its artistic qualities of gradation, contrast, play of form and colour, the flicker of sunshine through the foliage, the shadows on the grass--not the master who begot the thing, for has he not been dead, and his vacant orbits choked with clay these two hundred years and more! To him, of course, may be ascribed the primal thought of the place, and, say, some fifty years of active participation in its ordering and culture, but for the rest--for its poetic excitement, for its yearly accesses of beauty--are they not to be credited in full to the lenience of Time and the generous operations of Nature? Grant all that should rightly be granted to the disaffected grumbler, and yet, in Mr Lowell's words for another, yet a parallel case, I plead that "Poets are always entitled to a royalty on whatever we find in their works; for these fine creations as truly build themselves up in the brain as they are built up with deliberate thought." If a garden owed none of its characteristics to its maker, if it had not expressed the mind of its designer, why the essential differences of the garden of this style and of that! Properly speaking, the music of all gardens is framed out of the same simple gamut of Nature's notes--it is but one music poured from myriad lips--yet out of the use of the same raw elements what a variety of tunes can be made, each tune complete in itself! And it is because we may identify the maker in his work; because, like the unfinished air, abruptly brought to a close at the master's death, the place is much as it was first schemed, one is jealous for the honour of the man whose eye prophesied its ultimate magic even as he initiated its plan, and drafted its lines. Many an English house has been hopelessly vulgarised and beggared by the banishment of the old pleasaunces of the days of Elizabeth, or of the Jameses and Charleses, and their wholesale demolition there and then struck a blow at English gardening from which it has not yet recovered. It may be admitted that, in the case of an individual garden here and there, the violation of these relics may be condoned on the heathen principle of tit for tat, because Art had, in the first instance, so to speak, turned her back on some fair landscape that Providence had provided upon the site, preferring to focus man's eye _within_ rather than _without_ the garden's bounds, therefore the vengeance is merited. Yet, where change was desirable, it had been better to modify than to destroy. "Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough." Certain it is that along with the girdle of high hedge or wall has gone that air of inviting mystery and homely reserve that our forefathers loved, and which is to me one of the pleasantest traits of an old English garden, best described as "A haunt of ancient peace." CHAPTER V. THE "LANDSCAPE-GARDEN." "'Pealing from Jove to Nature's bar Bold Alteration pleades Large evidence; but Nature soon Her righteous doom areads."--SPENSER. Why were the old-fashioned gardens destroyed? Firstly, because the traditional garden of the early part of the eighteenth century, when the reaction set in, represented a style which had run to seed, and men were tired of it; secondly, because the taste for foreign trees and shrubs, that had existed for a long time previously, then came to a head, and it was found that the old type of garden was not fitted for the display of the augmented stock of foreign material. Here was a new element in garden-craft, a new chance of decoration in the way of local colours in planting, which required a new adjustment of garden-effects; and as there was some difficulty in accommodating the new and the old, the problem was met by the abolition of the old altogether. As to this matter of the sudden increase of specimen plants, Loudon remarks that in the earlier century the taste for foreign plants was confined to a few, and they not wealthy persons; but in the eighteenth century the taste for planting foreign trees extended itself among rich landed proprietors. A host of amateurs, botanists, and commercial gardeners were busily engaged in enriching the British Arboretum, and the garden-grounds had to be arranged for new effects and a new mode of culture. In Loudon's "Arboretum" (p. 126) is a list of the species of foreign trees and shrubs introduced into England up to the year 1830. He calculates that the total number of specimens up to the time that he wrote was about 1400, but the numbers taken by centuries are: in the sixteenth century, 89; in the seventeenth century, 131; in the eighteenth century, 445; and in the first three decades of the nineteenth century, 699! Men stubbed up the old gardens because they had grown tired of their familiar types, as they tire of other familiar things. The eighteenth century was essentially a critical age, an age of enquiry, and gardening, along with art, morals, and religion, came in for its share of coffee-house discussion, and elaborate essay-writing, and nothing was considered satisfactory. As to gardening, it was not natural enough for the critics. The works of Salvator and Poussin had pictured the grand and terrible in scenery, Thomson was writing naturalistic poetry, Rousseau naturalistic prose. Garden-ornament was too classical and formal for the varnished _littérateur_ of the _Spectator_ and the _Guardian_--too symmetrical for the jingling rhymester of a sing-song generation--too artificial for the essayist "'Pealing from Jove to Nature's bar," albeit he is privately content to go on touching up his groves and grottoes at Twickenham, securing the services of a peer "To form his quincunx, and to rank his vines." Gardens are looked upon as so much "copy" to the essayist. What affected tastes have these critics! What a confession of counterfeit love, of selfish literary interest in gardens is this of Addison's: "I think there are as many kinds of gardening as of poetry. Your makers of parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art; contrivers of bowers and grottoes, treillages and cascades, are romance writers." How beside nature, beside garden-craft, are such pen-man's whimsies! "Nothing to the true pleasure of a garden," Bacon would say. Walpole's essay on gardening is entertaining reading, and his book gives us glimpses of the country-seats of all the great ladies and gentlemen who had the good fortune to be his acquaintances. His condemnation of the geometrical style of gardening common in his day, though quieter in tone than Pope's, was none the less effective in promoting a change of style. He tells how in Kip's views of the seats of our nobility we have the same "tiring and returning uniformity." Every house is approached by two or three gardens, consisting perhaps of a gravel-walk and two grass plats or borders of flowers. "Each rises above the other by two or three steps, and as many walks and terrasses; and so many iron gates, that we recollect those ancient romances in which every entrance was guarded by nymphs or dragons. At Lady Orford's, at Piddletown, in Dorsetshire, there was, when my brother married, a double enclosure of thirteen gardens, each, I suppose, not a hundred yards square, with an enfilade of correspondent gates; and before you arrived at these, you passed a narrow gut between two terrasses that rose above your head, and which were crowned by a line of pyramidal yews. A bowling-green was all the lawn admitted in those times, a circular lake the extent of magnificence." Such an air of truth and soberness pervades Walpole's narrative, and to so absurd an extent has formality been manifestly carried under the auspices of Loudon and Wise, who had stocked our gardens with "giants, animals, monsters, coats of arms, mottoes in yew, box, and holly," that we are almost persuaded to be Vandals. "The compass and square, were of more use in plantations than the nursery-man. The measured walk, the quincunx, and the étoile imposed their unsatisfying sameness.... Trees were headed, and their sides pared away; many French groves seem green chests set upon poles. Seats of marble, arbours, and summer-houses, terminated every vista." It is all very well for Temple to recommend the regular form of garden. "I should hardly advise any of these attempts" cited by Walpole, "in the form of gardens among us; _they are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands_." The truth will out! The "dainter sense" of garden-craft has vanished! According to Walpole, garden-adventure is to be henceforth journeyman's work, and Brown, the immortal kitchen-gardener, leads the way. It were unfair to suspect that the exigencies of sprightly writing had carried Walpole beyond the bounds of accuracy in his description of the stiff-garden as he knew it, for things were in some respects very bad indeed. At the same time he is so engrossed with his abuse of old ways of gardening, and advocacy of the landscape-gardener's new-fangled notions, that his account of garden-craft generally falls short of completeness. He omits, for instance, to notice the progress in floriculture and horticulture of this time, the acquisitions being made in the ornamental foreign plants to be cultivated in the open ground, the green-house, and the stove. He omits to note that Loudon and Wise stocked our gardens with more than giants, animals, monsters, &c., in yew and box and holly. Because the names of these two worthies occur in this gardening text-book of Walpole's, all later essayists signal them out for blame. But Evelyn, who ranks as one of the three of England's great gardeners of old days, has a kindlier word for them. He is dilating upon the advantage to the gardener of the high clipped hedge as a protection for his shrubs and flowers, and goes on to particularise an oblong square, palisadoed with a hornbeam hedge "in that inexhaustible magazine at Brompton Park, cultivated by those two industrious fellow-gardeners, Mr Loudon and Mr Wise." This hedge protects the orange trees, myrtles, and other rare perennials and exotics from the scorching rays of the sun; and it equally well shelters the flowers. "Here the Indian Narcissus, Tuberoses, Japan Lillies, Jasmines, Jonquills, Periclimena, Roses, Carnations, with all the pride of the parterre, intermixt between the tree-cases, flowery vases, busts, and statues, entertain the eye, and breathe their redolent odours and perfumes to the smell." Clearly there is an advantage in being a gardener if we write about gardens (provided you are not a mere "landscape-gardener!"). One cannot deny that Horace Walpole did well to expose the absurd vagaries which were being perpetrated about his time under Dutch influences. Close alliance with Holland through the House of Orange had affected every department of horticulture. True, it had enriched our gardens and conservatories with many rare and beautiful species of flowers and bulbs, and had imbued the English collector with the tulip-mania. So far good. But to the same source we trace the reign of the shears in the English garden, which made Art in a Garden ridiculous, and gave occasion to the enemy to blaspheme. "The gardeners about London," says Mr Lambert, writing to the Linnæan Transactions in 1712, "were remarkable for fine cut greens, and clipt yews in the shapes of birds, dogs, men, ships, &c. Mr. Parkinson in Lambeth was much noticed for these things, and he had besides a few myrtles, oleanders, and evergreens." "The old order changeth ... Lest one good custom should corrupt the world." And now is Art in a Garden become ridiculous. Since the beginning of things English gardeners had clipped and trimmed their shrubs; but had never carried the practice beyond a reasonable extent, and had combined it with woody and shady effects. With the onset of Dutch influence country-aspects vanish. Nature is reduced to a prosaic level. The traditional garden, whose past had been one long series of noble chances in fine company, now found content as the pedant's darling where it could have no opening for living romance, but must be tricked out in stage conventions, and dwindle more and more into a thing of shreds and patches! Having arrived at such a pass, it was time that change should come, and change did come, with a vengeance! But let us not suppose that the change was from wrong to right. For, indeed, the revolution meant only that formality gone mad should be supplanted by informality gone equally mad. And we may note as a significant fact, that the point of departure is the destruction of the garden's boundaries, and the substitution of the ha-ha. It was not for the wild improvers to realise how Art that destroys its own boundaries is certainly doomed to soon have no country to boast of at all! It proved so in this case. From this moment, the very thought of garden-ornament was clean put out of mind, and the grass is carried up to the windows of the great house, as though the place were nothing better than a farm-shanty in the wilds of Westmoreland! But to return to the inauguration of the "landscape-garden." The hour produced its men in Kent, and "the immortal Brown," as Repton calls him. Like many another "discovery," theirs was really due to an accident. Just as it was the closely-corked bottle that popped that gave birth to champagne, so it was only when our heroes casually leaped the ha-ha that they had made that they realised that all England outside was one vast rustic garden, from whence it were a shame to exclude anything! So began the rage for making all the surroundings of a house assume a supposed appearance of rude Nature. Levelling, ploughing, stubbing-up, was the order of the day. The British navvy was in great request--in fact the day that Kent and Brown discovered England was this worthy's natal day. Artificial gardens must be demolished as impostures, and wriggling walks and turf put where they had stood. Avenues must be cut down or disregarded; the groves, the alleys, the formal beds, the terraces, the balustrades, the clipt hedges must be swept away as things intolerable. For the "landscape style" does not countenance a straight line, or terrace or architectural form, or symmetrical beds about the house; for to allow these would not be to photograph Nature. As carried into practice, the style demands that the house shall rise abruptly from the grass, and the general surface of the ground shall be characterised by smoothness and bareness (like Nature)! Hence in the grounds of this period, house and country "Wrapt all o'er in everlasting green Make one dull, vapid, smooth and tranquil scene." There is to my mind no more significant testimony to the attractiveness and loveableness of the _regular_ garden as opposed to the opened-out barbarism of the landscape-gardener's invention, than Horace Walpole's lament over the old gardens at Houghton,[29] which has the force of testimony wrung from unwilling lips:-- "When I had drank tea I strolled into the garden. They told me it was now called the '_pleasure-ground_.' What a dissonant idea of pleasure! Those groves, those _alleys_, where I have passed so many charming moments, are now stripped up, or overgrown; many fond paths I could not unravel, though with a very exact clue in my memory. I met two gamekeepers and a thousand hares! In the days when all my soul was tuned to pleasure and vivacity, I hated Houghton and its solitude; _yet I loved this garden_; as now, with many regrets, I love Houghton;--Houghton, I know not what to call it: a monument of grandeur or ruin!"--(Walpole's Letters.) [Footnote 29: Houghton was built by Sir R. Walpole, between 1722 and 1738. The garden was laid out in the stiff, formal manner by Eyre, "an imitator of Bridgman," and contained 23 acres. The park contains some fine old beeches. More than 1000 cedars were blown down here in February 1860.] "What a dissonant idea of pleasure," this so-called "pleasure-ground of the landscape-gardener!" "Those groves, those alleys where I have passed so many charming moments, stripped up! How I loved this garden!" Here is the biter bit, and it were to be more than human not to smile! With all the proper appliances at hand it did not take long to transform the stiff garden into the barbaric. It did not take long to find out how _not_ to do what civilization had so long been learning how to do! The ancient "Geometric or Regular style" of garden--the garden of the aristocrat, with all its polished classicism--was to make way for the so-called "Naturalesque or Landscape style," and the garden of the _bourgeois_. Hope rose high in the breasts of the new professoriate. "A boon! a boon!" quoth the critic. And there is deep joy in navvydom. "Under the great leader, Brown," writes Repton ("Landscape Gardening," p. 327), "or rather those who patronised his discovery, we were taught that Nature was to be our only model." It was a grand moment. A Daniel had come to judgment! Nay, did not Brown "live to establish a fashion in gardening which might have been expected to endure as long as Nature should exist!" The Landscape School of Gardeners, so-called, has been the theme of a great deal of literature, but with the exception of Walpole's and Addison's essays, and Pope's admirable chaff, very little has survived the interest it had at the moment of publication. The other chief writers of this School, in its early phase, are George Mason, Whately,[30] Mason the poet, and Shenstone, our moon-struck friend quoted above, with his "assignation seats with proper mottoes, urns to faithful lovers," &c. Dr Johnson did not think much of Shenstone's contributions to gardening: "He began from this time to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters, which he did with such judgement and such fancy as made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skilful--a place to be visited by travellers and _copied by designers_. Whether to plant a walk in undulating curves, and to place a bench at every turn where there is an object to catch the view, to make water run where it will be heard, and to stagnate where it will be seen; to leave intervals where the eye will be pleased, and to thicken the plantation where there is something to be hidden--demand any great powers of the mind, I will not enquire; perhaps a surly and sullen spectator may think such performances rather the sport than the business of human reason."--(Dr Johnson, "Lives of the Poets," Shenstone.) [Footnote 30: Thomas Whately's "Observations on Modern Gardening," was published in 1770, fifteen years before Walpole's "Essay on Modern Gardening." Gilpin's book "On Picturesque Beauty," though published in part in 1782, belongs really to the second phase of the Landscape School. Shenstone's "Unconnected Thoughts on the Garden" was published in 1764, and is written pretty much from the standpoint of Kent. "An Essay on Design in Gardening," by G. Mason, was published in 1795.] Whately's "Observations on Modern Gardening," published in 1770, are well written and distinctly valuable as bearing upon the historical side of the subject. It says little for his idea of the value of Art in a garden, or of the function of a garden as a refining influence in life, to find Whately recommending "a plain field or a sheep-walk" as part of a garden's embellishments--"as an agreeable relief, and even wilder scenes." But what astounds one more is, that a writer of Whately's calibre can describe Kent's gardens at Stowe, considered to be his masterpiece, as a sample of the non-formality of the landscape-gardener's Art, while he takes elaborate pains to show that it is full of would-be artistic subterfuges in Nature, full of architectural shams throughout. These gardens were begun by Bridgman, "Begun," Whately says, "when regularity was in fashion; and the original boundary is still preserved on account of its magnificence, for round the whole circuit, of between three and four miles, is carried a very broad gravel-walk, planted with rows of trees, and open either to the park or the country; a deep sunk-fence attends it all the way, and comprehends a space of near 400 acres. But in the interior spaces of the garden few traces of regularity appear; where it yet remains in the plantations it is generally disguised; every symptom almost of formality is obliterated from the ground; and an octagon basin at the bottom is now converted into an irregular piece of water, which receives on one hand two beautiful streams, and falls on the other down a cascade into a lake." And then follows a list of sham architectural features that are combined with sham views and prospects to match. "The whole space is divided into a number of scenes, each distinguished with taste and fancy; and the changes are so frequent, so sudden and complete, the transitions so artfully conducted, that the ideas are never continued or repeated to satiety." In the front of the house two elegant Doric pavilions. On the brow of some rising grounds a Corinthian arch. On a little knoll an open Ionic rotunda--an Egyptian pyramid stands on its brow; the Queen's Pillar in a recess on the descent, the King's Pillar elsewhere; all the three buildings mentioned are "peculiarly adapted to a garden scene." In front of a wood three pavilions joined by arcades, all of the Ionic order, "characteristically proper for a garden, and so purely ornamental." Then a Temple of Bacchus, the Elysian fields, British remains; misshaped elms and ragged firs are frequent in a scene of solitude and gloom, which the trunks of dead trees assist. Then a large Gothic building, with slated roofs, "in a noble confusion"; then the Elysian fields, seen from the other side, a Palladian bridge, Doric porticoes, &c, the whole thing finished off with the Temple of Concord and Victory, probably meant as a not-undeserved compliment to the successfully chaotic skill of the landscape-gardener, who is nothing if not irregular, natural, non-formal, non-fantastical, non-artificial, and non-geometrical. Two other points about Whately puzzle me. How comes he to strain at the gnat of formality in the old-fashioned garden, yet readily swallow the camel at Stowe? How can he harmonise his appreciation of the elaborately contrived and painfully assorted shams at Stowe, with his recommendation, of a sheep-walk in your garden "as an agreeable relief, and even wilder scenes"? Whether the beauty of the general disposition of the ground at Stowe is to be attributed to Kent or to Bridgman, who began the work, as Whately says, "when regularity was in fashion," I cannot say. It is right to observe, however, that the prevailing characteristic of Kent's and Brown's landscapes was their smooth and bald surface. "Why this art has been called 'landscape-gardening,'" says the plain-spoken Repton, "perhaps he who gave it the title may explain. I can see no reason, unless it be the efficacy which it has shown in destroying landscapes, in which, indeed, it seems infallible." (Repton, p. 355.) "Our virtuosi," said Sir William Chambers, "have scarcely left an acre of shade, or three trees growing in a line from the Land's End to the Tweed." It did not take the wiser spirits long to realise that Nature left alone was more natural. And this same Repton, who began by praising "the great leader Brown," has to confess again and again that, so far as results go, he is mistaken. The ground, he laments, must be everlastingly moved and altered. "One of the greatest difficulties I have experienced in practice proceeds from that fondness for levelling so prevalent in all Brown's workmen; every hillock is by them lowered, and every hollow filled, to produce a level surface." (Repton, p. 342.) Or again (p. 347): "There is something so fascinating in the appearance of water, that Mr Brown thought it carried its own excuse, however unnatural the situation; and therefore, in many places, under his direction, I have found water, on the tops of the hills, which I have been obliged to remove into lower ground _because the deception was not sufficiently complete to satisfy the mind as well as the eye_." Indeed, in this matter of levelling, Brown's system does not, on the face of it, differ from Le Nôtre's, where the natural contour of the landscape was not of much account; or rather, it was thought the better if it had no natural contour at all, but presented a flat plain or plateau with no excrescences to interfere with the designer's schemes. So much, then, for the pastoral simplicity of Nature edited by the "landscape-gardener." And let us note that under the auspices of the new _régime_, not only is Nature to be changed, but changed more than was ever dreamt of before; the transformation shall at once be more determined in its character and more deceptive than had previously been attempted. We were to have an artistically natural world, not a naturally artistic one; the face of the landscape was to be purged of its modern look and made to look primæval. And in this doing, or undoing, of things, the only art that was to be admitted was the art of consummate deceit, which shall "satisfy the mind as well as the eye." Yet call the man pope or presbyter, and beneath his clothes he is the same man! There is not a pin to choose as regards artificiality in the _aims_ of the two schools, only in the _results_. The naked or _undressed_ garden has studied irregularity, while the _dressed_ garden has studied regularity and style. The first has, perhaps, an excessive regard for expression, the other has an emphatic scorn for expression. One garden has its plotted levels, its avenues, its vistas, its sweeping lawns, its terraces, its balustrades, colonnades, geometrical beds, gilded temples, and sometimes its fountains that won't play, and its fine vases full of nothing! The other begins with fetching back the chaos of a former world, and has for its category of effects, sham primævalisms, exaggerated wildness, tortured levellings, cascades, rocks, dead trunks of trees, ruined castles, lakes on the top of hills, and sheep-runs hard by your windows. One school cannot keep the snip of the scissors off tree and shrub, the other mimics Nature's fortuitous wildness in proof of his disdain for the white lies of Art. And all goes to show, does it not? that inasmuch as the art of gardening implies craft, and as man's imitation of Nature is bound to be unlike Nature, it were wise to be frankly inventive in gardening on Art lines. Success may attend one's efforts in the direction of Art, but in the direction of Nature, never. The smooth, bare, and almost bald appearance which characterises Brown and Kent's school fails to satisfy for long, and there springs up another school which deals largely in picturesque elements, and rough intricate effects. The principles of the "Picturesque School," as it was called, are to be found in the writings of the Rev. William Gilpin and Sir Uvedale Price. Their books are full of careful observations upon the general composition of landscape-scenery, and what was then called "Landscape Architecture," as though every English building of older days that was worth a glance had not been "Landscape Architecture" fit for its site! Gilpin's writings contain an admirable discourse upon "Forest Scenery," well illustrated. This work is in eight volumes, in part published in 1782, and it consists mainly in an account of the author's tours in every part of Great Britain, with a running commentary on the beauties of the scenery, and a description of the important country seats he passed on the way. Price helped by his writings to stay the rage for destroying avenues and terraces, and we note that he is fully alive to the necessity of uniting a country-house with the surrounding scenery by architectural adjuncts. The taste for picturesque gardening was doubtless helped by the growing taste for landscape painting, exhibited in the works of the school of Wilson and Gainsborough, and in the pastoral writings of Thomson, Crabbe, Cowper, and Gray. It would farther be accelerated, as we suggested at the outset of this chapter, by the large importation of foreign plants and shrubs now going on. What is known as the Picturesque School soon had for its main exponent Repton. He was a genius in his way--a born gardener,[31] able and thoughtful in his treatments, and distinguished among his fellows by a broad and comprehensive grasp of the whole character and surroundings of a site, in reference to the general section of the land, the style of the house to which his garden was allied, and the objects for which it was to be used. The sterling quality of his writings did much to clear the air of the vapourings of the critics who had gone before him, and his practice, founded as it was upon sound principles, redeemed the absurdities of the earlier phase of his school and preserved others from further development of the silly rusticities upon which their mind seemed bent. Although some of his ideas may now be thought pedantic and antiquated, the books which contain them will not die. Passages like the following mark the man and his aims: "I do not profess to follow Le Nôtre or Brown, but, selecting beauties from the style of each, to adopt so much of the grandeur of the former as may accord with a palace, and so much of the grace of the latter as may call forth the charms of natural landscape. Each has its proper situation; and good taste will make fashion subservient to good sense" (p. 234). "In the rage for picturesque beauty, let us remember that the landscape holds an inferior rank to the historical picture; one represents nature, the other relates to man in a state of society" (p. 236). [Footnote 31: Loudon calls this School "Repton's," the "_Gardenesque_" School, its characteristic feature being "the display of the beauty of trees and other plants _individually_."] Repton sums up the whole of his teaching in the preface to his "Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening" under the form of objections to prevailing errors, and they are so admirable that I cannot serve the purposes of my book better than to insert them here. Objection No. 1. "There is no error more prevalent in modern gardening, or more frequently carried to excess, than taking away hedges to unite many small fields into one extensive and naked lawn before plantations are made to give it the appearance of a park; and where ground is subdivided by sunk fences, imaginary freedom is dearly purchased at the expense of actual confinement." No. 2. "The baldness and nakedness round the house is part of the same mistaken system, of concealing fences to gain extent. A palace, or even an elegant villa, in a grass field, appears to me incongruous; _yet I have seldom had sufficient influence to correct this common error_." No. 3. "An approach which does not evidently lead to the house, or which does not take the shortest course, cannot be right. (This rule must be taken with certain limitations.) The shortest road across a lawn to a house will seldom be found graceful, and often vulgar. A road bordered by trees in the form of an avenue may be straight without being vulgar; and grandeur, not grace or elegance, is the expression expected to be produced." No. 4. "A poor man's cottage, divided into what is called a _pair of lodges_, is a mistaken expedient to mark importance in the entrance to a park." No. 5. "The entrance-gate should not be visible from the mansion, unless it opens into a courtyard." No. 6. "The plantation surrounding a place called a _Belt_ I have never advised; nor have I ever willingly marked a drive, or walk, completely round the verge of a park, except in small villas, where a dry path round a person's own field is always more interesting than any other walk." No 7. "Small plantations of trees, surrounded by a fence, are the best expedients to form groups, because trees planted singly seldom grow well; neglect of thinning and removing the fence has produced that ugly deformity called a _Clump_." No. 8. "Water on a eminence, or on the side of a hill, is among the most common errors of Mr Brown's followers; in numerous instances I have been allowed to remove such pieces of water from the hills to the valleys, but in many my advice has not prevailed." No. 9. "Deception may be allowable in imitating the works of Nature. Thus artificial rivers, lakes, and rock scenery can only be great by deception, and the mind acquiesces in the fraud after it is detected, but in works of Art every trick ought to be avoided. Sham churches, sham ruins, sham bridges, and everything which appears what it is not, disgusts when the trick is discovered." No. 10. "In buildings of every kind the _character_ should be strictly observed. No incongruous mixture can be justified. To add Grecian to Gothic, or Gothic to Grecian, is equally absurd; and a sharp pointed arch to a garden gate or a dairy window, however frequently it occurs, is not less offensive than Grecian architecture, in which the standard rules of relative proportion are neglected or violated." The perfection of landscape-gardening consists in the fullest attention to these principles, _Utility_, _Proportion_, and _Unity_, or harmony of parts to the whole. (Repton, "Landscape Gardening," pp. 128-9.) The best advice one can give to a young gardener is--_know your Repton_. The writings of the new school of gardening, of which Repton is a notable personage in its later phase, are not, however, on a par with the writings of the old traditional school, either as pleasant garden literature, or in regard to broad human interest or artistic quality. They are hard and critical, and never lose the savour of the heated air of controversy in which they were penned. Indeed, I can think of no more sure and certain cure for a bad attack of garden-mania--nothing that will sooner wipe the bloom off your enjoyment of natural beauty--than a course of reading from the Classics of Landscape-garden literature! "I only sound the clarion," said the urbane master-gardener of an earlier day, "but I enter not into the battle." But these are at one another's throats! Who enters here must leave his dreams of fine gardening behind, for he will find himself in a chilly, disenchanted world, with nothing more romantic to feed his imagination upon than "Remarks on the genius of the late Mr. Brown," Critical enquiries, Observations on taste, Difference between landscape gardening and painting, Price upon Repton, Repton upon Price, Repton upon Knight, further answers to Messrs Price and Knight, &c. But all this is desperately dull reading, hurtful to one's imagination, fatal to garden-fervour.[32] And naturally so, for analysis of the processes of garden-craft carried too far begets loss of faith in all. Analysis is a kill-joy, destructive of dreams of beauty. "We murder to dissect." That was a true word of the cynic of that day, who summed up current controversy upon gardening in the opinion that "the works of Nature were well executed, but in a bad taste." The quidnuncs' books about gardening are about as much calculated to give one delight, as the music the child gets out of the strings of an instrument that it broke for the pride of dissection. Even Addison, with the daintiest sense and prettiest pen of them all, shows how thoroughly gardening had lost ... "its happy, country tone, Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost,"-- as he thrums out his laboured coffee-house conceit. "I think there are as many kinds of gardening as poetry; your makers of parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art; contrivers of bowers and grottoes, treillages, and cascades, are Romance writers. Wise and Loudon are our heroic poets." Nor is his elaborate argument meant to prove the gross inferiority of Art in a garden to unadorned Nature more inspiring. Nay, what is one to make of even the logic of such argument as this? "If the products of Nature rise in value according as they more or less resemble those of Art, we may be sure that artificial works receive a greater advantage from their resemblance of such as are natural." (_Spectator._) But who _does_ apply the Art-standard to Nature, or value her products as they resemble those of Art? And has not Sir Walter well said: "Nothing is more the child of Art than a garden"? And Loudon: "All art, to be acknowledged, as art must be avowed." [Footnote 32: A candid friend thus writes to Repton: "You may have perceived that I am rather _too much_ inclined to the Price and Knight _party_, and yet I own to you that I have been often so much disgusted by the affected and technical language of connoisseurship, that I have been sick of pictures for a month, and almost of Nature, when the same jargon was applied to her." (Repton, p. 232.)] One prefers to this cold Pindaric garden-homage the unaffected, direct delight in the sweets of a garden of an earlier day; to realise with old Mountaine how your garden shall produce "a jucunditie of minde;" to think with Bishop Hall, as he gazes at his tulips, "These Flowers are the true Clients of the Sunne;" to be brought to old Lawson's state of simple ravishment, "What more delightsome than an infinite varietie of sweet-smelling flowers? decking with sundry colours the green mantle of the Earth, colouring not onely the earth, but decking the ayre, and sweetning every breath and spirit;" to taste the joys of living as, taking Robert Burton's hand, you "walk amongst orchards, gardens, bowers, mounts and arbours, artificial wildernesses, green thickets, groves, lawns, rivulets, fountains, and such like pleasant places, between wood and water, in a fair meadow, by a river side, to disport in some pleasant plain or park, must needs be a delectable recreation;" to be inoculated with old Gerarde of the garden-mania as he bursts forth, "Go forward in the name of God: graffe, set, plant, nourishe up trees in every corner of your grounde;" to trace with Temple the lines and features that go to make the witchery of the garden at Moor Park, "in all kinds the most beautiful and perfect, at least in the Figure and Disposition, that I have ever seen," and which you may follow if you are not "above the Regards of Common Expence;" to hearken to Bacon expatiate upon the Art which is indeed "the purest of all humane pleasure, the greatest refreshment to the Spirits of man;" to feel in what he says the value of an ideal, the magic of a style backed by passion--to have garden precepts wrapped in pretty metaphors (such as that "because the Breath of Flowers is far Sweeter in the Air--_where it comes and goes like the warbling of Musick_--than in the Hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that Delight than to know what be the Flowers and Plants that do best perfume the Air;")--to be taught how to order a garden to suit all the months of the year, and have things of beauty enumerated according to their seasons--to feel rapture at the sweet-breathing presence of Art in a garden--to learn from one who knows how to garden in a grand manner, and yet be finally assured that beauty does not require a great stage, that the things thrown in "for state and magnificence" are but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden--this is garden-literature worth reading! Compared with the frank raptures of such writings as these, the laboured treatises of the landscape-school are but petty hagglings over the mint and cummin of things. You go to the writings of the masters of the old formality, to come away invigorated as by a whiff of mountain air straight off Helicon; they shall give one fresh enthusiasm for Nature, fresh devotion to Art, fresh love for beautiful things. But from the other-- "The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I"-- they deal with technicalities in the affected language of connoisseurship; they reveal a disenchanted world, a world of exploded hopes given over to the navvies and the critics; and it is no wonder that writings so prompted should have no charm for posterity; charm they never had. They are dry as summer dust. For the honour of English gardening, and before closing this chapter, I would like to recall that betweenity--the garden of the transition--done at the very beginning of the century of revolution, which unites something of the spirit of the old and of the new schools. Here is Sir Walter Scott's report of the Kelso garden as he _first_ knew it, and _after_ it had been mauled by the landscape-gardener. It was a garden of seven or eight acres adjacent to the house of an ancient maiden lady: "It was full of long straight walks between hedges of yew and hornbeam, which rose tall and close on every side. There were thickets of flowering shrubs, a bower, and an arbour, to which access was obtained through a little maze of contorted walks, calling itself a labyrinth. In the centre of the bower was a splendid Platanus or Oriental plane, a huge hill of leaves, one of the noblest specimens of that regularly beautiful tree which we remember to have seen. In different parts of the garden were fine ornamental trees which had attained great size, and the orchard was filled with fruit-trees of the best description. There were seats and trellis-walks, and a banqueting-house. Even in our time this little scene, intended to present a formal exhibition of vegetable beauty, was going fast to decay. The parterres of flowers were no longer watched by the quiet and simple _friends_ under whose auspices they had been planted, and much of the ornament of the domain had been neglected or destroyed to increase its productive value. We visited it lately, after an absence of many years. Its air of retreat, the seclusion which its alleys afforded was gone; the huge Platanus had died, like most of its kind, in the beginning of this century; the hedges were cut down, the trees stubbed up, and the whole character of the place so much destroyed that I was glad when I could leave it."--("Essay on Landscape Gardening," _Quarterly Review_, 1828.[33]) [Footnote 33: "The Praise of Gardens," pp. 185-6.] Another garden, of later date than this at Kelso, and somewhat less artistic, is that described by Mr Henry A. Bright in "The English Flower Garden."[34] "One of the most beautiful gardens I ever knew depended almost entirely on the arrangement of its lawns and shrubberies. It had certainly been most carefully and adroitly planned, and it had every advantage in the soft climate of the West of England. The various lawns were divided by thick shrubberies, so that you wandered on from one to the other, and always came on something new. In front of these shrubberies was a large margin of flower-border, gay with the most effective plants and annuals. At the corner of the lawn a standard _Magnolia grandiflora_ of great size held up its chaliced blossoms; at another a tulip-tree was laden with hundreds of yellow flowers. Here a magnificent _Salisburia_ mocked the foliage of the maiden-hair; and here an old cedar swept the grass with its large pendent branches. But the main breadth of each lawn was never destroyed, and past them you might see the reaches of a river, now in one aspect, now in another. Each view was different, and each was a fresh enjoyment and surprise. "A few years ago and I revisited the place; the 'improver' had been at work, and had been good enough to _open up_ the view. Shrubberies had disappeared, and lawns had been thrown together. The pretty peeps among the trees were gone, the long vistas had become open spaces, and you saw at a glance all that there was to be seen. Of course the herbaceous borders, which once contained numberless rare and interesting plants, had disappeared, and the lawn in front of the house was cut up into little beds of red pelargoniums, yellow calceolarias, and the rest." [Footnote 34: _Ibid._, p. 296.] In this example we miss the condensed beauty and sweet austerities of the older garden at Kelso: nevertheless, it represents a phase of workmanship which, for its real insight into the secrets of garden-beauty, we may well be proud of, and deplore its destruction at the hands of the landscape-gardener. All arts are necessarily subject to progression of type. "Man cannot escape from his time," says Mr Morley, and with changed times come changed influences. But, then, to _progress_ is not to _change_: "to progress is to live," and one phase of healthy progression will tread the heels of that which precedes it. The restless changeful methods of modern gardening are, however, not to be ascribed to the healthy development of one consistent movement, but to chaos--to the revolution that ensued upon the overthrow of tradition--to the indeterminateness of men who have no guiding principles, who take so many wild leaps in the dark, in the course of which, rival champions jostle one another and only the fittest survives. In treating of Modern English Gardening, it is difficult to make our way along the tortuous path of change, development it is not, that set in with the banishment of Art in a garden. Critical writers have done their best to unravel things, to find the relation of each fractured phase, and to give each phase a descriptive name, but there are still many unexplained points, many contradictions that are unsolved, to which I have already alluded. Loudon's Introduction to Repton's "Landscape Gardening" gives perhaps the most intelligible account of the whole matter. The art of laying out grounds has been displayed in two very distinct styles: the first of which is called the "Ancient Roman, Geometric, Regular, or Architectural Style; and the second the Modern, _English_,[35] Irregular, Natural, or Landscape Style." [Footnote 35: This is a little unpatriotic of Loudon to imply that the _English_ had no garden-style till the 18th century, but one can stand a great deal from Loudon.] We have, he says, the Italian, the French, and the Dutch Schools of the Geometric Style. The Modern, or Landscape Style, when it first displayed itself in English country residences, was distinctly marked by the absence of everything that had the appearance of a terrace, or of architectural forms, or lines, immediately about the house. The house, in short, rose abruptly from the lawn, and the general surface of the ground was characterised by smoothness and bareness. This constituted the first School of the Landscape Style, introduced by Kent and Brown. This manner was followed by the romantic or Picturesque Style, which inaugurates a School which aimed at producing architectural tricks and devices, allied with scenery of picturesque character and sham rusticity. The conglomeration at Stowe, albeit that it is attributed to Kent, shows what man can do in the way of heroically wrong garden-craft. To know truly how to lay out a garden "_After a more Grand and Rural Manner than has been done before_," you cannot do better than get Batty Langley's "New Principles of Gardening," and among other things you have rules whereby you may concoct natural extravagances, how you shall prime prospects, make landscapes that are pictures of nothing and very like; how to copy hills, valleys, dales, purling streams, rocks, ruins, grottoes, precipices, amphitheatres, &c. The writings of Gilpin and Price were effective in undermining Kent's School; they helped to check the rage for destroying avenues and terraces, and insisted upon the propriety of uniting a country-house with the surrounding scenery by architectural appendages. The leakage from the ranks of Kent's School was not all towards the Picturesque School, but to what Loudon terms Repton's School, which may be considered as combining all that was excellent in what had gone before. Following upon these phases is one that is oddly called the "_Gardenesque_" Style, the leading feature of which is that it illustrates the beauty of trees, and other plants _individually_; in short, it is the _specimen_ style. According to the practice of all previous phases of modern gardening, trees, shrubs, and flowers were indiscriminately mixed and crowded together, in shrubberies or other plantations. According to the Gardenesque School, all the trees and shrubs are arranged to suit their kinds and dimensions, and to display them to advantage. The ablest exponents of the school are Loudon in the recent past, and Messrs Marnock and Robinson in the present, and their method is based upon Loudon. To know how to lay out a garden after the most approved modern fashion we have but to turn to the deservedly popular pages of "The English Flower Garden." This book contains not only model designs and commended examples from various existing gardens, but text contributed by some seventy professional and amateur gardeners. Even the gardener who has other ideals and larger ambitions than are here expected, heartily welcomes a book so well stored with modern garden-lore up to date, with suggestions for new aspects of vegetation, new renderings of plant life, and must earnestly desire to see any system of gardening made perfect after its kind-- ... "I wish the sun should shine On all men's fruits and flowers, as well as mine." Gardening is, above all things, a progressive Art which has never had so fine a time to display its possibilities as now, if we were only wise enough to freely employ old experiences and modern opportunities. People are, however, so readily content with their stereotyped models, with barren imitations, with their petty list of specimens, when instead of half-a-dozen kinds of plants, their garden has room for hundreds of different plants of fine form--hardy or half-hardy, annual and bulbous--which would equally well suit the British garden and add to its wealth of beauty by varied colourings in spring, summer, and autumn. At present "the choke-muddle shrubbery, in which the poor flowering shrubs dwindle and kill each other, generally supports a few ill-grown and ill-chosen plants, but it is mainly distinguished for wide patches of bare earth in summer, over which, in better hands, pretty green things might crowd." The specimen plant has no chance of displaying itself under such conditions. * * * * * Into so nice a subject as the practice of Landscape-gardening of the present day it is not my intention to enter in detail, and for two good reasons. In the first place, the doctrines of a sect are best known by the writings of its representatives; and in this case, happily, both writings and representatives are plentiful. Secondly, I do not see that there is much to chronicle. Landscape-gardening is, in a sense, still in its fumbling stage; it has not increased its resources, or done anything heroic, even on wrong lines; it has not advanced towards any permanent, definable system of ornamentation since it began its gyrations in the last century. Its rival champions still beat the air. Even Repton was better off than the men of to-day, for he had, at least, his Protestant formulary of Ten Objections to swear by, which "mark those errors or absurdities in modern gardening and architecture to which I have never willingly subscribed" (p. 127, "Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening," 1803, quoted in full above). But the present race of landscape-gardeners are, it strikes me, as much at sea as ever. True they threw up traditional methods as unworthy, but they had not learnt their own Art according to Nature before they began to practise it; and they are still in the throes of education. Their intentions are admirable beyond telling, but their work exhibits in the grossest forms the very vices they condemn in the contrary school; for the expression of their ideas is self-conscious, strained, and pointless. To know at a glance their position towards Art in a garden, how crippled their resources, how powerless to design, let me give an extract from Mr Robinson. He is speaking of an old-fashioned garden, "One of those classical gardens, the planners of which prided themselves upon being able to give Nature lessons of good behaviour, to teach her geometry and the fine Art of irreproachable lines; but Nature abhors lines;[36] she is for geometers a reluctant pupil, and if she submits to their tyranny she does it with bad grace, and with the firm resolve to take eventually her revenge. Man cannot conquer the wildness of her disposition, and so soon as he is no longer at hand to impose his will, so soon as he relaxes his care, she destroys his work" (p. viii., "English Flower Garden"). This is indeed to concede everything to Nature, to deny altogether the mission of Art in a garden. [Footnote 36: For which reason, I suppose, Mr Robinson, in his model "Non-geometrical Gardens" (p. 5), humbly skirts his ground with a path which as nearly represents a tortured horse-shoe as Nature would permit; and his trees he puts in a happy-go-lucky way, and allows them to nearly obliterate his path at their own sweet will! No wonder he does not fear Nature's revenge, where is so little Art to destroy!] And even the School that is rather kinder to Art, more lenient to tradition, represented by Mr Milner--even he, in his admirable book upon the "Art and Practice of Landscape Gardening" (1890), is the champion of Nature, not of Art, in a garden. "Nature still seems to work in fetters," he says, and he would "form bases for a better practice of the Art" (p. 4). Again, Nature is the great exemplar that I follow" (p. 8). They have not got beyond Brown, so far as theory is concerned. "Under the great leader Brown," writes Repton, with unconscious irony, "or rather those who patronised his discovery, we were taught that Nature was to be our only model"--and Brown had his full chance of manipulating the universe, for "he lived to establish a fashion in gardening, which might have been expected to endure as long as Nature should exist"; and yet Repton's work mostly consisted in repairing Brown's errors and in covering the nakedness of his hungry prospects. So it would seem that Art has her revenges as well as Nature! "The way of transgressors is hard!" The Landscape-gardener, I said, gets no nearer to maturity of purpose as time runs on. He creeps and shuffles after Nature as at the first--much as the benighted traveller after the will-o'-the-wisp. He may not lay hands on her, because you cannot conquer her wildness, nor impose your will upon her, or teach her good behaviour. He may not apply the "dead formalism of Art" to her, for "Nature abhors lines." Hence his mimicry can never rise above Nature. Indeed, if it remains faithful to the negative opinions of its practitioners, landscape-gardening will never construct any system of device. It has no creed, if you except that sole article of its faith, "I believe in the non-geometrical garden." A monumental style is an impossibility while it eschews all features that make for state and magnificence and symmetry; a little park scenery, much grass, curved shrubberies, the "laboured littleness" of emphasised specimen plants--the hardy ones dotted about in various parts--wriggling paths, flower-borders, or beds of shapes that imply that they are the offspring of bad dreams, and its tale of effects is told. But as for "fine gardening," that was given up long ago as a bad job! The spirit of Walpole's objections to the heroic enterprise of the old-fashioned garden still holds the "landscape-gardener" in check. "I should hardly advise any of those attempts," says Walpole; "_they are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands_." It is not so much at what he finds in the landscape gardener's creations that the architect demurs, but at what he misses. It is not so much at what the landscape-gardener recommends that the architect objects, as at what moving in his own little orbit he wilfully shuts out, basing his opposition to tradition upon such an _ex parte_ view of the matter as this--"There are really two styles, one strait-laced, mechanical, with much wall and stone, or it may be gravel, with much also of such geometry as the designer of wall-papers excels in--often poorer than that, with an immoderate supply of spouting water, and with trees in tubs as an accompaniment, and, perhaps, griffins and endless plaster-work, and sculpture of the poorer sort." Why "poorer"? "The other, with _right desire_, though _often awkwardly_ (!) accepting Nature as a guide, and endeavouring to illustrate in our gardens, _so far as convenience and knowledge will permit_, her many treasures of the world of flowers" ("English Flower Garden"). How sweetly doth bunkum commend itself! It is not that the architect is small-minded enough to cavil at the landscape-gardener's right to display his taste by his own methods, but that he strikes for the same right for himself. It is not that he would rob the landscape-gardener of the pleasure of expressing his own views as persuasively as he can, but that he resents that air of superiority which the other puts on as he bans the comely types and garnered sweetness of old England's garden, that he accents the proscription of the ways of interpreting Nature that have won the sanction of lovers of Art and Nature of all generations of our forefathers, and this from a School whose prerogative dates no farther back than the discovery of the well-meaning, clumsy, now dethroned kitchen-gardener, known a short century since as "the immortal Brown." There is no reviewer so keen as Time! CHAPTER VI. THE TECHNICS OF GARDENING.[37] "Nothing is more the Child of Art than a Garden." SIR WALTER SCOTT. [Footnote 37: These notes make no pretence either at originality or completeness. They represent gleanings from various sources, combined with personal observations on garden-craft from the architect's point of view.--J. D. S.] "For every Garden," says Sir William Temple, "four things are to be provided--Flowers, Fruit, Shade, and Water, and whoever lays out a garden without these, must not pretend it in any perfection. Nature should not be forced; great sums may be thrown away without Effect or Honour, if there want sense in proportion to this." Briefly, the old master's charge is this: "Have common-sense; follow Nature." Following upon these lines, the gardener's first duty in laying out the grounds to a house is, to study the site, and not only that part of it upon which the house immediately stands, but the whole site, its aspect, character, soil, contour, sectional lines, trees, &c. Common-sense, Economy, Nature, Art, alike dictate this. There is an individual character to every plot of land, as to every human face in a crowd; and that man is not wise who, to suit preferences for any given style of garden, or with a view to copying a design from another place, will ignore the characteristics of the site at his disposal. Equally unwise will he be to follow that school of gardening that makes chaos before it sets about to make order. Features that are based upon, or that grow out of the natural formation of the ground, will not only look better than the created features, but be more to the credit of the gardener, if successful, and will save expense. The ground throughout should be so handled that every natural good point, every tree, mound, declivity, stream, or quarry, or other chance feature, shall be turned to good account, and its consequence heightened, avoiding the error of giving the thing mock importance, by planting, digging, lowering declivities, raising prominences, planting dark-foliaged trees to intensify the receding parts, forming terraces on the slope, or adding other architectural features as may be advisable to connect the garden with the house which is its _raison d'être_, and the building with the landscape. What folly to throw down undulations in order to produce a commonplace level, or to throw up hills, or make rocks, lakes, and waterfalls should the site happen to be level! What folly to make a standing piece of water imitate the curves of a winding river that has no existence, to throw a bridge over it near its termination, so as to close the vista and suggest the continuation of the water beyond! Nay, what need of artificial lakes at all if there be a running stream hard by?[38] [Footnote 38: "All rational improvement of grounds is necessarily founded on a due attention to the CHARACTER and SITUATION of the place to be improved; the _former_ teaches what is advisable, the _latter_ what is possible to be done. The _situation_ of a place always depends on Nature, which can only be assisted, but cannot be entirely changed, or greatly controlled by ART; but the _character_ of a place is wholly dependent on ART; thus the house, the buildings, the gardens, the roads, the bridges, and every circumstance which marks the habitation of man must be artificial; and although in the works of art we may imitate the forms and graces of Nature, yet, to make them truly natural, always leads to absurdity" (Repton, p. 341).] It is of the utmost importance that Art and Nature should be linked together, alike in the near neighbourhood of the house, and in its far prospect, so that the scene as it meets the eye, whether at a distance or near, should present a picture of a simple whole, in which each item should take its part without disturbing the individual expression of the ground. To attain this result, it is essential that the ground immediately about the house should be devoted to symmetrical planning, and to distinctly ornamental treatment; and the symmetry should break away by easy stages from the dressed to the undressed parts, and so on to the open country, beginning with wilder effects upon the country-boundaries of the place, and more careful and intricate effects as the house is approached. Upon the attainment of this appearance of graduated formality much depends. One knows houses that are well enough in their way, that yet figure as absolute blots upon God's landscape, and that make a man writhe as at false notes in music, and all because due regard has not been paid to this particular. By exercise of forethought in this matter, the house and garden would have been linked to the site, and the site to the landscape; as it is, you wish the house at Jericho![39] [Footnote 39: Not so thinks the author of "The English Flower Garden":--"Imagine the effect of a well-built and fine old house, seen from the extremity of a wide lawn, with plenty of trees and shrubs on its outer parts, and nothing to impede the view of the house or its windows but a refreshing carpet of grass. If owners of parks were to consider this point fully, and, as they travel about, watch the effect of such lawns as remain to us, and compare them with what has been done by certain landscape-gardeners, there would shortly be, at many a country-seat, a rapid carting away of the terrace and all its adjuncts." Marry, this is sweeping! But Repton has some equally strong words condemning the very plan our Author recommends: "In the execution of my profession I have often experienced great difficulty and opposition in attempting to correct the false and mistaken taste for placing a large house in a naked grass field, without any apparent line of separation between the ground exposed to cattle and the ground annexed to the house, which I consider as peculiarly under the management of art. "This line of separation being admitted, advantage may be easily taken to ornament the lawn with flowers and shrubs, and to attach to the mansion that scene of 'embellished neatness' usually called a pleasure-ground" (Repton, p. 213. See also No. 2 of Repton's "Objections," given on p. 116).] As the point of access to a house from the public road and the route to be taken afterwards not infrequently determines the position of the house upon the site, it may be well to speak of the Approach first. In planning the ground, care will be taken that the approach shall both look well of itself and afford convenient access to the house and its appurtenances, not forgetting the importance of giving to the visitor a pleasing impression of the house as he drives up. In Elizabethan and Jacobean times, the usual form of approach was the straight avenue, instances of which are still to be seen at Montacute, Brympton, and Burleigh.[40] The road points direct to the house, as evidence that in the minds of the old architects the house was, as it were, the pivot round which the attached territory and the garden in all its parts radiated; and the road ends, next the house, in a quadrangle or forecourt, which has either an open balustrade or high hedge, and in the centre of the court is a grass plot enlivened by statue or fountain or sundial. And it is worthy of note that they who prefer a road that winds to the very door of a house on the plea of its naturalness make a great mistake; they forget that the winding road is no whit less artificial than the straight one. [Footnote 40: As an instance of how much dignity a noble house may lose by a meanly-planned drive, I would mention Hatfield.] The choice of avenue or other type of approach will mainly depend upon the character and situation of the house, its style and quality. Repton truly observes that when generally adopted the avenue reduces all houses to the same landscape--"if looking up a straight line, between two green walls, deserves the name of a landscape." He states his objections to avenues thus--"If at the end of a long avenue be placed an obelisk or temple, or any other eye-trap, ignorance or childhood alone will be caught and pleased by it; the eye of taste or experience hates compulsion, and turns away with disgust from every artificial means of attracting its notice; for this reason an avenue is most pleasing which, like that at Langley Park, climbs up a hill, and passing over the summit, leaves the fancy to conceive its termination." The very dignity of an avenue seems to demand that there shall be something worthy of this procession of trees at its end, and if the house to which this feature is applied be unworthy, a sense of disappointment ensues. Provided, however, that the house be worthy of this dignity, and that its introduction does not mar the view, or dismember the ground, an avenue is both an artistic and convenient approach. Should circumstances not admit of the use of an avenue, the drive should be as direct as may well be, and if curved, there should be some clear and obvious justification for the curve or divergence; it should be clear that the road is diverted to obtain a glimpse of open country that would otherwise be missed, or that a steep hill or awkward dip is thus avoided. The irregularity in the line of the road should not, however, be the occasion of any break in the gradient of the road, which should be continuously even throughout. In this matter of planning roads, common sense, as well as artistic sense, should be satisfied; there should be no straining after pompous effects. Except in cases where the house is near to the public road, the drive should not run parallel to the road for the mere sake of gaining a pretentious effect. Nor should the road overlook the garden, a point that touches the comfort both of residents and visitors; and for the same reason the entrance to the garden should not be from the drive, but from the house. The gradient recommended by Mr Milner,[41] to whose skilled experience I am indebted for many practical suggestions, is 1 in 14. The width of a drive is determined by the relative importance of the route. Thus, a drive to the principal entrance of the house should be from 14 to 18 ft., while that to the stables or offices 10 ft. Walks should not be less than 6 ft. wide. The width of a grand avenue should be 50 ft, and "the trees may be preferably Elm, Beech, Oak, Chestnut, and they should not be planted nearer in procession than 40 ft., unless they be planted at intervals of half that distance for the purpose of destroying alternate trees, as their growth makes the removal necessary." [Footnote 41: Milner's "Art and Practice of Landscape-Gardening," pp. 13, 14.] The entrance-gates should not be visible from the mansion, Repton says, unless it opens into a courtyard. As to their position, the gates may be formed at the junction of two roads, or where a cross-road comes on to the main road, or where the gates are sufficiently back from the public road to allow a carriage to stand clear. The gates, as well as the lodge, should be at right angles to the drive, and belong to it, not to the public road. Where the house and estate are of moderate size, architectural, rather than "rustic," simplicity best suits the character of the lodge. It is desirable, remarks Mr Milner, to place the entrance, if it can be managed, at the foot of a hill or rise in the public road, and not part of the way up an ascent, or at the top of it. If possible, the house should stand on a platform or terraced eminence, so as to give the appearance of being well above ground; or it should be on a knoll where a view may be had. The ground-level of the house should be of the right height to command the prospect. Should the architect be so fortunate as to obtain a site for his house where the ground rises steep and abrupt on one side of the house, he will get here a series of terraces, rock-gardens, a fernery, a rose-garden, &c. The ideal site for a house would have fine prospects to the south-east and to the south-west "The principal approach should be on the north-western face, the offices on the north-eastern side, the stables and kitchen-garden beyond. The pleasure-gardens should be on the south-eastern aspect, with a continuation towards the east; the south-western face might be open to the park" (Milner). If it can be avoided, the house should not be placed where the ground slopes towards it--a treatment which suggests water draining into it--but if this position be for some sufficient reason inevitable, or should it be an old house with this defect that we are called to treat, then a good space should be excavated, at least of the level of the house, with a terrace-wall at the far end, on the original level of the site at that particular point. And as to the rest of the ground, Repton's sound advice is to plant up the heights so as to increase the effect of shelter and seclusion that the house naturally has, and introduce water, if available, at the low-level of the site. The air of seclusion that the low-lying situation gives to the house is thus intensified by crowning the heights with wood and setting water at the base of the slope. The hanging-gardens at Clevedon Court afford a good example of what can be done by a judicious formation of ground where the house is situated near the base of a slope, and this example is none the less interesting for its general agreement with Lamb's "Blakesmoor"--its ample pleasure-garden "rising backwards from the house in triple terraces; ... the verdant quarters backwarder still, and stretching still beyond in old formality, the firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel and the day-long murmuring wood-pigeon, with that antique image in the centre." Before dealing with the garden and its relation to the house it may be well to say a few words upon Planting. Trees are among the grandest and most ornamental effects of natural scenery; they help the charm of hill, plain, valley, and dale, and the changes in the colour of their foliage at the different seasons of the year give us perpetual delight. One of the most important elements in ornamental gardens is the dividing up and diversifying a given area by plantations, by grouping of trees to form retired glades, open lawns, shaded alleys, and well-selected margins of woods; and, if this be skilfully done, an impression of variety and extent will be produced beyond the belief of the uninitiated who has seen the bare site before it was planted. To speak generally, there should be no need of apology for applying the most subtle art in the disposal of trees and shrubs, and in the formation of the ground to receive them. "_All Art_," as Loudon truly says (speaking upon this very point), "_to be acknowledged as Art, must be avowed._" This is the case in the fine arts--there is no attempt to conceal art in music, poetry, painting, or sculpture, none in architecture, and none in geometrical-gardening. In modern landscape-gardening, practised as a fine art, many of the more important beauties and effects produced by the artist depend on the use he makes of foreign trees and shrubs; and, personally, one is ready to forgive Brown much of his vile vandalism in old-fashioned gardens for the use he makes of cedars, pines, planes, gleditschias, robinias, deciduous cypress, and all the foreign hardy trees and shrubs that were then to his hand. Loudon--every inch a fine gardener, true lineal descendant of Bacon in the art of gardening--recommends in his "Arboretum" (pp. 11, 12) the heading down of large trees of common species, and the grafting upon them foreign species of the same genus, as is done in orchard fruit-trees. Hawthorn hedges, for instance, are common everywhere; why not graft some of the rare and beautiful sorts of tree thorns, and intersperse common thorns between them? There are between twenty and thirty beautiful species and varieties of thorn in our nurseries. Every gardener can graft and bud. Or why should not scarlet oak and scarlet acer be grafted on common species of these genera along the margins of woods and plantations? * * * * * In planting, the gardener has regard for character of foliage and tints, the nature of the soil, the undulations of ground and grouping, the amount of exposure. Small plantations of trees surrounded by a fence are the best expedients to form groups, says Repton, because trees planted singly seldom grow well. Good trees should not be encumbered by peddling bushes, but be treated as specimens, each having its separate mound. The mounds can be formed out of the hollowed pathways in the curves made between the groups. The dotting of trees over the ground or of specimen shrubs on a lawn is destructive of all breadth of effect. This is not to follow Nature, nor Art, for Art demands that each feature shall have relation to other features, and all to the general effect. In planting trees the variety of height in their outline must be considered as much as the variety of their outline on plan; the prominent parts made high, the intervening bays kept low,[42] and this both in connection with the lie of the ground and the plant selected. Uniform curves, such as parts of circles or ovals, are not approved; better effects are obtained by forming long bays or recesses with forked tongues breaking forward irregularly, the turf running into the bays. Trees may serve to frame a particular view and frame a picture; and when well led up to the horizon will enhance the imaginative effect of a place: a _beyond_ in any view implies somewhere to explore. [Footnote 42: "One deep recess, one bold prominence, has more effect than twenty little irregularities." "Every variety in the outline of a wood must be a _prominence_ or a _recess_" (Repton, p. 182).] All trees grow more luxuriantly in valleys than on the hills, and on this account the tendency of tree-growth is to neutralise the difference in the rise and fall of the ground and to bring the tops of the trees level. But the perfection of planting is to get an effect approximating as near as may be to the charming undulations of the Forest of Dean and the New Forest. Care will be taken, then, not to plant the fast-growing, or tall-growing trees in the low-ground, but on the higher points, and even to add to the irregularity by clothing the natural peaks with silver fir, whose tall heads will increase the sense of height. The limes, planes, and elms will be mostly kept to the higher ground, bunches of Scotch fir will be placed here and there, and oaks and beeches grouped together, while the lower ground will be occupied by maples, crabs, thorns, alders, &c. "Fringe the edges of your wood with lines of horse-chestnut," says Viscount Lymington in his delightful and valuable article on "Vert and Venery"--"a mass in spring of blossom, and in autumn of colour; and under these chestnuts, and in nooks and corners, thrust in some laburnum, that it may push its showers of gold out to the light and over the fence." As to the nature of the soil, and degree of exposure suitable to different forest-trees, the writer just quoted holds that, for exposure to the wind inland, the best trees for all soils are the beech, the Austrian pine, and the Scotch fir. For exposure in hedgerows, the best tree to plant ordinarily is the elm. For exposure to frost, the Insignis pine, which will not, however, stand the frosts of the valley, but prefers high ground. For exposure to smoke, undoubtedly the best tree is the Western plane. The sycamore will stand better than most trees the smoke and chemical works of manufacturing towns. For sea-exposure, the best trees to plant are the goat willow and pineaster. Among the low-growing shrubs which stand sea-exposure well are mentioned the sea-buckthorn, the snow-berry, the evergreen barberry, and the German tamarisk; to which should be added the euonymus and the escallonia. With regard to the nature of the soil, Lord Lymington says: "Strong clay produces the best oaks and the best silver fir. A deep loam is the most favourable soil for the growth of the Spanish chestnut and ash. The beech is the glorious weed of the chalk and down countries; the elm of the rich red sandstone valleys. Coniferous trees prefer land of a light sandy texture; ... but as many desire to plant conifers on other soils, I would mention that the following among others will grow on most soils, chalk included: the _Abies excelsa_, _canadensis_, _magnifica_, _nobilis_, and _Pinsapo_; the _Pinus excelsa_, _insignis_, and _Laricio_; the _Cupressus Lawsoniana_, _erecta_, _viridis_, and _macrocarpa_; the _Salisburia adiantifolia_, and the _Wellingtonia_. The most fast-growing in England of conifers is the Douglas fir.... It grows luxuriantly on the slopes of the hills, but will not stand exposure to the wind, and for that reason should always be planted in sheltered combes with other trees behind it. "In moist and boggy land the spruce or the willow tribes succeed best." "In high, poor, and very dry land, no tree thrives so well as the Scotch fir, the beech, and the sycamore." Avoid the selfishness and false economy of planting an inferior class of fast-growing trees such as firs and larches and Lombardy poplars, on the ground that one would not live to get any pleasure out of woods of oaks and beech and chestnut. How frequently one sees tall, scraggy planes, or belts of naked, attenuated firs, where groups of oaks and elms and groves of chestnut might have stood with greater advantage. Avoid the thoughtlessness and false economy of not thoroughly preparing the ground before planting. "Those that plant," says an old writer, "should make their ground fit for the trees before they set them, and not bury them in a hole like a dead dog; let them have good and fresh lodgings suitable to their quality, and good attendance also, to preserve them from their enemies till they are able to encounter them." Avoid trees near a house; they tend to make it damp, and the garden which is near the house untidy. Writers upon planting have their own ideas as to the fitness of certain growths for a certain style of house. As regards the relation of trees to the house, if the building be of Gothic design with the piquant outline usual to the style, then trees of round shape form the best foil; if of Classic or Renascence design, then trees of vertical conic growth suit best. So, if the house be of stone, trees of dark foliage best meet the case; if of brick, trees of lighter foliage should prevail. As a backing to the horizontal line of a roof to an ordinary two-storey building, nothing looks better than the long stems of stone pines or Scotch firs; and pines are health-giving trees. Never mark the outline of ground, nor the shape of groups of trees and shrubs with formal rows of bedding plants or other stiff edging, which is the almost universal practice of gardeners in the present day. This is a poor travesty of Bacon's garden, who only allows low things to grow naturally up to the edges. From the artist's point of view, perhaps the most desirable quality to aim at in the distribution of garden space is that of breadth of effect--in other words, simplicity; and the larger the garden the more need does there seem for getting this quality. One may, in a manner, _toy_ with a small garden. In the case of a large garden, where the owner in his greed for prettiness has carried things further than regulation-taste would allow, much may be done to subdue the assertiveness of a multiplicity of interesting objects by architectural adjuncts--broad terraces, well-defined lines, even a range of sentinel yews or clipt shrubs--things that are precise, grave, calm, and monotonous. Where such things are brought upon the scene, a certain spaciousness and amplitude of effect ensues as a matter of course. One sees that the modern gardener, with his augmented list of specimen-plants of varied foliage, is far more apt to err in the direction of sensationalism than the gardener of old days who was exempt from many of our temptations. Add to this power of attaining sweetness and intricacy the artist's prone aspirations to work up to his lights and opportunities, and we have temptation which is seductiveness itself! The garden at Highnam Court, dear to me for its signs and memories of my late accomplished friend, Mr T. Gambier Parry, is the perfectest modern garden I have ever seen. But here, if there be a fault, it is that Art has been allowed to blossom too profusely. The attention of the visitor is never allowed to drop, but is ever kept on the stretch. You are throughout too much led by the master's cunning hand. Every known bit of garden-artifice, every white lie of Art, every known variety of choice tree or shrub, or trick of garden-arrangement is set forth there. But somehow each thing strikes you as a little vainglorious--too sensible of its own importance. We go about in a sort of pre-Raphaelite frame of mind, where each seemly and beauteous feature has so much to say for itself that, in the delightfulness of the details, we are apt to forget that it is the first business of any work of Art to be a unit. There is nothing of single specimen, or group of intermingled variety, or adroit vista that we may miss and not be a loser; the only drawback is that we see what we are expected to see, what everyone else sees. Here is greenery of every hue; every metallic tint of silver, gold, copper, bronze is there; and old and new favourites take hands, and we feel that it is perfect; but the things blush in their conscious beauty--every prospect is best seen "_there_!" England has few such beautiful gardens as Highnam, and it has all the pathos of the touch of "a vanished hand," and ideals that have wider range now. As to this matter of scenic effects, it is of course only fair to remember that a garden is a place meant not only for broad vision, but for minute scrutiny; and, specially near the house, intricacy is permissible. Yet the counsels of perfection would tell the artist to eschew such prettiness and multiplied beauties as trench upon broad dignity. Sweetness is not good everywhere. Variations in plant-life that are over-enforced, like variations in music, may be inferior to the simple theme. A commonplace house, with well-disposed grounds, flower-beds in the right place, a well-planted lawn, may please longer than a fine pile where is ostentation and unrelieved artifice. Of lawns. Everything in a garden, we have said, has its first original in primal Nature: a garden is made up of wild things that are tamed. The old masters fully realised this. They sucked out the honey of wild things without carrying refinement too far before they sipped it; and in garnering for their _House Beautiful_ the rustic flavour is left so far as was compatible with the requirements of Art--"as much as may be to a natural wildness." And it were well for us to do the same in the treatment of a lawn, which is only the grassy, sun-chequered, woodland glade in, or between woods, in a wild country idealised. A lawn is one of the delights of man. The "Teutonic races"--says Mr Charles Dudley Warner, in his large American way--"The Teutonic races all love turf; they emigrate in the line of its growth." Flower-beds breed cheerfulness, but they may at times be too gay for tired eyes and jaded minds; they may provoke admiration till they are provoking. But a garden-lawn is a vision of peace, and its tranquil grace is a boon of unspeakable value to people doomed to pass their working-hours in the hustle of city-life. The question of planting and of lawn-making runs together, and Nature admonishes us how to set about this work. Every resource she offers should be met by the resources of Art: avoid what she avoids, accept and heighten what she gives. Nature in the wild avoids half-circles and ovals and uniform curves, and they are bad in the planted park, both for trees and greensward. Nature does not of herself dot the landscape over with spies sent out single-handed to show the nakedness of the land, but puts forth detachments that befriend each the other, the boldest and fittest first, in jagged outlines, leading the way, but not out of touch with the rest. And, since the modern landscape-gardener is nothing if not a naturalist, this is why one cannot see the consistency of so fine a master as Mr Marnock, when he dots his lawns over with straggling specimens. (See the model garden, by Mr Marnock in "The English Flower-Garden," p. xxi, described thus--"Here the foreground is a sloping lawn; the flowers are mostly arranged near the kitchen garden, partly shown to right; the hardy ones grouped and scattered in various positions near, or within good view of, the one bold walk which sweeps round the ground.") A garden is ground knit up artistically; ground which has been the field of artistic enterprise; ground which expresses the feeling of beauty and which absorbs qualities which man has discovered in the woodland world. And the qualities in Nature which may well find room in a garden are peace, variety, animation. A good sweep of lawn is a peaceful object, but see that the view is not impeded with the modern's sprawling pell-mell beds. And in the anxiety to make the most of your ground, do not spoil a distant prospect. Remember, too, that a lawn requires a good depth of soil, or it will look parched in the hot weather. And since a lawn is so delightful a thing, beware lest your admiration of it lead you to swamp your whole ground with grass even to carrying it up to the house itself. "Nothing is more a child of Art than a garden," says Sir Walter, and he was competent to judge. If only out of compliment to your architect and to the formal angularities of his building, let the ground immediately about the house be of an ornamental dressed character. Avoid the misplaced rusticity of the fashionable landscape-gardener, who with his Nebuchadnezzar tastes would turn everything into grass, would cart away the terrace and all its adjuncts, do away with all flowers, and "lawn your hundred good acres of wheat," as Repton says, if you will only let him, and if you have them. In his devotion to grass, his eagerness to display the measure of his art in the curves of shrubberies and the arrangement of specimen plants that strut across your lawn or dot it over as the Sunday scholars do the croft when they come for their annual treat, he quite forgets the flowers--forgets the old intent of a garden as the House Beautiful of the civilised world--the place for nature-rapture, colour-pageantry, and sweet odours. "Here the foreground is a sloping lawn; the _flowers are mostly arranged near the kitchen garden_." Anywhere, anywhere out of the way! Or if admitted at all into view of the house, it shall be with little limited privileges, and the stern injunction-- "If you speak you must not show your face, Or if you show your face you must not speak." So much for the garden-craft of the best modern landscape-gardener and its relation to flowers. If this be the garden of the "Gardenesque" style, as it is proudly called, I personally prefer the garden without the style. CHAPTER VII. THE TECHNICS OF GARDENING--(_continued._) "I cannot think Nature is so spent and decayed that she can bring forth nothing worth her former years. She is always the same, like herself; and when she collects her strength is abler still. Men are decayed, and studies; she is not."--BEN JONSON. The old-fashioned country house has, almost invariably, a garden that curtseys to the house, with its formal lines, its terraces, and beds of geometrical patterns. But to the ordinary Landscape-gardener the terrace is as much anathema as the "Kist o' Whistles" to the Scotch Puritan! So able and distinguished a gardener as Mr Robinson, while not absolutely forbidding any architectural accessories or geometrical arrangement, is for ever girding at them. The worst thing that can be done with a true garden, he says ("The English Flower Garden," p. ii), "is to introduce any feature which, unlike the materials of our world-designer, never changes. There are positions, it is true, where the _intrusion of architecture_ and embankment into the garden is justifiable; nay, now and then, even necessary." If one is to promulgate opinions that shall run counter to the wisdom of the whole civilised world, it is, of course, well that they should be pronounced with the air of a Moses freshly come down from the Mount, with the tables of the law in his hands. And there is more of it. "There is no code of taste resting on any solid foundation which proves that garden or park should have any extensive stonework or geometrical arrangement.... Let us, then, use as few oil-cloth or carpet patterns and as little stonework as possible in our gardens. The style is in doubtful taste in climates and positions more suited to it than that of England, but he who would adopt it in the present day is an enemy to every true interest of the garden" (p. vi). So much for the "deadly formalism" of an old-fashioned garden in our author's eyes! But, as Horace Walpole might say, "it is not peculiar to Mr Robinson to think in that manner." It is the way of the landscape-gardener to monopolise to himself all the right principles of gardening; he is the angel of the garden who protects its true interests; all other moods than his are low, all figures other than his are symbols of errors, all dealings with Nature or with "the materials of our world-designer" other than his are spurious. For the colonies I can imagine no fitter doctrines than our author's, but not for an old land like ours, and for methods that have the approval of men like Bacon, Temple, More, Evelyn, Sir Joshua, Sir Walter, Elia, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Morris, and Jefferies. And, even in the colonies, they might demand to see "the code of taste resting on any solid foundation which proves" that you shall have any garden or park at all! "If I am to have a system at all," says the author of "The Flower Garden" (Murray, 1852), whose broad-minded views declare him to be an amateur, "give me the good old system of terraces and angled walks, the clipt yew hedges, against whose dark and rich verdure the bright old-fashioned flowers glittered in the sun." Or again: "Of all the vain assumptions of these coxcombical times, that which arrogates the pre-eminence in the true science of gardening is the vainest.... The real beauty and poetry of a garden are lost in our efforts after rarity. If we review the various styles that have prevailed in England from the knotted gardens of Elizabeth ... to the landscape fashion of the present day, we shall have little reason to pride ourselves on the advance which national taste has made upon the earliest efforts in this department" ("The Praise of Gardens," p. 270). "Large or small," says Mr W. Morris, "the garden should look both orderly and rich. It should be well fenced from the outer world. It should by no means imitate either the wilfulness or the wildness of Nature, but should look like a thing never seen except near a house" ("Hopes and Fears"). The whole point of the matter is, however, perhaps best summed up in Hazlitt's remark, that there is a pleasure in Art which none but artists feel. And why this sudden respect for "the materials of our world-designer," when we may ask in Repton's words "why this art has been called Landscape-gardening, perhaps he who gave the title may explain. I see no reason, unless it be the efficacy which it has shown in destroying landscapes, in which indeed it is infallible!" But, setting aside the transparent shallowness of such a plea against the use of Art in a garden, it argues little for the scheme of effects to leave "nothing to impede the view of the house or its windows but a refreshing carpet of grass." To pitch your house down upon the grass with no architectural accessories about it, to link it to the soil, is to vulgarise it, to rob it of importance, to give it the look of a pastoral farm, green to the door-step. To bring Nature up to the windows of your house, with a scorn of art-sweetness, is not only to betray your own deadness to form, but to cause a sense of unexpected blankness in the visitor's mind on leaving the well-appointed interior of an English home. As the house is an Art-production, so is the garden that surrounds it, and there is no code of taste that I know of which would prove that Art is more reprehensible in the garden than in the house. But to return. The old-fashioned country house had its terraces. These terraces are not mere narrow slopes of turf, such as now-a-days too often answer to the term, but they are of solid masonry with balustrades or open-work that give an agreeable variety of light and shade, and impart an air of importance and of altitude to the house that would be lacking if the terrace were not there. [Illustration: PLAN OF ROSERY, WITH SUNDIAL.] The whole of the ground upon which the house stands, or which forms its base, constitutes the terrace. In such cases the terrace-walls are usually in two or more levels, the upper terrace being mostly parallel with the line of the house, or bowed out at intervals with balconies, while the lower terrace, or terraces, serve as the varying levels of formal gardens, pleasure-grounds, labyrinths, &c. The terraces are approached by wide steps that are treated in a stately and impressive manner. The walls and balustrades, moreover, conform, as they should, to the materials employed in the house; if the house be of stone, as at Haddon, or Brympton, or Claverton, the balustrade is of stone; if the house be of brick, as at Hatfield or Bramshill, the walls and balustrades will be of brick and terra-cotta. The advantage of this agreement of material is obvious, for house and terrace, embraced at one glance, make a consistent whole. There is not, of course, the same necessity for consistency of material in the case of the mere retaining walls. As one must needs have a system in planning grounds, there is none that will more certainly bring honour and effect to them than the regular geometrical treatment. This is what the architect naturally prefers. The house is his child, and he knows what is good for it. Unlike the imported gardener, who comes upon the scene as a foreign agent, the architect works from the house outwards, taking the house as his centre; the other works from the outside inwards, if he thinks of the "inwards" at all. The first thinks of house and grounds as a whole which shall embrace the main buildings, the outbuildings, the flower and kitchen-gardens, terraces, walls, forecourt, winter-garden, conservatory, fountain, steps, &c. The other makes the house common to the commonplace; owing no allegiance to Art, a specialist of one idea, he holds that the worst thing that can be done is to intrude architectural or geometrical arrangement about a garden, and speaks of a refreshing carpet of grass as preferable. As to the extent, number, and situation of terraces, this point is determined by the conditions of the house and site. Terraces come naturally if the house be on an eminence, but even in cases where the ground recedes only to a slight extent, the surface of a second terrace may be lowered by increasing the fall of the slope till sufficient earth is provided for the requisite filling. The surplus earth dug out in forming the foundations and cellars of the house, or rubbish from an old building, will help to make up the terrace levels and save the cost of wheeling and carting the rubbish away. Like all embankments, terrace walls are built with "battered" fronts or outward slope; the back of the wall will be left rough, and well drained. A backing of sods, Mr Milner says, will prevent thrust, and admit of a lessened thickness in the wall. The walls should not be less than three feet in height from the ground-level beneath, exclusive of the balustrade, which is another three feet high. [Illustration: PLAN OF TENNIS LAWN, TERRACES, AND FLOWER GARDEN.] The length of the terrace adds importance to the house, and in small gardens, where the kitchen-garden occupies one side of the flower-garden, the terrace may with advantage be carried to the full extent of the ground, and the kitchen-garden separated by a hedge and shrubs; and at the upper end of the kitchen-garden may be a narrow garden, geometrical, rock, or other garden, set next the terrace wall. The treatment of the upper terrace should be strictly architectural. If the terrace be wide, raised beds with stone edging, set on the inner side of the terrace, say alternately long beds with dwarf flowering shrubs or hydrangeas, and circles with standard hollies, or marble statues on pedestals, that shall alternate with pyramidal golden yews, have a good effect, the terrace terminating with an arbour or stone Pavilion. Modern taste, however, even if it condescend so far as to allow of a terrace, is content with its grass plot and gravel walks, which is not carrying Art very far. Laneham tells of the old pleasaunce at Kenilworth, that it had a terrace 10 ft. high and 12 ft. wide on the garden side, in which were set at intervals obelisks and spheres and white bears, "all of stone, upon their curious bases," and at each end an arbour; the garden-plot was below this, and had its fair alleys, or grass, or gravel. The lower terrace may well be twice the width of the upper one, and may be a geometrical garden laid out on turf, if preferred, but far better upon gravel. Here will be collected the choicest flowers in the garden, giving a mass of rich colouring. Although in old gardens the lower terrace is some 10 ft. below the upper one, this is too deep to suit modern taste; indeed, 5 ft. or 6 ft. will give a better view of the garden if it is to be viewed from the house. At the same time it is undeniable that the more you are able to look _down_ upon the garden--the higher you stand above its plane--the better the effect; the lower you stand, the poorer the perspective. Modern taste, also, will not always tolerate a balustraded wall as a boundary to the terrace, but likes a grass slope. If this poor substitute be preferred, there should be a level space at the bottom of the slope and at the top; the slope should have a continuous line, and not follow any irregularity in the natural lie of the ground, and there should be a simple plinth 12 to 18 in. high at the bottom of the slope. But the mere grass slope does not much help the effect of the house, far or near; a house standing on a grass slope always has the effect of sliding down a hill. To leave the house exposed upon the landscape, unscreened and unterraced, is not to treat site or house fairly. There exists a certain necessity for features in a flat place, and if no raised terrace be possible, it is desirable to get architectural treatment by means of balustrades alone, without much, or any, fall in the ground. The eye always asks for definite boundaries to a piece of ornamental ground as it does for a frame to a picture, and where definite boundaries do not exist, the distant effect is that of a house that has tumbled casually down from the skies, near which the cattle may graze as they list, and the flower-beds are the mere sport of contingencies. [Illustration: GENERAL PLAN OF THE PLEASAUNCE, VILLA ALBANI, ROME.] Good examples of terrace walls are to be found at Haddon, Claverton, Brympton, Montacute, Bramshill, Wilton, and Blickling Hall. If truth be told, however, all our English examples dwindle into nothingness by the side of fine Italian examples like those at Villa Albani,[43] Villa Medici, or Villa Borghese, with their grand scope and array of sculpture. (See illustration from Percier and Fontaine's "_Choix des plus célèbres maisons de plaisance de Rome et de ses environs_." Paris, MDCCCIV.) [Footnote 43: See accompanying plans.] The arrangement of steps is a matter that may call forth a man's utmost ingenuity. The scope and variety of step arrangement is, indeed, a matter that can only be realised by designers who have given it their study. As to practical points. In planning steps make the treads wide, the risers low. Long flights without landings are always objectionable. Some of the best examples, both in England and abroad, have winders; as to the library quadrangle, Trinity Coll., Cambridge; Donibristle Castle, Scotland; Villa d'Este, Tivoli; the gardens at Nîmes. The grandest specimen of all is the Trinità di Monte steps in Rome (see Notes on Gardens in _The British Architect_, by John Belcher and Mervyn Macartney). It is impossible to lay down rules of equal application everywhere as to the distribution of garden area into compartments, borders, terraces, walks, &c. These matters are partly regulated by the character of the house, its situation, the section and outline of the ground. But gardens should, if possible, lie towards the best parts of the house, or towards the rooms most commonly in use by the family, and endeavour should be made to plant them so that to step from the house on to the terrace, or from the terrace to the various parts of the garden, should only seem like going from one room to another. Of the arrangement of the ground into divisions, each section should have its own special attractiveness and should be led up to by some inviting artifice of archway, or screened alley of shrubs, or "rosery" with its trellis-work, or stone colonnade; and if the alley be long it should be high enough to afford shade from the glare of the sun in hot weather; you ought not, as Bacon pertinently says, to "buy the shade by going into the sun." Again, the useful and the beautiful should be happily united, the kitchen and the flower garden, the way to the stables and outbuildings, the orchard, the winter garden, &c., all having a share of consideration and a sense of connectedness; and if there be a chance for a filbert walk, seize it; that at Hatfield is charming. "I cannot understand," says Richard Jefferies ("Wild Life in a Southern Country," p. 70), "why filbert walks are not planted by our modern capitalists, who make nothing of spending a thousand pounds in forcing-houses." A garden should be well fenced, and there should always be facility for getting real seclusion, so much needed now-a-days; indeed, the provision of places of retreat has always been a note of an English garden. The love of retirement, almost as much as a taste for trees and flowers, has dictated its shapes. Hence the cedar-walks,[44] the bower, the avenue, the maze, the alley, the wilderness, that were familiar, and almost the invariable features of an old English pleasaunce, "hidden happily and shielded safe." [Footnote 44: One of the finest and weirdest cedar-walks that I have ever met with is that at Marwell, near Owslebury in Hampshire. Here you realise the wizardry of green gloom and sense of perfect seclusion. It was here that Henry VIII. courted one of his too willing wives.] This seclusion can be got by judicious screening of parts, by shrubberies, or avenues of hazel, or yew, or sweet-scented bay, with perhaps clusters of lilies and hollyhocks, or dwarf Alpine plants and trailers between. And in all this the true gardener will have a thought for the birds. "No modern exotic evergreens," says Jefferies, "ever attract our English birds like the true old English trees and shrubs. In the box and yew they love to build; spindly laurels and rhododendrons, with vacant draughty spaces underneath, they detest, avoiding them as much as possible. The common hawthorn hedge round a country garden shall contain three times as many nests, and be visited by five times as many birds as the foreign evergreens, so costly to rear and so sure to be killed by the first old-fashioned frost." Another chance for getting seclusion is the high walls or lofty yew hedge of the quadrangular courtyard, which may be near the entrance. Such a forecourt is the place for a walk on bleak days; in its borders you are sure of the earliest spring flowers, for the tender flowers can here bloom securely, the myrtle, the pomegranate will flourish, and the most fragrant plants and climbers hang over the door and windows. What is more charming than the effect of hollyhocks, peonies, poppies, tritomas, and tulips seen against a yew hedge? The paths should be wide and excellently made. The English have always had good paths; as Mr Evelyn said to Mr Pepys, "We have the best walks of gravell in the world, France having none, nor Italy." The comfort and the elegance of a garden depend in no slight degree upon good gravel walks, but having secured gravel walks to all parts of the grounds, green alleys should also be provided. Nothing is prettier than a vista through the smooth-shaven green alley, with a statue or sundial or pavilion at the end; or an archway framing a peep of the country beyond. As to the garden's size, it is erroneous to suppose that the enjoyments of a garden are only in proportion to its magnitude; the pleasurableness of a garden depends infinitely more upon the degree of its culture and the loving care that is bestowed upon it. If gardens were smaller than they usually are, there would be a better chance of their orderly keeping. As it is, gardens are mostly too large for the number of attendants, so that the time and care of the gardener are nearly absorbed in the manual labour of repairing and stocking the beds, and maintaining and sweeping the walks. [Illustration: PLAN SHEWING ARRANGEMENT OF SUNK FLOWER GARDEN, YEW WALK, AND TENNIS COURT.] But if not large, the grounds should not have the appearance of being confined within a limited space; and Art is well spent in giving an effect of greater extent to the place than it really possesses by a suitable composition of the walks, bushes, and trees. These lines should lead the eye to the distance, and if bounded by trees, the garden should be connected with the outer world by judicious openings; and this rule applies to gardens large or small. Ground possessing a gentle inclination towards the south is desirable for a garden. On such a slope effectual drainage is easily accomplished, and the greatest possible benefit obtained from the sun's rays. The garden should, if possible, have an open exposure towards the east and west, so that it may enjoy the full benefit of morning and evening sun; but shelter on the north or north-east, or any side in which the particular locality may happen to be exposed, is desirable. The dimensions of the garden will be proportionate to the scale of the house. The general size of the garden to a good-sized house is from four to six acres, but the extent varies in many places from twelve to twenty, or even thirty acres. (See an admirable article on gardening in the "Encyclopædia.") Before commencing to lay out a garden the plan should be prepared in minute detail, and every point carefully considered. Two or three acres of kitchen garden, enclosed by walls and surrounded by slips, will suffice for the supply of a moderate establishment.[45] The form of the kitchen garden advocated by the writer in the "Encyclopædia" is that of a square, or oblong, not curvilinear, since the work of cropping of the ground can thus be more easily carried out. On the whole, the best form is that of a parallelogram, with its longest sides in the proportion of about five to three of the shorter, and running east and west. The whole should be compactly arranged so as to facilitate working, and to afford convenient access for the carting of heavy materials to the store-yards, etc. [Footnote 45: As the walls afford valuable space for the growth of the choicer kinds of hardy fruits, the direction in which they are built is of considerable importance. "In the warmer parts of the country, the wall on the north side of the garden should be so placed as to face the sun at about an hour before noon, or a little to east of south; in less favoured localities it should be made to face direct south, and in the still more unfavourable districts it should face the sun an hour after noon, or a little west of south. The east and west walls should run parallel to each other, and at right angles to that on the north side."] There can, as we have said, be no fixed or uniform arrangement of gardens. Some grounds will have more flower-beds than others, some more park or wilderness; some will have terraces, some not; some a pinetum, or an American garden. In some gardens the terraces will lie immediately below the main front of the house, in others not, because the geometrical garden needs a more sheltered site where the flowers can thrive. [Illustration: PLAN OF SUNK FLOWER GARDEN AND YEW HEDGES.] Of the shapes of the beds it were of little avail to speak, and the diagrams here given are only of use where the conditions of the ground properly admit of their application. The geometrical garden is capable of great variety of handling. A fair size for a geometrical garden is 120 ft. by 60 ft. This size will allow of a main central walk of seven feet that shall divide the panel into two equal parts and lead down to the next level. The space may have a balustrade along its length on the two sides, and on the garden side of the balustrade a flower-bed of mixed flowers and choice low-growing shrubs, backed with hollyhocks, tritoma, lilies, golden-rod, etc. The width of the border will correspond with the space required for the steps that descend from the upper terrace. For obtaining pleasant proportions in the design, the walks in the garden will be of two sizes, gravelled like the rest--the wider walk, say, three feet, the smaller, one foot nine inches. The centre of the garden device on each side may be a raised bed with a stone kerb and an ornamental shrub in the middle, and the space around with, say, periwinkle or stonecrop, mixed with white harebells, or low creepers. Or, should there be no wide main walk, and the garden-plot be treated as one composition, the central bed will have a statue, sundial, fountain, or other architectural feature. Each bed will be edged with box or chamfered stone, or terra-cotta edging. Or the formal garden may be sunk below the level of the paths, and filled either with flowers or with dwarf coniferæ. Both for practical and artistic reasons, the beds should not be too small; they should not be so small that, when filled with plants, they should appear like spots of colour, nor be so large that any part of them cannot be easily reached by a rake. Nor should the shapes of the beds be too angular to accommodate the plants well. In Sir Gardner Wilkinson's book on "Colour" (Murray, 1858, p. 372), he speaks of design and good form as the very _soul_ of a dressed garden; and the very permanence of the forms, which remain though successive series of plants be removed, calls for a good design. The shapes of the beds, as well as the colours of their contents, are taken cognisance of in estimating the general effect of a geometrical garden. This same accomplished author advises that there should always be a less formal garden beyond the geometrical one; the latter is, so to speak, an appurtenance of the house, a feature of the plateau upon which it stands, and no attempt should be made to combine the patterns of the geometrical with the beds or borders of the outer informal garden, such combination being specially ill-judged in the neighbourhood of bushes and winding paths. Of the proper selection of flowers and the determination of the colours for harmonious combination in the geometrical beds, much that is contradictory has been preached, one gardener leaning to more formality than another. There is, however, a general agreement upon the necessity of having beds that will look fairly well at all seasons of the year, and an agreement as to the use of hardy flowers in these beds. Mr Robinson has some good advice to give upon this point ("English Flower Garden," p. 24): "The ugliest and most needless parterre (!) in England may be planted in the most beautiful way with hardy flowers alone." (Why "needless," then?) "Are we not all wrong in adopting one degree, so to say, of plant life as the only fitting one to lay before the house? Is it well to devote the flower-bed to one type of vegetation only--low herbaceous vegetation--be that hardy or tender?... We have been so long accustomed to leave flower-beds raw, and to put a number of plants out every year, forming flat surfaces of colour, that no one even thinks of the higher and better way of filling them. But surely it is worth considering whether it would not be right to fill the beds permanently, rather than to leave them in this naked or flat condition throughout the whole of the year.... If any place asks for permanent planting, it is the spot of ground immediately near the house; for no one can wish to see large, grave-like masses of soil frequently dug and disturbed near the windows, and few care for the result of all this, even when the ground is well covered during a good season." Again our author, on p. 95, states that "he has very decided notions as to arrangement of the various colours for summer bedding, which are that the whole shall be so commingled that one would be puzzled to determine what tint predominates in the entire arrangement." He would have a "glaucous" colour, that is, a light grey or whitish green. Such a colour never tires the eye, and harmonises with the tints of the landscape, "particularly of the lawn." This seems to be neutralising the effects of the flowers, and this primal consideration of the lawn is like scorning your picture for the sake of its frame! Sir Gardner Wilkinson, who writes of gardens from quite another point of view, says: "It is by no means necessary or advisable to select rare flowers for the beds, and some of the most common are the most eligible, being more hardy, and therefore less likely to fail, or to cover the bed with a scanty and imperfect display of colour. Indeed, it is a common mistake to seek rare flowers, when many of the old and most ordinary varieties are far more beautiful. The point to note in this matter of choosing flowers for a geometrical garden is to ascertain first the lines that will best accord with the design, and make for a harmonious and brilliant effect, and to see that the flowers best suited to it blossom at the same periods. A succession of those of the same colour may be made to take the place of each, and continue the design at successive seasons. They should also be, as near as possible, of the same height as their companions, so that the blue flowers be not over tall in one bed, or the red too short in another.... Common flowers, the weeds of the country, are often most beautiful in colour, and are not to be despised because they are common; they have also the advantage of being hardy, and rare flowers are not always those best suited for beds" (Wilkinson on "Colour," p. 375). With regard to the ornamental turf-beds of our modern gardens. To judge of a garden upon high principles, we expect it to be the finest and fittest expression that a given plot of ground will take; it must be the perfect adaptation of means to an end and that end is beauty. Are we to suppose, then, that the turf-beds of strange device that we meet with in modern gardens are the best that can be done by the heir of all the ages in the way of garden-craft? A garden, I am aware, has other things to attend to besides the demands of ideal beauty; it has to embellish life to supply innocent pleasure to the inmates of the house as well as to dignify the house itself; and the devising of these vagrant beds that sprawl about the grounds is a pleasure that can be ill spared from the artistic delights of a modern householder. It is indeed wonderful to what heights the British fancy can rise when put to the push, if only it have a congenial field! So here we have flower-beds shaped as crescents and kidneys--beds like flying bats or bubbling tadpoles, commingled butterflies and leeches, stars and sausages, hearts and commas, monograms and maggots--a motley assortment to be sure--but the modern mind is motley, and the pretty flowers smile a sickly smile out of their comic beds, as though Paradise itself could provide them with no fairer lodgings! And yet if I dare speak my mind "sike fancies weren foolerie;" and it were hard to find a good word to say for them from any point of view whatever. Their wobbly shapes are not elegant; they have not the sanction of precedent, even of epochs the most barbarous. And though they make pretence at being a species of art, their mock-formality has not that geometric precision which shall bind them to the formal lines of the house, or to the general bearings of the site. Not only do they contribute nothing to the artistic effect of the general design, but they even mar the appearance of the grass that accommodates them. Design they have, but not design of that quality which alone justifies its intrusion. No wonder "Nature abhors lines" if this base and spurious imitation of the "old formality," that Charles Lamb gloats over, is all that the landscape-garden can offer in the way of idealisation. One other feature of the old-fashioned garden--the herbaceous border--requires a word. It is worthy of note that, unlike the modern, the ancient gardener was not a man of one idea--his art is not bounded like a barrel-organ that can only play one invariable tune! While the master of the "old formality" can give intricate harmonies of inwoven colours in the geometric beds--"all mosaic, choicely planned," where Nature lends her utmost magic to grace man's fancy--he knows the value of the less as well as the more, and finds equal room for the unconstrained melodies of odd free growths in the border-beds, where you shall enjoy the individual character, the form, the outline, the colour, the tone of each plant. Here let the mind of an earlier generation speak in George Milner's "Country Pleasures": "By this time I have got round to the old English flower-bed, where only perennials with an ancient ancestry are allowed to grow. Here there is always delight; and I should be sorry to exchange its sweet flowers for any number of cartloads of scentless bedding-plants, mechanically arranged and ribbon-bordered. This bed is from fifty to sixty yards long, and three or four yards in width. A thorn hedge divides it from the orchard. In spring the apple-bloom hangs over, and now we see in the background the apples themselves. The plants still in flower are the dark blue monkshood, which is 7ft. high; the spiked veronica; the meadow-sweet or queen-o'-the-meadow; the lady's mantle, and the evening primrose. This last may be regarded as the characteristic plant of the season. The flowers open about seven o'clock, and as the twilight deepens, they gleam like pale lamps, and harmonise wonderfully with the colour of the sky. _On this bed I read the history of the year._ Here were the first snowdrops; here came the crocuses, the daffodils, the blue gentians, the columbines, the great globed peonies; and last, the lilies and the roses." And now to apply what has been said. Since gardening entails so much study and experience--since it is a craft in which one is so apt to err, in small matters as in large--since it exists to represent passages of Nature that have touched man's imagination from time immemorial--since its business is to paint living pictures of living things whose habits, aspects, qualities, and character have ever engaged man's interest--since the modern gardener has not only not found new sources of inspiration unknown of old, but has even lost sensibility to some that were active then--it were surely wise to take the hand of old garden-masters who did large things in a larger past--to whom fine gardening came as second nature--whose success has given English garden-craft repute which not even the journeyman efforts of modern times can quite extinguish. These men--Bacon, Temple, Evelyn, and their school--let us follow for style, elevated form, noble ideals, and artistic interpretation of Nature. For practical knowledge of trees and shrubs, indigenous or exotic--to know _how_ to plant and _what_ to plant--to know what to avoid in the practice of modern blunderers--to know the true theory and practice of Landscape-gardening, reduced to writing, after ample analysis--turn we to those books of solid value of the three great luminaries of modern garden-craft, Gilpin, Repton, Loudon. And it were not only to be ungenerous, but absolutely foolish, to neglect the study of the best that is now written and done in the way of landscape-gardening, in methods of planting, and illustration of botany up to date. One school may see things from a different point of view to another, yet is there but one art of gardening. It is certain that to gain boldness in practice, to have clear views upon that delicate point--the relations of Art and Nature--to have a reliable standard of excellence, we must know and value the good in the garden-craft of all times, we must sympathise with the point of view of each phase, and follow that which is good in each and all without scruple and doubtfulness. That man is a fool who thinks that he can escape the influence of his day, or that he can dispense with tradition. I say, let us follow the old garden-masters for style, form, ideal, and artistic interpretation of Nature, and let us not say what Horace Walpole whimpered forth of Temple's garden-enterprise: "These are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands." Have we not seen that at the close of Bacon's lessons in grand gardening he adds, that the things thrown in "for state and magnificence" are but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden? The counsels of perfection are not to be slighted because our ground is small. In gardening, as in other matters, the true test of one's work is the measure of one's possibilities. A small, trim garden, like a sonnet, may contain the very soul of beauty. A small garden may be as truly admirable as a perfect song or painting. Let it be our aim, then, to give to gardening all the method and distinctness of which it is capable, and admit no impediments. A garden not fifty yards square, deftly handled, judiciously laid out, its beds and walks suitably directed, will yield thrice the opportunity for craft, thrice the scope for imaginative endeavour that a two-acre "garden" of the pastoral-farm order, such as is recommended of the faculty, will yield. The very division of the ground into proportionate parts, the varied levels obtained, the framed vistas, the fitting architectural adjuncts, will alone contribute an air of size and scale. As to "codes of taste" (which are usually in matters of Art only someone's opinions stated pompously), these should not be allowed to baulk individual enterprise. "Long experience," says that accomplished gardener and charming writer, E. V. B., in "Days and Hours in a Garden" (p. 125), "Long experience has taught me to have nothing to do with principles in the garden. Little else than a feeling of entire sympathy with the diverse characters of your plants and flowers is needed for 'Art in a Garden.' If sympathy be there, all the rest comes naturally enough." Or to put this thought in Temple's words, "The success is wholly in the gardener." If a garden grow flowers in abundance, _there_ is success, and one may proceed to frame a garden after approved "codes of taste" and fail in this, or one may prefer unaccepted methods and find success beyond one's fondest dreams. "All is fine that is fit" is a good garden motto; and what an eclectic principle is this! How many kinds of style it allows, justifies, and guards! the simplest way or the most ornate; the fanciful or the sweet austere; the intricate and complex, or the coy and unconstrained. Take it as true as Gospel that there is danger in the use of ornament--danger of excess--take it as equally true that there is an intrinsic and superior value in moderation, and yet the born gardener shall find more paths, old and new, that lead to Beauty in a plot of garden-ground than the modern stylist dreams of. The art of gardening may now be known of all men. Gardening is no longer a merely princely diversion requiring thirty wide acres for its display. Everyone who can, now lives in the country, where he is bound to have a garden; and I repeat what I said before, let no one suppose that the beauty of a garden depends on its acreage, or on the amount of money spent upon it. Nay, one would almost prefer a small garden plot, so as to ensure that ample justice shall be done to it.[46] In a small garden there is less fear of dissipated effort, more chance of making friends with its inmates, more time to spare to heighten the beauty of its effects. [Footnote 46: "Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant."--LEIGH HUNT.] To some extent the success of a garden depends upon favourable conditions of sun, soil, and water, but more upon the choiceness of its contents, the skill of its planting, the lovingness of its tendence. Love for beauty has a way of enticing beauty; the seeing eye wins its own ranges of vision, finds points of vantage in unlikely ground. "I write in a nook," says the poet Cowper, "that I call my boudoir; it is a summerhouse, not bigger than a sedan-chair; the door of it opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles, _and the window into my neighbour's orchard_. It formerly served an apothecary as a smoking-room; at present, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses." What a mastery of life is here! "As if life's business were a summer mood; As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; * * * * * By our own spirits are we deified." But I must not finish the stanza in this connection. A garden is pre-eminently a place to indulge individual taste. "Let us not be that fictitious thing," says Madame Roland, "that can only exist by the help of others--_soyons nous_!" So, regardless of the doctors, let me say that the best general rule that I can devise for garden-making is: put all the beauty and delightsomeness you can into your garden, get all the beauty and delight you can out of your garden, never minding a little mad want of balance, and think of proprieties afterwards! Of course, this is to "prove naething," but never mind if but the garden enshrine beauty. To say this is by no means to allow that the garden is the fit place for indulging your love of the out-of-the-way; not so, yet a little sign of fresh motive, a touch of individual technique, a token, however shyly displayed, that you think for yourself is welcome in a garden. Thus I know of a gardener who turned a section of his grounds into a sort of huge bear-pit, not a sunk-pit, but a mound that took the refuse soil from the site of his new house hollowed out, and its slopes set all round with Alpine and American garden-plants, each variety finding the aspect it likes best, and the proportion of light and shade that suits its constitution. This is, of course, to "intrude embankments" into a garden with a vengeance, yet even Mr Robinson, if he saw it, would allow that, as in love and war, your daring in gardening is justified by its results, where, as George Herbert has it-- "Who shuts his hand, hath lost its gold; Who opens it, hath it twice told." A garden is, first and last, a place for flowers; but, treading in the old master's footsteps, I would devote a certain part of even a small garden to Nature's own wild self, and the loveliness of weed-life. Here Art should only give things a good start and help the propagation of some sorts of plants not indigenous to the locality. Good effects do not ensue all at once, but stand aside and wait, or help judiciously, and the result will be a picture of rude and vigorous life, of pretty colour and glorious form, that is gratifying for its own qualities, and more for its opposition to the peacefulness of the garden's ordered surroundings. A garden is the place for flowers, a place where one may foster a passion for loveliness, may learn the magic of colour and the glory of form, and quicken sympathy with Nature in her higher moods. And, because the old-fashioned garden more conduces to these ends than the modern, it has our preference. The spirit of old garden-craft, says: "Do everything that can be done to help Nature, to lift things to perfection, to interpret, to give to your Art method and distinctness." The spirit of the modern garden-craft of the purely landscape school says: "Let be, let well alone, or extemporise at most. Brag of your scorn for Art, yet smuggle her in, as a stalking-horse for your halting method and non-geometrical forms." And, as we have shown, Art has her revenges as well as Nature; and the very negativeness of this school's Art-treatments is the seal to its doom. Mere neutral teaching can father nothing; it can never breed a system of stable device that is capable of development. But old garden-craft is positive, where the other is negative; it has no niggling scruples, but clear aims, that admit of no impediment except the unwritten laws of good taste. Hence its permanent value as a standard of device--for every gardener must needs desire the support of some backbone of experience to stiffen his personal efforts--he must needs have some basis of form on which to rest his own device, his own realisations of natural beauty--and what safer, stabler system of garden-craft can he wish for than that of the old English garden--itself the outcome of a spacious age, well skilled in the pictorial art and bent upon perfection? The qualities to aim at in a flower-garden are beauty, animation, variety, mystery. A garden's beauty, like a woman's beauty, is measured by its capacity for taking fine dress. Given a fine garden, and we need not fear to use embellishment or strong colour, or striking device, according to the adage "The richly provided richly require." [Illustration: (PERSPECTIVE VIEW). PLAN SHEWING ARRANGEMENT OF FOUNTAIN, YEW WALK, AND FLOWER BEDS FOR A LARGE GARDEN.] Because Art stands, so to speak, sponsor for the grace of a garden, because all gardening is Art or nothing, we need not fear to overdo Art in a garden, nor need we fear to make avowal of the secret of its charm. I have no more scruple in using the scissors upon tree or shrub, where trimness is desirable, than I have in mowing the turf of the lawn that once represented a virgin world. There is a quaint charm in the results of the topiary art, in the prim imagery of evergreens, that all ages have felt. And I would even introduce _bizarreries_ on the principle of not leaving all that is wild and odd to Nature outside of the garden-paling; and in the formal part of the garden my yews should take the shape of pyramids or peacocks or cocked hats or ramping lions in Lincoln-green, or any other conceit I had a mind to, which vegetable sculpture can take. [Illustration: PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF GARDEN IN PLAN FOLLOWING.] As to the other desirable qualities--animation, variety, mystery--I would base my garden upon the model of the old masters, without adopting any special style. The place should be a home of fancy, full of intention, full of pains (without showing any); half common-sense, half romance; "neither praise nor poetry, but something better than either," as Burke said of Sheridan's speech; it should have an ethereal touch, yet be not inappropriate for the joyous racket and country cordiality of an English home. It should be "A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little"-- something that would challenge the admiration and suit the moods of various minds; be brimful of colour-gladness, yet be not all pyramids of sweets, but offer some solids for the solid man; combining old processes and new, old idealisms and new realisms; the monumental style of the old here, the happy-go-lucky shamblings of the modern there; the page of Bacon or Temple here, the page of Repton or Marnock there. At every turn the imagination should get a fresh stimulus to surprise; we should be led on from one fair sight, one attractive picture, to another; not suddenly, nor without some preparation of heightened expectancy, but as in a fantasy, and with something of the quick alternations of a dream. [Illustration: PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF A DESIGN FOR A GARDEN, WITH CLIPPED YEW HEDGES AND FLOWER BEDS.] Your garden, gentle reader, is perchance not yet made. It were indeed happiness if, when good things betide you, and the time is ripe for your enterprise, Art ... "Shall say to thee I find you worthy, do this thing for me." CHAPTER VIII. ON THE OTHER SIDE.--A PLEA FOR SAVAGERY. "I am tired of civilised Europe, and I want to see a wild country if I can."--W. R. GREG. "Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!"--TENNYSON. We have discussed the theory of a garden; we have analysed the motives which prompt its making, the various treatments of which it is susceptible; we have made a kind of inventory of its effects, its enchantments, its spendthrift joys. Now we will hear the other side, and find out why the morbid, tired man, the modern Hamlet, likes it not, why the son of culture loathes it as a lack-lustre thing, betokening to him the sedentary and respectable world in its most hostile form. Having made our picture now we will turn it round, and note why it is that the garden, with its full complement of approved ornament, its selected vegetation, its pretty turns for Nature, its many-sided beauty-- "Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern was there Not less than truth designed" --shall never wholly satisfy. Your garden will serve you in many ways. It will give a sense of household warmth to your home. It will smile, or look grave, or be dreamily fanciful almost at your bidding. If your bent be that way it will minister to your imaginative reverie, and almost surfeit you with its floods of lazy music. If you are hot, or weary, or dispirited, or touched with _ennui_, its calm atmosphere will lay the dust and lessen the fret of your life. Yet--let us not blink the fact--just because _all_ Nature is not represented here; because the girdle of the garden walls narrows our view of the world at large, and excludes more of Nature's physiognomy than it includes; because the garden is, as Sir Walter truly says, entirely "a child of Art"; the place, be it never so fair, falls short of man's imaginative craving, and, when put to the push, fails to supply the stimulus his varying moods require. Art's sounding-line will never fathom human nature's emotional depths. Nay, one need not be that interesting product of civilisation, the over-civilised artist who writes books, and paints pictures, and murmurs rhyme that-- "Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day." There is the _ennuyé_ of the clubs whom you are proud to meet in Pall Mall, not a hair of his hat turned, not a wrinkle marring the sit of his coat; meeting him thus and there you would not dream of supposing that this exquisite trophy of the times is a prey to reactionary desires! Yet deep down in the hidden roots of his being lies a layer of unscotched savagery--an unextinguished, inextinguishable strain of the wild man of the woods. Scratch him, and beneath his skin is Rousseau-Thoreau. Scratch him again in the same place, and beneath his second skin see the brown hide of the aboriginal Briton, the dweller in wattled abodes, who knew an earlier England than this, that had swamps and forests, roadless wastes and unbridled winter floods, and strange beasts that no man could tame. Even he ("the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear") will prate to you of the Bohemian delights of an ungardened country, where "the white man's poetry" has not defiled the landscape, and the Britisher shall be free to take his pleasure sadly. Let us not be too hard, then, on that dislike of beauty, that worship of the barbaric which we are apt to condemn as distempered vagaries, for they denote maladies incident to the age, which are neither surprising nor ignoble. This disdain for Art in a garden, this abhorrence of symmetry, this preference for the rude and shaggy, what is it but a new turn given to old instincts, the new Don Quixote sighing for primævalism! This ruthlessness of the followers of the "immortal Brown" who would navvy away the residue of the old-fashioned English gardens; who live to reverse tradition and to scatter the lessons of the past to the winds; what is it but a new quest of the bygone, the knight-errantry of the civilized man, when turned inside out! And for yet another reason is the garden unable to meet the moods of the age. In discussing the things it may rightly contain, we saw that the laws of artistic presentment, no less than the avowed purpose for which a garden is made, require that only such things shall be admitted, or such aspects be portrayed there, as conduce to gladness and poetic charm. And, so far as the garden is concerned, the restriction is necessary and desirable. As with other phases of Art, Sculpture, Painting, or Romance, the things and aspects portrayed must be idealistic, not realistic; its effects must be select, not indiscriminate. The garden is a deliberately contrived thing, a voluntary piece of handicraft, purpose-made; and for this reason it must not stereotype imperfections; it may toy with Nature, but must not wilfully exaggerate what is ordinary; only Nature may exaggerate herself--not Art. It must not imitate those items in Nature that are crude, ugly, abnormal, elementary; it may not reproduce the absolutely repellent; or at most, the artist may only touch them with a light hand, by way of imaginative hint, but not with intent to produce a finished picture out of them. On this point there is a distinct analogy between the guiding principles of Art and Religion. Art and Religion both signify effort to comply with an ideal standard--indeed, the height of the standard is the test of each--and what makes for innocence or for faultiness in the one, makes for innocence or faultiness in the other. Innocence is found in each, but to be without guile in Art or in Religion means that you must be either flawlessly obedient to a perfect standard, or be beyond the pale of law through pure ignorance of wrong. Where no law is, there can be no transgression. Between these two points is no middle-ground, either in the fields of Art or of Religion. To apply this to a garden. Untaught, lawless Nature may present things indiscriminately, as they are, the casual, the accidental, the savage, in their native dress, or undress, in all their rugged reality, and not be ashamed. But the artist-gardener, knowing good and evil, exercising free-will in his garden-craft, must choose only what he may rightly have, and employ only what his trained judgment or the unwritten commandments of good taste will allow. There you have the art of a garden. But because of its necessary exclusiveness, because all Nature is not there, the garden, though of the best, the most far-reaching in its application of art-resources, fails to satisfy all man's imaginative cravings. Your garden, I said, will serve you many a good turn. Here one may come to play the truant from petty worries, to find quiet harbourage in the chopping sea of life's casual ups and downs; but when _real_ trouble comes, on occasions of spiritual tension, or mental conflict, or heavy depression, then the perfect beauty of the garden offends; the garden has no respect for sadness--then it almost mocks and flaunts you; it smiles the same, though your child die, and then instinct sends you away from the lap of Art to the bosom of Nature-- "Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her." All of man, then, asks for all of Nature, and is not content with less. Just as a stringed instrument, even when lying idle, is awake to sympathetic sound but refuses to vibrate to notes that are not kindred to its compass, so the garden, with all its wakeful magic, will voice only such of your moods as it is in touch with; and there are many chords missing in the cunningly encased music of a garden--many human notes find no answering pulsation there. Let us not blink the fact, then; Art, whether of this sphere or of that, is not all. If you want beauty ready-made, obvious gladness of colour, heightened nobleness of form, suggested romance, Nature idealised--all these things are yours in a garden; and yet the very "dressing" of the place which heightens its appeal to one side of man's being is the bar to its acceptance on another side. To have been baptised of Art is to have received gifts rich and strange, that enable the garden's contents to climb to ideal heights; and yet not all men care for perfectness; the most part prefer creatures not too bright or good for human nature's daily food. So, to tell truth, the wild things of field, forest, and shore have a gamut of life, a range of appeal wider than the gardens; the impunities of lawless Nature reach further than man's finished strokes. Nay, when man has done his best in a garden, some shall even regret, for sentimental reasons, that he brought Art upon the scene at all. "Even after the wild landscape, through which youth had strayed at will, has been laid out into fields and gardens, and enclosed with fences and hedges; after the footsteps, which had bounded over the flower-strewn grass have been circumscribed within firm gravel-walks, the vision of its former happiness will still at times float before the mind in its dreams." ("Guesses at Truth.") Beauty, Romance, and Nature await an audience with you in the garden; but it is Beauty after she has been sent to school to learn the tricks of conscious grace; Beauty that has "the foreign aid of ornament," that walks with the supple gait of one who has been well drilled; but gone are the fine careless raptures, gone the bounding step, the blithe impulses of unschooled freedom and gipsy life out of doors. Romance awaits you, holding in her hand a picture of things bright and jocund, full of tender colour and sweet suggestion; a picture designed to prove this world to be unruffled Arcadia, a sunlit pageant, a dream of delectation, a place for solace, a Herrick-land "Of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers;" and human life a jewelled tale with all the irony left out. Nature awaits you, but only as a fair captive, ready to respond to your behests, to answer to the spring of your imaginings. To man's wooing, "I love you, love me back," she resigned herself, not perceiving the drift of homage that was paid, not so much to the beauty that she had, but to the beauty of a heightened sort that should ensue upon his cultivation, for the sake of which he sought her. So now her wildness is subdued. The yew and the holly from the tangled brake shall feel the ignominy of the shears. The "common" thorn of the hedge shall be grafted with one of the twenty-seven rarer sorts; the oak and maple shall be headed down and converted into scarlet species; the single flowers, obedient to a beautiful disease, shall blow as doubles, and be propagated by scientific processes that defy Nature and accomplish centuries of evolution at a stride. The woodbine from the vernal wood must be nailed to the carpenter's trellis, the brook may no more brawl, nor violate its limits, the leaves of the hollybush and the box shall be variegated, the forest tree and woodland shrub shall have their frayed hedges shorn, and their wildness pressed out of them in Art's dissembling embrace. And as with the green things of the earth, so with the creatures of the animal world that are admitted into the sanctuary of a garden. Here is no place for nonconformity of any kind. True, the spruce little squirrel asks no leave for his dashing raids upon the beech-mast and the sweet chestnuts that have escaped the range of the gardener's broom; true, the white and golden pheasant and the speckled goligny may moon about in their distraught fashion down the green alleys and in and out the shrubberies; the foreign duck may frisk in the lake; the white swan may hoist her sail, and "float double, swan and shadow;" the birds may sing in the trees; the peacock may strut on the lawn, or preen his feathers upon the terrace walls; the fallow deer may browse among the bracken on the other side of the ha-ha--thus much of the animal creation shall be allowed here, and not the most fastidious son of Adam will protest a word. But note the terms of their admission. They are a select company, gathered with nice judgment from all quarters of the globe, that are bound over to respectable behaviour, pledged to the beautiful or picturesque; they are in chains, though the chains be aerial and not seen. It is not that the gardener loves pheasants or peacocks, ducks or swans or guinea-fowls for themselves, or for their contribution to the music of the place. Not this, but because these creatures assist the garden's magic, they support the illusion upon which the whole thing is based; as they flit about, and cross and recross the scene, and scream, and quack, and cackle, you get a touch of actuality that adds finish to the strangeness and piquancy that prevail around; they verify your doubting vision, and make valid the reality of its ideality; they accord with the well-swept lawn, the scented air, the flashing radiance of the fountain, the white statuary backed by dark yews or dim stone alcoves, with the clipt shrubs, the dreaming trees, the blare of bright colours, in the shapely beds, the fragrant odours and select beauties of the place. These living creatures (for they _are_ alive), prowling about the grounds,[47] looking fairly comfortable in artificial surroundings from whence their clipped wings will not allow them to escape, incline you to believe that this world is a smooth, genteel, beneficent world after all, and its pastoral character is here so well sustained that no one would be a bit surprised if Pan with his pipe of reeds, or Corydon with his white-fleeced flock, should turn the corner at any moment. [Footnote 47: Lord Beaconsfield adds macaws to the ornament of his ideal garden. "Sir Ferdinand, when he resided at Armine, was accustomed to fill these pleasure grounds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage." But Lord Beaconsfield is Benjamin Disraeli--a master of the ornate, a bit of a dandy always. In Italy, too, they throw in porcupines and ferrets for picturesqueness. In Holland are our old friends the tin hare and guinea-pigs, and the happy shooting boy, in holiday attire, painted to the life.] It is only upon man's terms, however, and to suit his scheme of scenic effects, that these tame things are allowed on the premises. They are not here because man loves them. Woe to the satin-coated mole that blindly burrows on the lawn! Woe to the rabbit that sneaks through the fence, or to the hare that leaps it! Woe to the red fox that litters in the pinetum, or to the birds that make nests in the shrubberies! Woe to the otter that takes license to fish in the ponds at the bottom of the pleasaunce! Woe to the blackbirds that strip the rowan-tree of its berries just when autumn visitors are expected! Woe to the finches that nip the buds off the fruit-trees in the hard spring frost, presuming upon David's plea for sacrilege! Death, instant or prolonged, or dear life purchased at the price of a torn limb, for the silly things that dare to stray where the woodland liberties are forbidden to either plant or animal! So much for the results of man's manipulation of the universe in the way of making ornamental grounds! And the sketch here given applies equally to the new style or to the old, to the garden after Loudon or to the garden after Bacon; the destiny of things is equally interfered with to meet the requirements of the one or the other; the styles are equally artificial, equally remorseless to primal Nature. But one may go farther, and ask: What wonder at the outcry of the modern Nature-lovers against a world so altered from its original self as that Hawthorne should say of England in general that here "the wildest things are more than half tame? The trees, for instance, whether in hedgerow, park, or what they call forest, have nothing wild about them. They are never ragged; there is a certain decorous restraint in the freest outspread of their branches!" Nay, so far does this mistaken man carry his diseased appetite for English soil, marred as it is, that he shall write: "To us Americans there is a kind of sanctity even in an English turnip-field, when we think how long that small square of ground has been known and recognised as a possession, transmitted from father to son, trodden often by memorable feet, and utterly redeemed from savagery by old acquaintance with civilised eyes" ("Our Old Home," p. 75). What wonder, I say, that a land that is so hopelessly gardened as this--a land so sentimentalised and humanised that its very clods, to the American, are "poesy all ramm'd with life"--shall grate the nerves of the Hamlets of to-day, who live too much in the sun, whom man delights not, nor woman neither! What a land to live in! when its best landscape painters--men like Gainsborough or Constable--are so carried away by the influence of agriculture upon landscape, so lost to the superiority of wild solitude, that they will plainly tell you that they like the fields the farmers work in, and the work they do in them; preferring Nature that was modified by man, painting a well-cultivated country with villages and mills and church-steeples seen over hedges and between trees![48] [Footnote 48: See P. G. Hamerton's "Sylvan Year," p. 112.] What a land to live in! when even Nature's wild children of field and forest hug their chains--preserve their old ways and habits up to the very frontier-line of civilisation. For here is Jefferies (who ought to know) writing thus: "Modern progress, except where it has exterminated them, has scarcely touched the habits of bird or animal; so almost up to the very houses of the metropolis the nightingale yearly returns to her old haunts. If we go a few hours' journey only, and then step just beyond the highway, where the steam ploughing-engine has left the mark of its wide wheels on the dust, and glance into the hedgerow, the copse, or stream, there are Nature's children as unrestrained in their wild, free life as they were in the veritable backwoods of primitive England." What wonder that a land where Nature has thus succumbed wholesale to culture, should exasperate the man who has earned a right to be morbid, or that he should cry aloud in his despair, "I am tired of civilised Europe, and I want to see a _wild_ country if I can." Too many are our spots renowned for beauty, our smiling champaigns of flower and fruit. For "Fair prospects wed happily with fair times; but, alas, if times be not fair!" Hence the comfort of oppressive surroundings over-sadly tinged, to men who suffer from the mockery of a place that is too smiling! Hence the glory of a waste like Egdon to Mr Hardy! ("The Return of the Native," pp. 4, 5). For Egdon Heath, "Haggard Egdon appealed to a subtler and scarcer instinct, to a more recently learnt emotion than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair. Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a gaunt waste in Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with external things wearing a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. The time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of Nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking of mankind. And ultimately, to the commonest tourist, spots like Iceland may become what the vineyards and myrtle-gardens of South Europe are to him now; and Heidelberg and Baden be passed unheeded as he hastens from the Alps to the sand-dunes of Scheveningen." I admit that it is strange that time should hold in reserve such revenges as this ascetic writing denotes--strange that man should find beauty irksome, and that he should feel blasted with the very ecstasy himself has built up in a garden! strange this sudden recoil of the smooth son of culture from the extreme of Art, to the extreme of Nature! Stranger still that the "Yes" and "No" of the _Ideal_ Hyde and the _Real_ Jekyll should consist in the same bosom, and that a man shall be, as it were, a prey to contrary maladies at one and the same time! Yet we have found this in Bacon--prince of fine gardeners, who with all his seeming content with the heroic pleasaunce that he has made, shall still betray a sneaking fondness for the maiden charms of Bohemia outside. Earthly Paradise is fine and fit, but there must needs be "mounts of some pretty height, leaving the wall of the enclosure breast high to look abroad in the fields"--there must be "a window open, to fly out at, a secret way to retire by." Nay, after all, what are to him the charms that inspire his rhapsody of words--the things that princes add for state and magnificence! They are Delilah's charms, and "but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden!" "Our gardens in Paris," says Joubert, "smell musty; I do not like these ever-green trees. There is something of blackness in their greenery, of coldness in their shade. Besides, since they neither lose anything, nor have anything to fear, they seem to me unfeeling, and hence have little interest for me.... Those irregular gardens, which we call English gardens, require a labyrinth for a dwelling." "I hate those trees that never lose their foliage" (says Landor); "they seem to have no sympathy with Nature; winter and summer are alike to them." Says Thomson, ... "For loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But it is when unadorned adorn'd the most." Or Cowley's "My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field." Or Addison: "I have often looked upon it as a piece of happiness that I have never fallen into any of these fantastical tastes, nor esteemed anything the more for its being uncommon and hard to be met with. For this reason I look upon the whole country in spring-time as a spacious garden, and make as many visits to a spot of daisies, or a bank of violets, as a florist does to his borders or parterres. There is not a bush in blossom within a mile of me which I am not acquainted with, nor scarce a daffodil or cowslip that withers away in my neighbourhood without my missing it." Or Rousseau: "I can imagine, said I to them, a rich man from Paris or London, who should be master of this house, bringing with him an expensive architect to spoil Nature. With what disdain would he enter this simple and mean place! With what contempt would he have all these tatters uprooted! What fine avenues he would open out! What beautiful alleys he would have pierced! What fine goose-feet, what fine trees like parasols and fans! What finely fretted trellises! What beautifully-drawn yew hedges, finely squared and rounded! What fine bowling-greens of fine English turf, rounded, squared, sloped, ovaled; what fine yews carved into dragons, pagodas, marmosets, every kind of monster! With what fine bronze vases, what fine stone-founts he would adorn his garden! When all that is carried out, said M. De Wolmar, he will have made a very fine place, which one will scarcely enter, and will always be anxious to leave to seek the country." Or Gautier, upon Nature's wild growths: "You will find in her domain a thousand exquisitely pretty little corners into which man seldom or never penetrates. There, from every constraint, she gives herself up to that delightful extravagance of dishevelled plants, of glowing flowers and wild vegetation--everything that germinates, flowers, and casts its seeds, instinct with an eager vitality, to the wind, whose mission it is to disperse them broadcast with an unsparing hand.... And over the rain-washed gate, bare of paint, and having no trace of that green colour beloved by Rousseau, we should have written this inscription in black letters, stonelike in shape, and threatening in aspect: 'GARDENERS ARE PROHIBITED FROM ENTERING HERE.' "Such a whim--very difficult for one to realise who is so deeply incrusted with civilisation, where the least originality is taxed as folly--is continually indulged in by Nature, who laughs at the judgment of fools." Or Thoreau--hero of the Walden shanty, with his open-air gospel--all Nature for the asking--to whom a garden is but Nature debauched, and all Art a sin: "There is in my nature, methinks, a singular yearning towards wildness.... We are apt enough to be pleased with such books as Evelyn's 'Sylva,' 'Acetarium,' and 'Kalendarium Hortense,' but they imply a relaxed nerve in the reader. Gardening is civil and social, but it wants the vigour and freedom of the forest and the outlaw.... It is true there are the innocent pleasures of country-life, and it is sometimes pleasant to make the earth yield her increase, and gather the fruits in their season, but the heroic spirit will not fail to dream of remoter retirements and more rugged paths. It will have its garden-plots and its _parterres_ elsewhere than on the earth, and gather nuts and berries by the way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with such heedlessness as berries. We should not be always soothing and training Nature.... The Indian's intercourse with Nature is at least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. If he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a familiar. There is something vulgar and foul in the latter's closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former's distance.... There are other savager, and more primeval aspects of Nature than our poets have sung. It is only white man's poetry." To sum up the whole matter, this unmitigated hostility of the cultured man (with Jacob's smooth hands and Esau's wild blood) to the amenities of civilised life, brings us back to the point from whence we started at the commencement of this chapter. While men are what they are, Art is not all. Man has Viking passions as well as Eden instincts. Man is of mixed blood, whose sympathies are not so much divided as double. And all of man asks for all of Nature, and is not content with less. To the over-civilised man who is under a cloud, the old contentment with orthodox beauty must give place to the subtler, scarcer instinct, to "the more recently learnt emotion, than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair." Fair effects are only for fair times. The garden represents to such an one a too careful abstract of Nature's traits and features that had better not have been epitomised. The place is to him a kind of fraud--a forgery, so to speak, of Nature's autograph. It is only the result of man's turning spy or detective upon the beauties of the outer world. Its perfection is too monotonous; its grace is too subtle; its geography too bounded; its interest too full of intention--too much sharpened to a point; its growth is too uniformly temperate; its imagery too exacting of notice. These prim and trim things remind him of captive princes of the wood, brightly attired only that they may give romantic interest to the garden--these tame birds with clipped wings, of distraught aspect and dreamy tread--these docile animals with their limp legs and vacant stare, may contribute to the scenic pomp of the place, but it is at the expense of their native instincts and the joyous _abandon_ of woodland life. If this be the outcome of your boasted editing of Nature, give us dead Nature untranslated. If this be what comes of your idealisation of the raw materials of Nature--of the transference of your own emotions to the simple, unsophisticated things of the common earth, let us rather have Nature's unspoilt self--"God's Art," as Plato calls Nature--where "Visions, as prophetic eyes avow, Hang on each leaf, and cling to each bough." * * * * * "But stay, here come the gardeners!" (_Enter a gardener and two servants!_)--_King Richard II._ CHAPTER IX. IN PRAISE OF BOTH. "In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be."--BEN JONSON. "The Common all men have."--GEORGE HERBERT. What shall we say, then, to the two conflicting views of garden-craft referred to in my last chapter, wherein I take the modern position, namely, that the love of Art in a garden, and the love of wild things in Nature's large estate, cannot co-exist in the same breast? Is the position true or false? To see the matter in its full bearings I must fetch back a little, and recall what was said in a former chapter (p. 85) upon the differing attitudes towards Nature taken by the earlier and later schools of gardening. There is, I said, no trace in the writings, or in the gardening, of the earlier traditional school, of that mawkish sentiment about Nature, that condescending tenderness for her primal shapes, that has nursed the scruples, and embarrassed the efforts of the "landscape-gardener" from Kent's and Brown's days to now. The older gardener had no half-and-half methods; he made no pretence of Nature-worship, nursed no scruples that could hinder the expression of his own mind about Nature, or check him from fathoming all her possibilities. Yet with all his seeming unscrupulousness the old gardener does not close his eyes or his heart to Nature at large, but whether in the garden sanctuary or out of it, he maintains equally tender relations towards her. But the scruples of the earlier phase of the landscape school, about tampering with Nature by way of attaining Art effects, are as water unto wine compared with what is taught by men of the same school now-a-days. We have now to reckon with an altogether deeper stratum of antipathy to garden-craft than was reached by the followers of Brown. We have not now to haggle with the quidnuncs over the less or more of Art permissible in a garden, but to fight out the question whether civilisation shall have any garden at all. Away with this "white man's poetry!" The wild Indian's "intercourse with Nature is at least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. If he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a familiar. There is something vulgar and foul in the latter's closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former's distance." "Alas!" says Newman, "what are we doing all through life, both as a necessity and a duty, but unlearning the world's poetry, and attaining to its prose?" One does not fear, however, that the English people will part lightly with their land's old poetry, however seductive the emotion which we are told "prefers the oppression of surroundings over-sadly tinged, and solitudes that have a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities to the old-fashioned sort of beauty called charming and fair." The lesson we have to learn is the falsehood of extremes. The point we have to master is, that in the prodigality of "God's Plenty" many sorts of beauty are ours, and nothing shall be scorned. God's creation has a broad gamut, a vast range, to meet our many moods. "There are, it may be, so many kinds of music in the world, and none of them is without signification." "O world, as God has made it! All is beauty." There is nothing contradictory in the variety and multiformity of Nature, whether loose and at large in Nature's unmapped geography, or garnered and assorted and heightened by man's artistry in the small proportions of a perfect garden. Man, we said, is of mixed blood, whose sympathies are not so much divided as double, and each sympathy shall have free play. My inborn Eden instincts draw me to the bloom and wonder of the world; my Viking blood drives me to the snap and enthusiasm of anarchic forms, the colossal images, the swarthy monotony, the sombre aspects of Nature in the wild. "Yet all is beauty." Thus much by way of preamble. And now, after repeating that the gardener of the old formality, however sternly he discipline wild Nature for the purposes of beauty, is none the less capable of loving and of holding friendly commerce with the things that grew outside his garden hedge, let me bring upon my page a modern of moderns, who, by the wide range of his sympathies, recalls the giants of a healthier day, and redeems a generation of lopsided folk abnormally developed in one direction. And the poet Wordsworth, self-drawn in his own works, or depicted by his friends, is one of the old stock of sane, sound-hearted Englishmen, who can be equally susceptible to the _inward_ beauties of man's created brain-world, and the _outward_ beauties of unkempt Nature. So the combination we plead for is not impossible! The two tastes are not irreconcilable! Blessed be both! We may trust Wordsworth implicitly as an authority upon Nature. No one questions his knowledge of wild woodland lore. There is no one of ancient or of modern times who in his outward mien, his words, his habits, carries more indisputable proof of the prophet's ordination than the man who spent a long noviciate in his native mountain solitudes. There is no one so fully entitled, or so well able to speak of and for her, as he who knows her language to the faintest whisper, who spent his days at her feet, who pored over her lineaments under every change of expression, who in his writings drew upon the secret honey of the beauty and harmony of the world, telling, to use his own swinging phrases, of "the joy and happiness of loving creatures, of men and children, of birds and beasts, of hills and streams, and trees and flowers; with the changes of night and day, evening and morning, summer and winter; and all their unwearied actions and energies." Of all Nature's consecrated children, he is the prince of the apostolate; he is, so to speak, the beloved disciple of them all, whose exalted personal love admits him to the right to lean upon her breast, to hear her heart-beats, to catch knowledge there that had been kept secret since the world began. None so familiar with pastoral life in its varied time-fulness, sweet or stern, glad or grim, pathetic or sublime, as he who carries in his mind the echoes of the passion of the storm, the moan of the passing wind with its beat upon the bald mountain-crag, the sighing of the dry sedge, the lunge of mighty waters, the tones of waterfalls, the inland sounds of caves and trees, the plaintive spirit of the solitude. There are none who have pondered so deeply over "the blended holiness of earth and sky," the gesture of the wind and cloud, the silence of the hills; none so free to fraternise with things bold or obscure, great or small, as he who told alike of the love and infinite longings of Margaret, of the fresh joy of "The blooming girl whose hair was wet With points of morning dew," of the lonely star, the solitary raven, the pliant hare-bell, swinging in the breeze, the meadows and the lower ground, and all the sweetness of a common dawn. Thus did Wordsworth enter into the soul of things and sing of them "In a music sweeter than their own." Nay, says Arnold, "It might seem that Nature not only gave him the matter of his poem, but wrote his poem for him" ("Essays in Criticism," p. 155). So much for Wordsworth upon Nature out of doors; now let us hear him upon Art in a garden, of which he was fully entitled to speak, and we shall see that the man is no less the poet of idealism upon his own ground, than the poet of actuality in the woodland world. Writing to his friend Sir Geo. Beaumont,[49] with all the outspokenness of friendship and the simplicity of a candid mind, he thus delivers himself upon the Art of Gardening: "Laying out grounds, as it is called, may be considered as a Liberal Art, in some sort like poetry and painting, and its object is, or ought to be, to move the affections under the control of good sense; that is, those of the best and wisest; but, _speaking with more precision, it is to assist Nature in moving the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauties of Nature, who have the most valuable feelings, that is, the most permanent, the most independent, the most ennobling with Nature and human life_." [Footnote 49: See Myres' "Wordsworth," English Men of Letters Series, p. 67.] Hearken to Nature's own high priest, turned laureate of the garden! How can this thing be? Here is the man whose days had been spent at Nature's feet, whose life's business seemed to be this only, that he should extol her, interpret her, sing of her, lift her as high in man's esteem as fine utterance can affect the human soul. Yet when he has done all, said all that inspired imagination can say in her praise, in what seems an outburst of disloyalty to his old mistress, he deliberately takes the crown himself had woven from off the head of Nature and places it on the brows of Art in a garden! Not Bacon himself could write with more discernment or with more fervour of garden-craft than this, and the pronouncement gains further significance as being the deliberately expressed opinion of a great poet, and him the leader of the modern School of Naturalists. And that these two men, separated not merely by two centuries of time, but by the revolutionary influences which coloured them, should find common ground and shake hands in a garden, is strange indeed! Both men loved Nature. Bacon, as Dean Church remarks,[50] had a "keen delight in Nature, in the beauty and scents of flowers, in the charm of open-air life;" but his regard for Nature's beauties was not so ardent, his knowledge of her works and ways not so intimate or so scientifically verified, his senses not so sympathetically allured as Wordsworth's; he had not the same prophet's vision that could see into the life of things, and find thoughts there "that do often lie too deep for tears." That special sense Wordsworth himself fathered. [Footnote 50: "Bacon," English Men of Letters Series, R. W. Church.] Points like these add weight to Wordsworth's testimony of the high rank of gardening, and we do well to note that the wreath that the modern man brings for Art in a garden is not only greener and fresher than the garland of the other, but it was gathered on loftier heights; it means more, it implies a more emphatic homage. And Wordsworth had not that superficial knowledge of gardening which no gentleman's head should be without. He knew it as a craftsman knows the niceties of his craft. "More than one seat in the lake-country," says Mr Myres ("Wordsworth," p. 68), "among them one home of pre-eminent beauty, have owed to Wordsworth no small part of their ordered charm." Of Wordsworth's own garden, one writes: "I know that thirty years ago that which struck me most at Rydal Mount, and which appeared to me its greatest charm, was the union of the garden and the wilderness. You passed almost imperceptibly from the trim parterre to the noble wood, and from the narrow, green vista to that wide sweep of lake and mountain which made up one of the finest landscapes in England. Nor could you doubt that this unusual combination was largely the result of the poet's own care and arrangement. _He had the faculty for such work._" Here one may well leave the matter without further labouring, content to have proved by the example of a four-square, sane genius, that those instincts of ours which seem to pull contrary ways--Art-wards or Nature-wards--and to drive our lopsided selves to the falsehood of extremes, are, after all, not incompatible. The field, the waste, the moor, the mountain, the trim garden with its parterres and terraces, are one Nature. These things breathe one breath, they sing one music, they share one heart between them; the difference between the dressed and the undressed is only superficial. The art of gardening is not intended to supersede Nature, but only "to assist Nature in moving the affections of those who have the deepest perceptions of the beauties of Nature, who have the most valuable feelings, ... the most ennobling with Nature and human life." One need not, if Wordsworth's example prove anything, be less the child of the present (but rather the more) because one can both appreciate the realities of rude Nature, and that deliberately-contrived, purpose-made, piece of human handicraft, a well-equipped garden. One need not be less susceptible to the black forebodings of this contention-tost, modern world, nor need one's ear be less alert to Nature's correspondence to "The still, sad music of humanity," because one experiences, with old Mountaine, "a jucunditie of minde" in a fair garden. There is an unerring rightness both in rude Nature and in garden grace, in the chartered liberty of the one, and the unchartered freedom of unadjusted things in the other. Blessed be both! It is worth something to have mastered truth, which, however simple and elementary it seem, is really vital to the proper understanding of the relation of Art to Nature. It helps one to appraise at their proper value the denunciations of the disciples of Kent and Brown against Art in a garden, and to see, on the other hand, why Bacon and the Early School of gardeners loved Nature in the wild state no less than in a garden. It dispels any lingering hesitation we may have as to the amount of Art a garden may receive in defiance of Dryasdust "codes of taste." It explains what your artist-gardener friend meant when he said that he had as much sympathy with, and felt as much interest in, the moving drama of Nature going on on this as on that side of his garden-hedge, and how he could pass from the rough theme outside to the ordered music inside, from the uncertain windings in the coppice-glade to the pleached alley of the garden, without sense of disparagement to the one or the other. It explains why it is that nothing in Nature goes unobserved of him; how you shall call to see him and hunt the garden over, and at last find him idling along the bridle-path in the plantation, his fist full of flowers, his mind set on Nature's affairs, his ear in such unison with local sounds that he shall tell you the dominant tone of the wind in the tree-tops. Or he is in the covert's tangle enjoying "Simple Nature's breathing life," surprising the thorn veiled in blossom, revelling in the wealth of boundless life there, in the variety of plant-form, the palpitating lights, the melody of nesting birds, the common joy and sweet assurance of things. "Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude." Or it may be he is on the breezy waste, lying full length among the heather, watching the rabbits' gambols, or the floating thistle-down with its hint of unseen life in the air, or sauntering by the stream in the lower meadows, learning afresh the glory of weed life in the lush magnificence of the great docks, the red sorrel, the willow-herb, the purple thistles, and the gay battalions of fox-gloves thrown out in skirmishing order, that swarm on each eminence and hedgerow. Or you may meet him hastening home for the evening view from the orchard-terrace, to see the solemn close of day, and the last gleam of sunshine fading over the hill. It is worth something, I say, to win clear hold of the fact that Nature in a garden and Nature in the wild are at unity; that they have each their place in the economy of human life, and that each should have its share in man's affections. The true gardener is in touch with both. He knows where this excels or falls behind the other, and because he knows the range of each, he fears no comparison between them. He can be eloquent upon the charms of a garden, its stimulus for the tired eye and mind, the harmony that resides in the proportions of its lines and masses, the gladness of its colour, the delight of its frankly decorative arrangement, the sense of rest that comes of its symmetry and repeated patterns. He will tell you that for halcyon days, when life's wheels run smooth, and the sun shines, even for life's average days, there is nothing so cheery, nothing so blithely companionable, nothing that can give such a sense of household warmth to your home as a pleasant garden. And yet none will be more ready to warn you of the limits of a garden's charms, of its sheer impotence to yield satisfaction at either end of the scale of human joy or sorrow. And so it is. Let but the mist of melancholy descend upon you, let but the pessimistic distress to which we moderns are all prone penetrate your mind, let you be the prey of undermining sorrow, or lie under the shadow of bereavement, and it is not to the garden that you will go for Nature's comfort. The chalices of its flowers store not the dew that shall cool your brow. Nay, at times like these the garden poses as a kind of lovely foe, to mock you with its polite reticence, its look of unwavering complacency, its gentle ecstasy. Then the ear refuses the soft and intimate garden-melodies, and asks instead for the rough unrehearsed music of Nature in the wild, the jar and jangle of winds and tides, the challenge of discords, "The conflict and the sounds that live in darkness," the wild rhetoric of the night upon some "haggard Egdon," or along the steep wild cliffs when the storm is up, and the deeps are troubled, and the earth throbs and throbs again with the violence of the waves that break and bellow in the caves beneath your feet; and then it perhaps shall cross your mind to set this brief moment of your despair against the unavailing passion of tides that for ten thousand years and more have hurled themselves against this heedless shore. Or you shall find some sequestered corner of the land that keeps its scars of old-world turmoil, the symptoms of the hustle of primeval days, the shock of grim shapes, long ago put to sleep beneath a coverlet of sweet-scented turf; and the unspoiled grandeur of the scene will prick and arouse your dulled senses, while its peaceful face will assure you that, as it was with the troubled masonry of the hills in the morning of the world, even so shall it be with you--time shall tranquillise and at length cancel all your woes. Or again, "Should life be dull, and spirits low 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow." Better tonic, one thinks, for the over-wrought brain than the soft glamour of the well-swept lawn, the clipt shrubs, the focussed beauty of dotted specimens, the ordered disorder of wriggling paths and sprawling flower-beds of strange device, the ransacked wardrobe of the gardener's stock of gay bedding-plants, or other of the permitted charms of a modern garden; better than these is the stir and enthusiasm of Nature's broad estate, the boulder-tossed moor, where the hare runs races in her mirth, and the lark has a special song for your ear; or the high transport of hours of indolence spent basking in the bed of purple heather, your nostrils filled with gladsome air and the scent of thyme, your eyes following the course of the milk-white clouds that ride with folded sails in the blue heavens overhead and cast flying shadows on the uplands, where nothing breaks the silence of the hills but the song in the air, the tinkle of the sheep-bells, and the murmur of the moorland bee. And the upshot of the matter is this. The master-things for the enjoyment of life are: health, a balanced mind that will not churlishly refuse "God's plenty," an eye quick to discern the marvel of beautiful things, a heart in sympathy with man and beast. Possessing these we may defy Fortune-- "I care not, Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave." * * * * * PRINTED BY TURNBULL AND SPEARS EDINBURGH 
17396	----	[Illustration: "IT SEEMED SCARCELY BEARABLE TO LEAVE SUCH DELIGHTFULNESS"--_Page 231_] THE SECRET GARDEN BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT _Author of_ "_The Shuttle_," "_The Making of a Marchioness_," "_The Methods of Lady Walderhurst_," "_That Lass o' Lowries_," "_Through One Administration_," "_Little Lord Fauntleroy_" "_A Lady of Quality_," etc. [Illustration] NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1911, by_ FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT _Copyright, 1910, 1911, by_ THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING CO. _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian._ _August, 1911._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THERE IS NO ONE LEFT 1 II MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY 10 III ACROSS THE MOOR 23 IV MARTHA 30 V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR 55 VI "THERE WAS SOME ONE CRYING--THERE WAS!" 65 VII THE KEY OF THE GARDEN 75 VIII THE ROBIN WHO SHOWED THE WAY 85 IX THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVER LIVED IN 97 X DICKON 111 XI THE NEST OF THE MISSEL THRUSH 128 XII "MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?" 140 XIII "I AM COLIN" 153 XIV A YOUNG RAJAH 172 XV NEST BUILDING 189 XVI "I WON'T!" SAID MARY 207 XVII A TANTRUM 218 XVIII "THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME" 229 XIX "IT HAS COME!" 239 XX "I SHALL LIVE FOREVER--AND EVER--AND EVER!" 255 XXI BEN WEATHERSTAFF 268 XXII WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN 284 XXIII MAGIC 292 XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" 310 XXV THE CURTAIN 328 XXVI "IT'S MOTHER!" 339 XXVII IN THE GARDEN 353 THE SECRET GARDEN CHAPTER I THERE IS NO ONE LEFT When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all, and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all. One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah. "Why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "I will not let you stay. Send my Ayah to me." The woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib. There was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned. "Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all. She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib--Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said they were "full of lace." They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face. "Is it so very bad? Oh, is it?" Mary heard her say. "Awfully," the young man answered in a trembling voice. "Awfully, Mrs. Lennox. You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago." The Mem Sahib wrung her hands. "Oh, I know I ought!" she cried. "I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!" At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters that she clutched the young man's arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. "What is it? What is it?" Mrs. Lennox gasped. "Some one has died," answered the boy officer. "You did not say it had broken out among your servants." "I did not know!" the Mem Sahib cried. "Come with me! Come with me!" and she turned and ran into the house. After that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows. During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by every one. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time. Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow. When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was perfectly still. She had never known it to be so silent before. She heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. The noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. Every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if every one had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her. But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him. "How queer and quiet it is," she said. "It sounds as if there was no one in the bungalow but me and the snake." Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "What desolation!" she heard one voice say. "That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her." Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back. "Barney!" he cried out. "There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!" "I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "A place like this!" "I fell asleep when every one had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?" "It is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "She has actually been forgotten!" "Why was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody come?" The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away. "Poor little kid!" he said. "There is nobody left to come." It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake. CHAPTER II MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her Ayah and the other native servants had done. She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's house where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious. It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and Mary hated him. She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion. "Why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he said. "There in the middle," and he leaned over her to point. "Go away!" cried Mary. "I don't want boys. Go away!" For a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was always teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed. "Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row." He sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser Mary got, the more they sang "Mistress Mary, quite contrary"; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her. "You are going to be sent home," Basil said to her, "at the end of the week. And we're glad of it." "I am glad of it, too," answered Mary. "Where is home?" "She doesn't know where home is!" said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "It's England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven." "I don't know anything about him," snapped Mary. "I know you don't," Basil answered. "You don't know anything. Girls never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. He's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "I don't believe you," said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more. But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder. "She is such a plain child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. "And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her 'Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it." "Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "I believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her. "My word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "And we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "Perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much." "She'll have to alter a good deal," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And there's nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite--if you ask me!" They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India. Since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one's little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself. She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl. But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." At least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria's daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. She never dared even to ask a question. "Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera," Mr. Craven had said in his short, cold way. "Captain Lennox was my wife's brother and I am their daughter's guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London and bring her yourself." So she packed her small trunk and made the journey. Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat. "A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life," Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice. "I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to," she said. "Do you know anything about your uncle?" "No," said Mary. "Never heard your father and mother talk about him?" "No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had never told her things. "Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again. "I suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. You are going to a queer place." Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on. "Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. And there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." She paused and took another breath. "But there's nothing else," she ended suddenly. Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still. "Well," said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you think of it?" "Nothing," she answered. "I know nothing about such places." That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. "Eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. Don't you care?" "It doesn't matter," said Mary, "whether I care or not." "You are right enough there," said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn't. What you're to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. _He's_ not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one." She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time. "He's got a crooked back," she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married." Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate. "She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn't--she didn't," positively. "When she died--" Mary gave a little involuntary jump. "Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet à la Houppe." It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven. "Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won't see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways." It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not there any more. "You needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said Mrs. Medlock. "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. You'll have to play about and look after yourself. You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. There's gardens enough. But when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won't have it." "I shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary; and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him. And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. CHAPTER III ACROSS THE MOOR She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her. "You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to open your eyes! We're at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us." Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire. "I see tha's got back," he said. "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee." "Aye, that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. "How's thy Missus?" "Well enow. Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee." A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included. When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on the edge of a moor. "What is a moor?" she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock. "Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman answered. "We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get to the Manor. You won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something." Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time--or at least it seemed a long time to her. At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt. "Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock. The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound. "It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking round at her companion. "No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep." "I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said Mary. "It sounds like the sea just now." "That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom." On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. "I don't like it," she said to herself. "I don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief. "Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "It's the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events." It was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner up-stairs showed a dull glow. The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them. "You are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "He doesn't want to see her. He's going to London in the morning." "Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered. "So long as I know what's expected of me, I can manage." "What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see." And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table. Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously: "Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live--and you must keep to them. Don't you forget that!" It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life. CHAPTER IV MARTHA When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea. "What is that?" she said, pointing out of the window. Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. "That there?" she said. "Yes." "That's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "Does tha' like it?" "No," answered Mary. "I hate it." "That's because tha'rt not used to it," Martha said, going back to her hearth. "Tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. But tha' will like it." "Do you?" inquired Mary. "Aye, that I do," answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. "I just love it. It's none bare. It's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower. It smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. Eh! I wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'." Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this. They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort. Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you" and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back--if the person who slapped her was only a little girl. "You are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily. Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper. "Eh! I know that," she said. "If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th' under housemaids. I might have been let to be scullery-maid but I'd never have been let up-stairs. I'm too common an' I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house for all it's so grand. Seems like there's neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness. She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "Are you going to be my servant?" Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way. Martha began to rub her grate again. "I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "An' she's Mr. Craven's--but I'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. But you won't need much waitin' on." "Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary. Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement. "Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said. "What do you mean? I don't understand your language," said Mary. "Eh! I forgot," Martha said. "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'. I mean can't you put on your own clothes?" "No," answered Mary, quite indignantly. "I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course." "Well," said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn. Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!" "It is different in India," said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this. But Martha was not at all crushed. "Eh! I can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "I dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. When I heard you was comin' from India I thought you was a black too." Mary sat up in bed furious. "What!" she said. "What! You thought I was a native. You--you daughter of a pig!" Martha stared and looked hot. "Who are you callin' names?" she said. "You needn't be so vexed. That's not th' way for a young lady to talk. I've nothin' against th' blacks. When you read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. You always read as a black's a man an' a brother. I've never seen a black an' I was fair pleased to think I was goin' to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this mornin' I crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you. An' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me--for all you're so yeller." Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "You thought I was a native! You dared! You don't know anything about natives! They are not people--they're servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!" She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. She went to the bed and bent over her. "Eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "You mustn't for sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know anythin' about anythin'--just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'." There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She gradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved. "It's time for thee to get up now," she said. "Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. It's been made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self." When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock. "Those are not mine," she said. "Mine are black." She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval: "Those are nicer than mine." "These are th' ones tha' must put on," Martha answered. "Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in London. He said 'I won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'It'd make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.' Mother she said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesn't hold with black hersel'." "I hate black things," said Mary. The dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own. "Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when Mary quietly held out her foot. "My Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring. "It was the custom." She said that very often--"It was the custom." The native servants were always saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter. It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things. If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk, but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying. "Eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "There's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "Where did he get it?" asked Mary. "He found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her. "I don't want it," she said. "Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously. "No." "Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "I don't want it," repeated Mary. "Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance. Martha looked indignant. "Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary. "It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha. "It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat." Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. "Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?" Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like. "Who will go with me?" she inquired. Martha stared. "You'll go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how he made friends with th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets." It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. There would be birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. They would be different from the birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them. Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way down-stairs. "If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate a second before she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for ten years." "Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house. "Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won't let no one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing--I must run." After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. But the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. This was not the garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shut up? You could always walk into a garden. She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. This was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it. She went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another. She saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables. Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. The place was bare and ugly enough, Mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. It might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now. Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. He looked startled when he saw Mary, and then touched his cap. He had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him. "What is this place?" she asked. "One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered. "What is that?" said Mary, pointing through the other green door. "Another of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'other side o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that." "Can I go in them?" asked Mary. "If tha' likes. But there's nowt to see." Mary made no response. She went down the path and through the second green door. There she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open. Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years. As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle. She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. She could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her. She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it. Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing. "People never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises." She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path. "I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sure it was," she said. "There was a wall round the place and there was no door." She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. "I have been into the other gardens," she said. "There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily. "I went into the orchard." "There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered. "There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary. "What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment. "The one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary. "There are trees there--I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang." To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before. He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot. "Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child. "Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not seen thee before to-day. Has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? Tha'rt too forrad." The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs. "Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me." "What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked. "Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive. They're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know how to get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. He knows we're talkin' about him." It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him. "He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about him. An' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th' things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head gardener, he is." The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased. "Where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked. "There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. This one was a knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely." Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. "I'm lonely," she said. She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin. The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute. "Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked. Mary nodded. "Then no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be lonelier before tha's done," he said. He began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed. "What is your name?" Mary inquired. He stood up to answer her. "Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, "I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "He's th' only friend I've got." "I have no friends at all," said Mary. "I never had. My Ayah didn't like me and I never played with any one." It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man. "Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant." This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. Native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. She had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. She actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable. Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. She was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright. "What did he do that for?" asked Mary. "He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had other things to do. "He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?" Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "There was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There must be a door somewhere." Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "No door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an' play you. I've no more time." And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. CHAPTER V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it. But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty. "Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha. "It tastes nice to-day," said Mary, feeling a little surprised herself. "It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller." "I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with." "Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose. One place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all. A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she was sure that he would understand and answer her. He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said: "Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!" Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment. "I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!" She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is." She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door. "It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key." This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little. She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire. "Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said. She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall down-stairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her. She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked. "Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it." "Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted. Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable. "Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night." Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire. "But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to know if Martha did. Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge. "Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it." Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. She was getting on. But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure that this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha. "Do you hear any one crying?" she said. Martha suddenly looked confused. "No," she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds." "But listen," said Mary. "It's in the house--down one of those long corridors." And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever. "There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person." Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments. "It was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all day." But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth. CHAPTER VI "THERE WAS SOME ONE CRYING--THERE WAS!" The next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when Mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. There could be no going out to-day. "What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked Martha. "Try to keep from under each other's feet mostly," Martha answered. "Eh! there does seem a lot of us then. Mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered. The biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there. Dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. He goes out just th' same as if th' sun was shinin'. He says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather. He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. Its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. He's got it at home now. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. It's named Soot because it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about with him everywhere." The time had come when Mary had forgotten to resent Martha's familiar talk. She had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. The stories she had been told by her Ayah when she lived in India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. The children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies. Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dickon. When Martha told stories of what "mother" said or did they always sounded comfortable. "If I had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it," said Mary. "But I have nothing." Martha looked perplexed. "Can tha' knit?" she asked. "No," answered Mary. "Can tha' sew?" "No." "Can tha' read?" "Yes." "Then why doesn't tha' read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? Tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a good bit now." "I haven't any books," said Mary. "Those I had were left in India." "That's a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock'd let thee go into th' library, there's thousands o' books there." Mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea. She made up her mind to go and find it herself. She was not troubled about Mrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting-room down-stairs. In this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all. In fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when Mrs. Medlock was out of the way. Mary's meals were served regularly, and Martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least. Mrs. Medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. She supposed that perhaps this was the English way of treating children. In India she had always been attended by her Ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. She had often been tired of her company. Now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because Martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on. "Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her. "Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only four year' old. Sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head." Mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things. She stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after Martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone down-stairs. She was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. She did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. She wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them. Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count? It would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out. She had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her. She opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. It was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. There were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. She found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. She had never thought there could be so many in any house. She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from India was doing in their house. Some were pictures of children--little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. She always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look. "Where do you live now?" said Mary aloud to her. "I wish you were here." Surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. It seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about up-stairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. Since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true. It was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door. All the doors were shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. She was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. It was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. There were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in India stood about the room. A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever. "Perhaps she slept here once," said Mary. "She stares at me so that she makes me feel queer." After that she opened more doors and more. She saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them. In all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. There were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them. In one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory. They were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. Mary had seen carved ivory in India and she knew all about elephants. She opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time. When she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet. In all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. Just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. It made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. In the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it. Mary crept softly across the room to look. The bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there. Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. If there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all. "If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them back with me," said Mary. She had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back. Two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was. "I believe I have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "I don't know which way to go. How still everything is!" It was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound. It was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful, childish whine muffled by passing through walls. "It's nearer than it was," said Mary, her heart beating rather faster. "And it _is_ crying." She put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. The tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and Mrs. Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face. "What are you doing here?" she said, and she took Mary by the arm and pulled her away. "What did I tell you?" "I turned round the wrong corner," explained Mary. "I didn't know which way to go and I heard some one crying." She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next. "You didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "You come along back to your own nursery or I'll box your ears." And she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room. "Now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up. The master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would. You're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. I've got enough to do." She went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and Mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did not cry, but ground her teeth. "There _was_ some one crying--there _was_--there _was_!" she said to herself. She had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. She had found out a great deal this morning. She felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. CHAPTER VII THE KEY OF THE GARDEN Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to Martha. "Look at the moor! Look at the moor!" The rain-storm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said. "Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!" "What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know. Martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. 'Nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it at sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does." "Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our cottage." "I should like to see your cottage." Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much. "I'll ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. It's my day out to-day an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to her." "I like your mother," said Mary. "I should think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishing away. "I've never seen her," said Mary. "No, tha' hasn't," replied Martha. She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively. "Well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' good-natured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin' home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I'm crossin' th' moor." "I like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've never seen him." "Well," said Martha stoutly, "I've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what Dickon would think of thee?" "He wouldn't like me," said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. "No one does." Martha looked reflective again. "How does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know. Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over. "Not at all--really," she answered. "But I never thought of that before." Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection. "Mother said that to me once," she said. "She was at her wash-tub an' I was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'Tha' young vixon, tha'! There tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. How does tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute." She went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast. She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin'," he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?" Mary sniffed and thought she could. "I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "What will they be?" asked Mary. "Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?" "No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night." "These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em." "I am going to," answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. "Do you think he remembers me?" she said. "Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from _him_." "Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired. "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?" "Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'." Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago. She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin. She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!" She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds. Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person--only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe. The flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a worm. The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole. Mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. It was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time. Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger. "Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps it is the key to the garden!" CHAPTER VIII THE ROBIN WHO SHOWED THE WAY She looked at the key quite a long time. She turned it over and over, and thought about it. As I have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things. All she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the old rose-trees. It was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it. It seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years. Besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth. The thought of that pleased her very much. Living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination. There is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. Just as it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood, so the same things had stirred her mind. In India she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things. Already she felt less "contrary," though she did not know why. She put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. No one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. The ivy was the baffling thing. Howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly-growing, glossy, dark green leaves. She was very much disappointed. Something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. It seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. She took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready. Mrs. Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits. "I got up at four o'clock," she said. "Eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. I didn't walk all th' way. A man gave me a ride in his cart an' I can tell you I did enjoy myself." She was full of stories of the delights of her day out. Her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. She had even made each of the children a dough-cake with a bit of brown sugar in it. "I had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. An' th' cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they just shouted for joy. Our Dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king to live in." In the evening they had all sat round the fire, and Martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and Martha had told them about the little girl who had come from India and who had been waited on all her life by what Martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings. "Eh! they did like to hear about you," said Martha. "They wanted to know all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. I couldn't tell 'em enough." Mary reflected a little. "I'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so that you will have more to talk about. I dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers." "My word!" cried delighted Martha. "It would set 'em clean off their heads. Would tha' really do that, Miss? It would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in York once." "India is quite different from Yorkshire," Mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over. "I never thought of that. Did Dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?" "Why, our Dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head, they got that round," answered Martha. "But mother, she was put out about your seemin' to be all by yourself like. She said, 'Hasn't Mr. Craven got no governess for her, nor no nurse?' and I said, 'No, he hasn't, though Mrs. Medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn't think of it for two or three years.'" "I don't want a governess," said Mary sharply. "But mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this time an' you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says: 'Now, Martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother. You do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I would." Mary gave her a long, steady look. "You do cheer me up," she said. "I like to hear you talk." Presently Martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron. "What does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. "I've brought thee a present." "A present!" exclaimed Mistress Mary. How could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give any one a present! "A man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," Martha explained. "An' he stopped his cart at our door. He had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth Ellen called out, 'Mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.' An' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'Here, stop, mister! How much are they?' An' he says 'Tuppence,' an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she says to me, 'Martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' I've got four places to put every penny, but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is." She brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. It was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. She gazed at it with a mystified expression. "What is it for?" she asked curiously. "For!" cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in India, for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels! No wonder most of 'em's black. This is what it's for; just watch me." And she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses. But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosity in Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred. "I could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "I've skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve, but I wasn't as fat then as I am now, an' I was in practice." Mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself. "It looks nice," she said. "Your mother is a kind woman. Do you think I could ever skip like that?" "You just try it," urged Martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "You can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practise you'll mount up. That's what mother said. She says, 'Nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. It's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" It was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress Mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. She was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "Put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said Martha. "Mother said I must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. She opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "Martha," she said, "they were your wages. It was your twopence really. Thank you." She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "Thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. Then she laughed. "Eh! tha' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "If tha'd been our 'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have give me a kiss." Mary looked stiffer than ever. "Do you want me to kiss you?" Martha laughed again. "Nay, not me," she answered. "If tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. But tha' isn't. Run off outside an' play with thy rope." Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. Yorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her. At first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. The skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. She counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. She had wondered if he would notice her. She really wanted him to see her skip. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Upon my word! P'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all, an' p'raps tha's got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk. Tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's Ben Weatherstaff. I wouldn't have believed tha' could do it." "I never skipped before," Mary said. "I'm just beginning. I can only go up to twenty." "Tha' keep on," said Ben. "Tha' shapes well enough at it for a young 'un that's lived with heathen. Just see how he's watchin' thee," jerking his head toward the robin. "He followed after thee yesterday. He'll be at it again to-day. He'll be bound to find out what th' skippin'-rope is. He's never seen one. Eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha' curosity will be th' death of thee sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp." Mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes. At length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it. It was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop. She did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty. She stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy. He had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp. As Mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again. "You showed me where the key was yesterday," she said. "You ought to show me the door to-day; but I don't believe you know!" The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off--and they are nearly always doing it. Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in her Ayah's stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic. One of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest. It was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. Mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand. This she did because she had seen something under it--a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it. It was the knob of a door. She put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside. Thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. Mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. The robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was. What was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in? It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in and turned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn. And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly--slowly. Then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight. She was standing _inside_ the secret garden. CHAPTER IX THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVER LIVED IN It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose-bushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. There were neither leaves nor roses on them now and Mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. "How still it is!" she whispered. "How still!" Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin, who had flown to his tree-top, was still as all the rest. He did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at Mary. "No wonder it is still," she whispered again. "I am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years." She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some one. She was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "I wonder if they are all quite dead," she said. "Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it wasn't." If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere. But she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. The sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of Misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side! Her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. There seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them. As she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. There had once been a flower-bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth--some sharp little pale green points. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said and she knelt down to look at them. "Yes, they are tiny growing things and they _might_ be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered. She bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. She liked it very much. "Perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places," she said. "I will go all over the garden and look." She did not skip, but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. "It isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself. "Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive." She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them. "Now they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she had finished with the first ones. "I am going to do ever so many more. I'll do all I can see. If I haven't time to-day I can come to-morrow." She went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. The exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the time. The robin was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff. Where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. Now here was this new kind of creature who was not half Ben's size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours. She had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. "I shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her. Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted. "Two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "Eh! mother will be pleased when I tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee." In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was. "Martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?" "They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissusis an' jonquils an' daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden." "Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking possession of her. "Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he just whispers things out o' th' ground." "Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously. "They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. There's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th' spring comes. No one knows when they was first planted." "I wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all the things that grow in England." She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug. "I wish--I wish I had a little spade," she said. "Whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? I must tell mother that, too." Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear that. "This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never did many things in India, but there were more people to look at--natives and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my Ayah told me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds." Martha's face quite lighted up. "There now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother said. She says, 'There's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes? She'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy over it.' Them was the very words she said." "Were they?" said Mary. "How many things she knows, doesn't she?" "Eh!" said Martha. "It's like she says: 'A woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her A B C. Children's as good as 'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'" "How much would a spade cost--a little one?" Mary asked. "Well," was Martha's reflective answer, "at Thwaite village there's a shop or so an' I saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied together for two shillings. An' they was stout enough to work with, too." "I've got more than that in my purse," said Mary. "Mrs. Morrison gave me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven." "Did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed Martha. "Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She gives me one every Saturday. I didn't know what to spend it on." "My word! that's riches," said Martha. "Tha' can buy anything in th' world tha' wants. Th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an' it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. Now I've just thought of somethin'," putting her hands on her hips. "What?" said Mary eagerly. "In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny each, and our Dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. Does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly. "I know how to write," Mary answered. Martha shook her head. "Our Dickon can only read printin'. If tha' could print we could write a letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same time." "Oh! you're a good girl!" Mary cried. "You are, really! I didn't know you were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper." "I've got some of my own," said Martha. "I bought 'em so I could print a bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get it." She ran out of the room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. "If I have a spade," she whispered, "I can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won't be dead at all--it will come alive." She did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something, so Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon. Mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her. She could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated to her: "_My Dear Dickon:_ This comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. Miss Mary has plenty of money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed. Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in India which is different. Give my love to mother and every one of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers. "Your loving sister, "MARTHA PHOEBE SOWERBY." "We'll put the money in th' envelope an' I'll get th' butcher's boy to take it in his cart. He's a great friend o' Dickon's," said Martha. "How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?" asked Mary. "He'll bring 'em to you himself. He'll like to walk over this way." "Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see him! I never thought I should see Dickon." "Does tha' want to see him?" asked Martha suddenly, she had looked so pleased. "Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him very much." Martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something. "Now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an' I thought I was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. I asked mother--and she said she'd ask Mrs. Medlock her own self." "Do you mean--" Mary began. "What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk." It seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. To think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue! To think of going into the cottage which held twelve children! "Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite anxiously. "Aye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage." "If I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon," said Mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "She doesn't seem to be like the mothers in India." Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question. "Martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again to-day?" Martha certainly started slightly. "What makes thee ask that?" she said. "Because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn't a wind to-day, so you see it couldn't have been the wind." "Eh!" said Martha restlessly. "Tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an' listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do." "I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waiting for you--and I heard it. That's three times." "My word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell," said Martha, and she almost ran out of the room. "It's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said Mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. Fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. CHAPTER X DICKON The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive. Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. They seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the "snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new ones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom. During that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with Ben Weatherstaff. She surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. But, in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. Perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. Then, also, she was more civil than she had been. He did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old Yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to do things. "Tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him. "I never knows when I shall see thee or which side tha'll come from." "He's friends with me now," said Mary. "That's like him," snapped Ben Weatherstaff. "Makin' up to th' women folk just for vanity an' flightiness. There's nothin' he wouldn't do for th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. He's as full o' pride as an egg's full o' meat." He very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over. "How long has tha' been here?" he jerked out. "I think it's about a month," she answered. "Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. "Tha's a bit fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. Tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. Thinks I to myself I never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un." Mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed. "I know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockings are getting tighter. They used to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff." There, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But Ben was sarcastic. "Aye, there tha' art!" he said. "Tha' can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha's got no one better. Tha's been reddinin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha's up to. Tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on Missel Moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of 'em." "Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary. The robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer and closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him. "Tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said Ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "Tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks." The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away. He spoke quite in a whisper. "Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! Tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'." And he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. But because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was not afraid to talk to him. "Have you a garden of your own?" she asked. "No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate." "If you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?" "Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions." "But if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what would you plant?" "Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses." Mary's face lighted up. "Do you like roses?" she said. Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered. "Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to. She had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they was children--or robins. I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "That were as much as ten year' ago." "Where is she now?" asked Mary, much interested. "Heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording to what parson says." "What happened to the roses?" Mary asked again, more interested than ever. "They was left to themselves." Mary was becoming quite excited. "Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?" she ventured. "Well, I'd got to like 'em--an' I liked her--an' she liked 'em," Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "Once or twice a year I'd go an' work at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. They run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived." "When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired Mary. "Wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out." "How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be careful. "Look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what happens." He stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. "Why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he demanded. Mistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer. "I--I want to play that--that I have a garden of my own," she stammered. "I--there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing--and no one." "Well," said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true. Tha' hasn't." He said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much. But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always. She stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared. He answered every one of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond of. "Do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked. "Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints." He said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should. "Now look here!" he said sharply. "Don't tha' ask so many questions. Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions I've ever come across. Get thee gone an' play thee. I've done talkin' for to-day." And he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She liked old Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted to try to make him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers. There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about. She enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was. It was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary." Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked. He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come." He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other seeds." "Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said. She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "Let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. "There's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th' sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. Them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. "Where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said. The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she knew whose it was. "Is it really calling us?" she asked. "Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's callin' some one he's friends with. That's same as sayin' 'Here I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There he is in the bush. Whose is he?" "He's Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he knows me a little," answered Mary. "Aye, he knows thee," said Dickon in his low voice again. "An' he likes thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a minute." He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. "Aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled Dickon. "Do you think he is?" cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. "Do you think he really likes me?" "He wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered Dickon. "Birds is rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he's making up to thee now. 'Cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'." And it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. "Do you understand everything birds say?" said Mary. Dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. "I think I do, and they think I do," he said. "I've lived on th' moor with 'em so long. I've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till I think I'm one of 'em. Sometimes I think p'raps I'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an' I don't know it." He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them. "See here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "I'll plant them for thee myself. Where is tha' garden?" Mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had never thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went red and then pale. "Tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" Dickon said. It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. "Wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "Hasn't tha' got any yet?" She held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him. "I don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "Could you keep a secret, if I told you one? It's a great secret. I don't know what I should do if any one found it out. I believe I should die!" She said the last sentence quite fiercely. Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "I'm keepin' secrets all th' time," he said. "If I couldn't keep secrets from th' other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. Aye, I can keep secrets." Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it. "I've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "It isn't mine. It isn't anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already; I don't know." She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life. "I don't care, I don't care! Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they don't. They're letting it die, all shut in by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying--poor little Mistress Mary. Dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "Eh-h-h!" he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. "I've nothing to do," said Mary. "Nothing belongs to me. I found it myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and they wouldn't take it from the robin." "Where is it?" asked Dickon in a dropped voice. Mistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious and Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful. "Come with me and I'll show you," she said. She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. "It's this," she said. "It's a secret garden, and I'm the only one in the world who wants it to be alive." Dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again. "Eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! It's like as if a body was in a dream." CHAPTER XI THE NEST OF THE MISSEL THRUSH For two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while Mary watched him, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than Mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls. His eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them. "I never thought I'd see this place," he said at last, in a whisper. "Did you know about it?" asked Mary. She had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her. "We must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an' wonder what's to do in here." "Oh! I forgot!" said Mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth. "Did you know about the garden?" she asked again when she had recovered herself. Dickon nodded. "Martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside," he answered. "Us used to wonder what it was like." He stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy. "Eh! the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said. "It'd be th' safest nestin' place in England. No one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an' roses to build in. I wonder all th' birds on th' moor don't build here." Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it. "Will there be roses?" she whispered. "Can you tell? I thought perhaps they were all dead." "Eh! No! Not them--not all of 'em!" he answered. "Look here!" He stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades. "There's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said. "An' there's a lot o' old wood, but it made some new last year. This here's a new bit," and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray. Mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way. "That one?" she said. "Is that one quite alive--quite?" Dickon curved his wide smiling mouth. "It's as wick as you or me," he said; and Mary remembered that Martha had told her that "wick" meant "alive" or "lively." "I'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper. "I want them all to be wick. Let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are." She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eager as she was. They went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful. "They've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones has fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones has died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an' spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. See here!" and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch. "A body might think this was dead wood, but I don't believe it is--down to th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see." He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth. "There!" he said exultantly. "I told thee so. There's green in that wood yet. Look at it." Mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might. "When it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that, it's wick," he explained. "When th' inside is dry an' breaks easy, like this here piece I've cut off, it's done for. There's a big root here as all this live wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round, an' took care of there'll be--" he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer." They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. He was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. In the course of half an hour Mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green. The spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in. They were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise. "Why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. "Who did that there?" It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. "I did it," said Mary. "Why, I thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed. "I don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. So I made a place for them. I don't even know what they are." Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile. "Tha' was right," he said. "A gardener couldn't have told thee better. They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They're crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses," turning to another patch, "an' here's daffydowndillys. Eh! they will be a sight." He ran from one clearing to another. "Tha' has done a lot o' work for such a little wench," he said, looking her over. "I'm growing fatter," said Mary, "and I'm growing stronger. I used always to be tired. When I dig I'm not tired at all. I like to smell the earth when it's turned up." "It's rare good for thee," he said, nodding his head wisely. "There's naught as nice as th' smell o' good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin' things when th' rain falls on 'em. I get out on th' moor many a day when it's rainin' an' I lie under a bush an' listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an' I just sniff an' sniff. My nose end fair quivers like a rabbit's, mother says." "Do you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. "Not me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched cold since I was born. I wasn't brought up nesh enough. I've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th' rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. I'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick." He was working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel. "There's a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly. "Will you come again and help me to do it?" Mary begged. "I'm sure I can help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon!" "I'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "It's th' best fun I ever had in my life--shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden." "If you will come," said Mary, "if you will help me to make it alive I'll--I don't know what I'll do," she ended helplessly. What could you do for a boy like that? "I'll tell thee what tha'll do," said Dickon, with his happy grin. "Tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th' robin same as I do. Eh! we'll have a lot o' fun." He began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression. "I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?" he said. "It's nicer like this with things runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other." "Don't let us make it tidy," said Mary anxiously. "It wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy." Dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "It's a secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago." "But the door was locked and the key was buried," said Mary. "No one could get in." "That's true," he answered. "It's a queer place. Seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago." "But how could it have been done?" said Mary. He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With th' door locked an' th' key buried." Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. "Are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired. "Lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an' there's Canterbury bells, an' campanulas." "Let us plant some," said Mary. "There's lilies o' th' valley here already; I saw 'em. They'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty. Th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. Why does tha' want 'em?" Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India and of how she had hated them and of their calling her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary." "They used to dance round and sing at me. They sang-- 'Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row.' I just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells." She frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. "I wasn't as contrary as they were." But Dickon laughed. "Eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it, "there doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?" Mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning. "Dickon," she said. "You are as nice as Martha said you were. I like you, and you make the fifth person. I never thought I should like five people." Dickon sat up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the grate. He did look funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose. "Only five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "Who is th' other four?" "Your mother and Martha," Mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the robin and Ben Weatherstaff." Dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. "I know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he said, "but I think tha' art th' queerest little lass I ever saw." Then Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking any one before. And she tried to ask it in Yorkshire because that was his language, and in India a native was always pleased if you knew his speech. "Does tha' like me?" she said. "Eh!" he answered heartily, "that I does. I likes thee wonderful, an' so does th' robin, I do believe!" "That's two, then," said Mary. "That's two for me." And then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. Mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner. "I shall have to go," she said mournfully. "And you will have to go too, won't you?" Dickon grinned. "My dinner's easy to carry about with me," he said. "Mother always lets me put a bit o' somethin' in my pocket." He picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quiet clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. It held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them. "It's oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but I've got a fine slice o' fat bacon with it to-day." Mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it. "Run on an' get thy victuals," he said. "I'll be done with mine first. I'll get some more work done before I start back home." He sat down with his back against a tree. "I'll call th' robin up," he said, "and give him th' rind o' th' bacon to peck at. They likes a bit o' fat wonderful." Mary could scarcely bear to leave him. Suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. He seemed too good to be true. She went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back. "Whatever happens, you--you never would tell?" she said. His poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly. "If tha' was a missel thrush an' showed me where thy nest was, does tha' think I'd tell any one? Not me," he said. "Tha' art as safe as a missel thrush." And she was quite sure she was. CHAPTER XII "MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?" Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waiting on the table, and Martha was waiting near it. "Tha's a bit late," she said. "Where has tha' been?" "I've seen Dickon!" said Mary. "I've seen Dickon!" "I knew he'd come," said Martha exultantly. "How does tha' like him?" "I think--I think he's beautiful!" said Mary in a determined voice. Martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too. "Well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was handsome. His nose turns up too much." "I like it to turn up," said Mary. "An' his eyes is so round," said Martha, a trifle doubtful. "Though they're a nice color." "I like them round," said Mary. "And they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor." Martha beamed with satisfaction. "Mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin' up at th' birds an' th' clouds. But he has got a big mouth, hasn't he, now?" "I love his big mouth," said Mary obstinately. "I wish mine were just like it." Martha chuckled delightedly. "It'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said. "But I knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him. How did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?" "How did you know he brought them?" asked Mary. "Eh! I never thought of him not bringin' 'em. He'd be sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshire. He's such a trusty lad." Mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. She was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened. This was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted. "Who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired. "I haven't asked anybody yet," said Mary, hesitating. "Well, I wouldn't ask th' head gardener. He's too grand, Mr. Roach is." "I've never seen him," said Mary. "I've only seen under-gardeners and Ben Weatherstaff." "If I was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha. "He's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh. She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o' the way." "If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one _could_ mind my having it, could they?" Mary said anxiously. "There wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha. "You wouldn't do no harm." Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her. "I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thought I'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this mornin' and I think he wants to see you." Mary turned quite pale. "Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came. I heard Pitcher say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha, "Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mother. She was walkin' to Thwaite village an' she met him. She'd never spoke to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, to-morrow." "Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away to-morrow? I am so glad!" "He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back till autumn or winter. He's goin' to travel in foreign places. He's always doin' it." "Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfully. If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least. "When do you think he will want to see--" She did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. She looked nervous and excited. "Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go and brush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study." All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha. She said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there for her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him. She knew what he would think of her. She was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "Come in," they entered the room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him. "This is Miss Mary, sir," she said. "You can go and leave her here. I will ring for you when I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven. When she went out and closed the door, Mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. She could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. He turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. "Come here!" he said. Mary went to him. He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. He looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. "Are you well?" he asked. "Yes," answered Mary. "Do they take good care of you?" "Yes." He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. "You are very thin," he said. "I am getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. "I forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? I intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but I forgot." "Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lump in her throat choked her. "What do you want to say?" he inquired. "I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary. "And please--please don't make me have a governess yet." He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. "That was what the Sowerby woman said," he muttered absent-mindedly. Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage. "Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she stammered. "Yes, I think so," he replied. "She knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve. She knows." He seemed to rouse himself. "What do you want to do?" "I want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. "I never liked it in India. It makes me hungry here, and I am getting fatter." He was watching her. "Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will," he said. "She thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess." "It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comes over the moor," argued Mary. "Where do you play?" he asked next. "Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. I don't do any harm." "Don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice. "You could not do any harm, a child like you! You may do what you like." Mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it. She came a step nearer to him. "May I?" she said tremulously. Her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever. "Don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "Of course you may. I am your guardian, though I am a poor one for any child. I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happy and comfortable. I don't know anything about children, but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you. She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "She knows all about children," Mary said again in spite of herself. "She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven had been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman. Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things. Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?" "Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?" In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled. "Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?" "To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I was always ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. But here it is different." Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "A bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "You can have as much earth as you want," he said. "You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now, I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock. "Good-by. I shall be away all summer." Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have seen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before she begins lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to the cottage." Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to hear that she need not "look after" Mary too much. She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared. In addition to this she was fond of Martha's mother. "Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went to school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any children myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them. I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself. She's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me." "I understand," Mr. Craven answered. "Take Miss Mary away now and send Pitcher to me." When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor Mary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there. Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. "I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have it where I like! I am not going to have a governess for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl like me could not do any harm and I may do what I like--anywhere!" "Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?" "Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together." She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew Dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him. The gardening tools were laid together under a tree. She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secret garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "He's gone," she said wofully. "Oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. It was a piece of paper--in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there. There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. At first she could not tell what it was. Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they said: "I will cum bak." CHAPTER XIII "I AM COLIN" Mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to Martha. "Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our Dickon was as clever as that. That there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy! She hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning. But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. It was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry. "The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it knew I did not want it." She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane! "It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said. * * * * * She had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. She listened and she listened. "It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying I heard before." The door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying. She listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure. She felt as if she must find out what it was. It seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor. "I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody is in bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!" There was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room. The corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that. She thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day she lost herself. The sound had come up that passage. So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led her. Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. Was this the right corner to turn? She stopped and thought. Yes it was. Down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again. Yes, there was the tapestry door. She pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door. She could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it. The Someone was crying in that room, and it was quite a young Someone. So she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room! It was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. There was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying fretfully. Mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it. The boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too big for it. He had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller. He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain. Mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. Then she crept across the room, and as she drew nearer the light attracted the boy's attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense. [Illustration: "'WHO ARE YOU?--ARE YOU A GHOST?'"--_Page 157_] "Who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper. "Are you a ghost?" "No, I am not," Mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened. "Are you one?" He stared and stared and stared. Mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had. They were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had black lashes all round them. "No," he replied after waiting a moment or so. "I am Colin." "Who is Colin?" she faltered. "I am Colin Craven. Who are you?" "I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle." "He is my father," said the boy. "Your father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever told me he had a boy! Why didn't they?" "Come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an anxious expression. She came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her. "You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such real dreams very often. You might be one of them." Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers. "Rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said. "I will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real I am. For a minute I thought you might be a dream too." "Where did you come from?" he asked. "From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't go to sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you crying for?" "Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your name again." "Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here?" He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality. "No," he answered. "They daren't." "Why?" asked Mary. "Because I should have been afraid you would see me. I won't let people see me and talk me over." "Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment. "Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down. My father won't let people talk me over either. The servants are not allowed to speak about me. If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan't live. My father hates to think I may be like him." "Oh, what a queer house this is!" Mary said. "What a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret. Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you! Have you been locked up?" "No. I stay in this room because I don't want to be moved out of it. It tires me too much." "Does your father come and see you?" Mary ventured. "Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn't want to see me." "Why?" Mary could not help asking again. A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face. "My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. He thinks I don't know, but I've heard people talking. He almost hates me." "He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary half speaking to herself. "What garden?" the boy asked. "Oh! just--just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered. "Have you been here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places at the seaside, but I won't stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London to see me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don't want to go out." "I didn't when first I came here," said Mary. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?" "Because of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully. "Sometimes when I open my eyes I don't believe I'm awake." "We're both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim firelight. "It looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us. We are wide awake." "I don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly. Mary thought of something all at once. "If you don't like people to see you," she began, "do you want me to go away?" He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull. "No," he said. "I should be sure you were a dream if you went. If you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. I want to hear about you." Mary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool. She did not want to go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy. "What do you want me to tell you?" she said. He wanted to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to Yorkshire. She answered all these questions and many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He made her tell him a great deal about India and about her voyage across the ocean. She found out that because he had been an invalid he had not learned things as other children had. One of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking at pictures in splendid books. Though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with. He never seemed to have been amused, however. He could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not like to do. "Every one is obliged to do what pleases me," he said indifferently. "It makes me ill to be angry. No one believes I shall live to grow up." He said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at all. He seemed to like the sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze. But at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject. "How old are you?" he asked. "I am ten," answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment, "and so are you." "How do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice. "Because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried. And it has been locked for ten years." Colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows. "What garden door was locked? Who did it? Where was the key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested. "It--it was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously. "He locked the door. No one--no one knew where he buried the key." "What sort of a garden is it?" Colin persisted eagerly. "No one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was Mary's careful answer. But it was too late to be careful. He was too much like herself. He too had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her. He asked question after question. Where was it? Had she never looked for the door? Had she never asked the gardeners? "They won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think they have been told not to answer questions." "I would make them," said Colin. "Could you?" Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. If he could make people answer questions, who knew what might happen! "Every one is obliged to please me. I told you that," he said. "If I were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. They all know that. I would make them tell me." Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. He thought that the whole world belonged to him. How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living. "Do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden. "I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before. "Ever since I remember anything I have heard people say I shan't. At first they thought I was too little to understand and now they think I don't hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin. He is quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaite when my father is dead. I should think he wouldn't want me to live." "Do you want to live?" inquired Mary. "No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But I don't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and think about it until I cry and cry." "I have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but I did not know who it was. Were you crying about that?" She did so want him to forget the garden. "I dare say," he answered. "Let us talk about something else. Talk about that garden. Don't you want to see it?" "Yes," answered Mary, in quite a low voice. "I do," he went on persistently. "I don't think I ever really wanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want the key dug up. I want the door unlocked. I would let them take me there in my chair. That would be getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door." He had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever. "They have to please me," he said. "I will make them take me there and I will let you go, too." Mary's hands clutched each other. Everything would be spoiled--everything! Dickon would never come back. She would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest. "Oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out. He stared as if he thought she had gone crazy! "Why?" he exclaimed. "You said you wanted to see it." "I do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again." He leaned still farther forward. "A secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me." Mary's words almost tumbled over one another. "You see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--" "Is it dead?" he interrupted her. "It soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "The bulbs will live but the roses--" He stopped her again as excited as she was herself. "What are bulbs?" he put in quickly. "They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They are working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming." "Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? You don't see it in rooms if you are ill." "It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?" He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face. "I never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up. They don't know I know that, so it is a sort of secret. But I like this kind better." "If you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary, "perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to get in sometime. And then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "I should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "I should like that. I should not mind fresh air in a secret garden." Mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him. She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp into it when they chose. "I'll tell you what I _think_ it would be like, if we could go into it," she said. "It has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps." He lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which _might_ have clambered from tree to tree and hung down--about the many birds which _might_ have built their nests there because it was so safe. And then she told him about the robin and Ben Weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to feel afraid. The robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first Mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair. "I did not know birds could be like that," he said. "But if you stay in a room you never see things. What a lot of things you know. I feel as if you had been inside that garden." She did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. He evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise. "I am going to let you look at something," he said. "Do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?" Mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. It was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture. "Yes," she answered. "There is a cord hanging from it," said Colin. "Go and pull it." Mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. When she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. It was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. She had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them. "She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don't see why she died. Sometimes I hate her for doing it." "How queer!" said Mary. "If she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always," he grumbled. "I dare say I should have lived, too. And my father would not have hated to look at me. I dare say I should have had a strong back. Draw the curtain again." Mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool. "She is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours--at least they are the same shape and color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?" He moved uncomfortably. "I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like to see her looking at me. She smiles too much when I am ill and miserable. Besides, she is mine and I don't want every one to see her." There were a few moments of silence and then Mary spoke. "What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I had been here?" she inquired. "She would do as I told her to do," he answered. "And I should tell her that I wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. I am glad you came." "So am I," said Mary. "I will come as often as I can, but"--she hesitated--"I shall have to look every day for the garden door." "Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward." He lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again. "I think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "I will not tell them until they find out. I can always send the nurse out of the room and say that I want to be by myself. Do you know Martha?" "Yes, I know her very well," said Mary. "She waits on me." He nodded his head toward the outer corridor. "She is the one who is asleep in the other room. The nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes Martha attend to me when she wants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to come here." Then Mary understood Martha's troubled look when she had asked questions about the crying. "Martha knew about you all the time?" she said. "Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse likes to get away from me and then Martha comes." "I have been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I go away now? Your eyes look sleepy." "I wish I could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly. "Shut your eyes," said Mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and I will do what my Ayah used to do in India. I will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low." "I should like that perhaps," he said drowsily. Somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in Hindustani. "That is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound. CHAPTER XIV A YOUNG RAJAH The moor was hidden in mist when the morning came and the rain had not stopped pouring down. There could be no going out of doors. Martha was so busy that Mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. She came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else. "What's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "Tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say." "I have. I have found out what the crying was," said Mary. Martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes. "Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!" "I heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I got up and went to see where it came from. It was Colin. I found him." Martha's face became red with fright. "Eh! Miss Mary!" she said half crying. "Tha' shouldn't have done it--tha' shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble. I never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. I shall lose my place and what'll mother do!" "You won't lose your place," said Mary. "He was glad I came. We talked and talked and he said he was glad I came." "Was he?" cried Martha. "Art tha' sure? Tha' doesn't know what he's like when anything vexes him. He's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. He knows us daren't call our souls our own." "He wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked him if I should go away and he made me stay. He asked me questions and I sat on a big footstool and talked to him about India and about the robin and gardens. He wouldn't let me go. He let me see his mother's picture. Before I left him I sang him to sleep." Martha fairly gasped with amazement. "I can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "It's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den. If he'd been like he is most times he'd have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th' house. He won't let strangers look at him." "He let me look at him. I looked at him all the time and he looked at me. We stared!" said Mary. "I don't know what to do!" cried agitated Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock finds out, she'll think I broke orders and told thee and I shall be packed back to mother." "He is not going to tell Mrs. Medlock anything about it yet. It's to be a sort of secret just at first," said Mary firmly. "And he says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases." "Aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!" sighed Martha, wiping her forehead with her apron. "He says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants me to come and talk to him every day. And you are to tell me when he wants me." "Me!" said Martha; "I shall lose my place--I shall for sure!" "You can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey him," Mary argued. "Does tha' mean to say," cried Martha with wide open eyes, "that he was nice to thee!" "I think he almost liked me," Mary answered. "Then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided Martha, drawing a long breath. "Do you mean Magic?" inquired Mary. "I've heard about Magic in India, but I can't make it. I just went into his room and I was so surprised to see him I stood and stared. And then he turned round and stared at me. And he thought I was a ghost or a dream and I thought perhaps he was. And it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of the night and not knowing about each other. And we began to ask each other questions. And when I asked him if I must go away he said I must not." "Th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped Martha. "What is the matter with him?" asked Mary. "Nobody knows for sure and certain," said Martha. "Mr. Craven went off his head like when he was born. Th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum. It was because Mrs. Craven died like I told you. He wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. He just raved and said it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die." "Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't look like one." "He isn't yet," said Martha. "But he began all wrong. Mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any child wrong. They was afraid his back was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin' him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. Once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. Then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off. He talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way. He said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have his own way." "I think he's a very spoiled boy," said Mary. "He's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said Martha. "I won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit. He's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him two or three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an' once he had typhoid. Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fright then. He'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, 'He'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' An' she looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensible as she was herself. She didn't know what'd happen but he just stared at her an' says, 'You give me some water an' stop talkin'.'" "Do you think he will die?" asked Mary. "Mother says there's no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine. He's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill." Mary sat and looked at the fire. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing. It did me good." "One of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was one time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain. He'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious. He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback. He cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night." "If he ever gets angry at me, I'll never go and see him again," said Mary. "He'll have thee if he wants thee," said Martha. "Tha' may as well know that at th' start." Very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting. "I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she said. "I hope he's in a good temper." She was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled expression. "Well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on his sofa with his picture-books. He's told the nurse to stay away until six o'clock. I'm to wait in the next room. Th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, 'I want Mary Lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' You'd better go as quick as you can." Mary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not want to see Colin as much as she wanted to see Dickon, but she wanted to see him very much. There was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. There were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked rather like a picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion. He had a red spot on each cheek. "Come in," he said. "I've been thinking about you all morning." "I've been thinking about you, too," answered Mary. "You don't know how frightened Martha is. She says Mrs. Medlock will think she told me about you and then she will be sent away." He frowned. "Go and tell her to come here," he said. "She is in the next room." Mary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shaking in her shoes. Colin was still frowning. "Have you to do what I please or have you not?" he demanded. "I have to do what you please, sir," Martha faltered, turning quite red. "Has Medlock to do what I please?" "Everybody has, sir," said Martha. "Well, then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me, how can Medlock send you away if she finds it out?" "Please don't let her, sir," pleaded Martha. "I'll send _her_ away if she dares to say a word about such a thing," said Master Craven grandly. "She wouldn't like that, I can tell you." "Thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I want to do my duty, sir." "What I want is your duty," said Colin more grandly still. "I'll take care of you. Now go away." When the door closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress Mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering. "Why do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "What are you thinking about?" "I am thinking about two things." "What are they? Sit down and tell me." "This is the first one," said Mary, seating herself on the big stool. "Once in India I saw a boy who was a Rajah. He had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him. He spoke to his people just as you spoke to Martha. Everybody had to do everything he told them--in a minute. I think they would have been killed if they hadn't." "I shall make you tell me about Rajahs presently," he said, "but first tell me what the second thing was." "I was thinking," said Mary, "how different you are from Dickon." "Who is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer name!" She might as well tell him, she thought. She could talk about Dickon without mentioning the secret garden. She had liked to hear Martha talk about him. Besides, she longed to talk about him. It would seem to bring him nearer. "He is Martha's brother. He is twelve years old," she explained. "He is not like any one else in the world. He can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in India charm snakes. He plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and listen." There were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him. "There is a picture of a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "Come and look at it." The book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of them. "Can he do that?" he asked eagerly. "He played on his pipe and they listened," Mary explained. "But he doesn't call it Magic. He says it's because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. He says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. I think he asked the robin questions. It seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps." Colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned. "Tell me some more about him," he said. "He knows all about eggs and nests," Mary went on. "And he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live. He keeps them secret so that other boys won't find their holes and frighten them. He knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor." "Does he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can he when it's such a great, bare, dreary place?" "It's the most beautiful place," protested Mary. "Thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other. They are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather. It's their world." "How do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on his elbow to look at her. "I have never been there once, really," said Mary suddenly remembering. "I only drove over it in the dark. I thought it was hideous. Martha told me about it first and then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies." "You never see anything if you are ill," said Colin restlessly. He looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was. "You can't if you stay in a room," said Mary. "I couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone. Mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold. "You might--sometime." He moved as if he were startled. "Go on the moor! How could I? I am going to die." "How do you know?" said Mary unsympathetically. She didn't like the way he had of talking about dying. She did not feel very sympathetic. She felt rather as if he almost boasted about it. "Oh, I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly. "They are always whispering about it and thinking I don't notice. They wish I would, too." Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched her lips together. "If they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Who wishes you would?" "The servants--and of course Dr. Craven because he would get Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren't say so, but he always looks cheerful when I am worse. When I had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. I think my father wishes it, too." "I don't believe he does," said Mary quite obstinately. That made Colin turn and look at her again. "Don't you?" he said. And then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking. And there was quite a long silence. Perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things children do not usually think of. "I like the grand doctor from London, because he made them take the iron thing off," said Mary at last. "Did he say you were going to die?" "No." "What did he say?" "He didn't whisper," Colin answered. "Perhaps he knew I hated whispering. I heard him say one thing quite aloud. He said, 'The lad might live if he would make up his mind to it. Put him in the humor.' It sounded as if he was in a temper." "I'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said Mary reflecting. She felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other. "I believe Dickon would. He's always talking about live things. He never talks about dead things or things that are ill. He's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying--or looking down at the earth to see something growing. He has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about. And he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries." She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes. "See here," she said. "Don't let us talk about dying; I don't like it. Let us talk about living. Let us talk and talk about Dickon. And then we will look at your pictures." It was the best thing she could have said. To talk about Dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. And about Dickon's mother--and the skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. And it was all so alive that Mary talked more than she had ever talked before--and Colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before. And they both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy together. And they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going to die. They enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about the time. They had been laughing quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and his robin and Colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak back when he suddenly remembered something. "Do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of," he said. "We are cousins." It seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything. And in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked Dr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock. Dr. Craven started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almost fell back because he had accidentally bumped against her. "Good Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock, with her eyes almost starting out of her head. "Good Lord!" "What is this?" said Dr. Craven, coming forward. "What does it mean?" Then Mary was reminded of the boy Rajah again. Colin answered as if neither the doctor's alarm nor Mrs. Medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence. He was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room. "This is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he said. "I asked her to come and talk to me. I like her. She must come and talk to me whenever I send for her." Dr. Craven turned reproachfully to Mrs. Medlock. "Oh, sir," she panted. "I don't know how it's happened. There's not a servant on the place that'd dare to talk--they all have their orders." "Nobody told her anything," said Colin, "she heard me crying and found me herself. I am glad she came. Don't be silly, Medlock." Mary saw that Dr. Craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient. He sat down by Colin and felt his pulse. "I am afraid there has been too much excitement. Excitement is not good for you, my boy," he said. "I should be excited if she kept away," answered Colin, his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling. "I am better. She makes me better. The nurse must bring up her tea with mine. We will have tea together." Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done. "He does look rather better, sir," ventured Mrs. Medlock. "But"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better this morning before she came into the room." "She came into the room last night. She stayed with me a long time. She sang a Hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep," said Colin. "I was better when I wakened up. I wanted my breakfast. I want my tea now. Tell nurse, Medlock." Dr. Craven did not stay very long. He talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to Colin. He must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired. Mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to forget. Colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on Dr. Craven's face. "I _want_ to forget it," he said at last. "She makes me forget it. That is why I want her." Dr. Craven did not look happy when he left the room. He gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. She had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was. The boy actually did look brighter, however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor. "They are always wanting me to eat things when I don't want to," said Colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa. "Now, if you'll eat I will. Those muffins look so nice and hot. Tell me about Rajahs." CHAPTER XV NEST BUILDING After another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot. Though there had been no chance to see either the secret garden or Dickon, Mistress Mary had enjoyed herself very much. The week had not seemed long. She had spent hours of every day with Colin in his room, talking about Rajahs or gardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor. They had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes Mary had read things to Colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. When he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa. "You are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up like you did that night," Mrs. Medlock said once. "But there's no saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. He's not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. The nurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind staying now you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little. In her talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden. There were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct questions. In the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a secret to. He was not in the least like Dickon, but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. But she had not known him long enough to be sure. The second thing she wanted to find out was this: If he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn't it be possible to take him to the garden without having any one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he must have fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew Dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying. Mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from India. This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a change in her. "Th' air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had said. "Tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha' head so flat. It's got some life in it so as it sticks out a bit." "It's like me," said Mary. "It's growing stronger and fatter. I'm sure there's more of it." "It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it up a little round her face. "Tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks." If gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for Colin. But then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see Dickon. "Why does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she inquired one day. "I always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little. Then when they took me to the seaside and I used to lie in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to whisper and I knew then they were saying I shouldn't live to grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say 'Poor child!' Once when a lady did that I screamed out loud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she ran away." "She thought you had gone mad like a dog," said Mary, not at all admiringly. "I don't care what she thought," said Colin, frowning. "I wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when I came into your room?" said Mary. Then she began to smile slowly. "I thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "You can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care." "Would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?" Mary asked uncertainly. He lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully. "There's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word, "there's one boy I believe I shouldn't mind. It's that boy who knows where the foxes live--Dickon." "I'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said Mary. "The birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it over, "perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sort of animal charmer and I am a boy animal." Then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed. What Mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about Dickon. * * * * * On that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakened very early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She drew up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her. The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something Magic had happened to it. There were tender little fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert. Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun. "It's warm--warm!" she said. "It will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth." She kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what Dickon's mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit's. "It must be very early," she said. "The little clouds are all pink and I've never seen the sky look like this. No one is up. I don't even hear the stable boys." A sudden thought made her scramble to her feet. "I can't wait! I am going to see the garden!" She had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five minutes. She knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew down-stairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall. She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran around the shrubs and paths toward the secret garden. "It is all different already," she said. "The grass is greener and things are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon will come." The long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. There were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. Six months before Mistress Mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing. When she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. She hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. When she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree, and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of Dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard. Mary flew across the grass to him. "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out. "How could you get here so early! How could you! The sun has only just got up!" He got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "Eh!" he said. "I was up long before him. How could I have stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. An' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here. I couldn't have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" Mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I can scarcely breathe!" Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder. "This is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head. "It's named Captain. An' this here's Soot. Soot he flew across th' moor with me an' Captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. They both felt same as I did." Neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of Mary. When Dickon began to walk about, Soot stayed on his shoulder and Captain trotted quietly close to his side. "See here!" said Dickon. "See how these has pushed up, an' these an' these! An' Eh! look at these here!" He threw himself upon his knees and Mary went down beside him. They had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. Mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them. "You never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head. "Flowers are so different." He looked puzzled but smiled. "Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that way when I come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." They ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low. He showed her swelling leaf-buds on rose branches which had seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould. They put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbled as Dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his. There was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. Swiftly something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. Dickon stood quite still and put his hand on Mary almost as if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church. "We munnot stir," he whispered in broad Yorkshire. "We munnot scarce breathe. I knowed he was mate-huntin' when I seed him last. It's Ben Weatherstaff's robin. He's buildin' his nest. He'll stay here if us don't flight him." They settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving. "Us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said Dickon. "He'd be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was interferin' now. He'll be a good bit different till all this is over. He's settin' up housekeepin'. He'll be shyer an' readier to take things ill. He's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. Us must keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an' trees an' bushes. Then when he's got used to seein' us I'll chirp a bit an' he'll know us'll not be in his way." Mistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. But he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves. But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could. "It's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said. "I warrant it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th' world was begun. They've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an' a body had better not meddle. You can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious." "If we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary said as softly as possible. "We must talk of something else. There is something I want to tell you." "He'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said Dickon. "What is it tha's got to tell me?" "Well--do you know about Colin?" she whispered. He turned his head to look at her. "What does tha' know about him?" he asked. "I've seen him. I have been to talk to him every day this week. He wants me to come. He says I'm making him forget about being ill and dying," answered Mary. Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face. "I am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm right down glad. It makes me easier. I knowed I must say nothin' about him an' I don't like havin' to hide things." "Don't you like hiding the garden?" said Mary. "I'll never tell about it," he answered. "But I says to mother, 'Mother,' I says, 'I got a secret to keep. It's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. It's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. Tha' doesn't mind it, does tha'?'" Mary always wanted to hear about mother. "What did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear. Dickon grinned sweet-temperedly. "It was just like her, what she said," he answered. "She give my head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'Eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha' likes. I've knowed thee twelve year'.'" "How did you know about Colin?" asked Mary. "Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed Mester Craven didn't like him to be talked about. Folks is sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond of each other. Mrs. Medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. How did tha' find out about him? Martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. She said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know what to say." Mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. When she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his head. "Them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he said. "They say as Mr. Craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face." "Do you think he wants him to die?" whispered Mary. "No, but he wishes he'd never been born. Mother she says that's th' worst thing on earth for a child. Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester Craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. For one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed hunchback." "Colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said Mary. "He says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death." "Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said Dickon. "No lad could get well as thought them sort o' things." The fox was lying on the grass close by him looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence. Presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden. "When first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray. Look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference." Mary looked and caught her breath a little. "Why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. It is as if a green mist were creeping over it. It's almost like a green gauze veil." "Aye," said Dickon. "An' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone. Can tha' guess what I was thinkin'?" "I know it was something nice," said Mary eagerly. "I believe it was something about Colin." "I was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his carriage." "I've been wondering that myself. I've thought of it almost every time I've talked to him," said Mary. "I've wondered if he could keep a secret and I've wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. I thought perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. He could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out." Dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched Captain's back. "It'd be good for him, I'll warrant," he said. "Us'd not be thinkin' he'd better never been born. Us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an' he'd be another. Two lads an' a little lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. I warrant it'd be better than doctor's stuff." "He's been lying in his room so long and he's always been so afraid of his back that it has made him queer," said Mary. "He knows a good many things out of books but he doesn't know anything else. He says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners. But he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret. I daren't tell him much but he said he wanted to see it." "Us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said Dickon. "I could push his carriage well enough. Has tha' noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been workin' while we've been sittin' here? Look at him perched on that branch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he's got in his beak." He made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. Dickon spoke to him as Ben Weatherstaff did, but Dickon's tone was one of friendly advice. "Wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. Tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. Get on with thee, lad. Tha'st got no time to lose." "Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!" Mary said, laughing delightedly. "Ben Weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and I know he likes it. Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be noticed." Dickon laughed too and went on talking. "Tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "Us is near bein' wild things ourselves. Us is nest-buildin' too, bless thee. Look out tha' doesn't tell on us." And though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, Mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world. CHAPTER XVI "I WON'T!" SAID MARY They found a great deal to do that morning and Mary was late in returning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot Colin until the last moment. "Tell Colin that I can't come and see him yet," she said to Martha. "I'm very busy in the garden." Martha looked rather frightened. "Eh! Miss Mary," she said, "it may put him all out of humor when I tell him that." But Mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a self-sacrificing person. "I can't stay," she answered. "Dickon's waiting for me;" and she ran away. The afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been. Already nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and trees had been pruned or dug about. Dickon had brought a spade of his own and he had taught Mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden" it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime was over. "There'll be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead," Dickon said, working away with all his might. "An' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers." The little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning. Sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park. Each time he came back and perched near Dickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures, and Dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin. Once when Dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, Soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak. When Mary wanted to rest a little Dickon sat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened. "Tha's a good bit stronger than tha' was," Dickon said, looking at her as she was digging. "Tha's beginning to look different, for sure." Mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits. "I'm getting fatter and fatter every day," she said quite exultantly. "Mrs. Medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. Martha says my hair is growing thicker. It isn't so flat and stringy." The sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the trees when they parted. "It'll be fine to-morrow," said Dickon. "I'll be at work by sunrise." "So will I," said Mary. * * * * * She ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. She wanted to tell Colin about Dickon's fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had been doing. She felt sure he would like to hear. So it was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see Martha standing waiting for her with a doleful face. "What is the matter?" she asked. "What did Colin say when you told him I couldn't come?" "Eh!" said Martha, "I wish tha'd gone. He was nigh goin' into one o' his tantrums. There's been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet. He would watch the clock all th' time." Mary's lips pinched themselves together. She was no more used to considering other people than Colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. She knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. When she had had a headache in India she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. And she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that Colin was quite wrong. He was not on his sofa when she went into his room. He was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. This was a bad beginning and Mary marched up to him with her stiff manner. "Why didn't you get up?" she said. "I did get up this morning when I thought you were coming," he answered, without looking at her. "I made them put me back in bed this afternoon. My back ached and my head ached and I was tired. Why didn't you come?" "I was working in the garden with Dickon," said Mary. Colin frowned and condescended to look at her. "I won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me," he said. Mary flew into a fine passion. She could fly into a passion without making a noise. She just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. "If you send Dickon away, I'll never come into this room again!" she retorted. "You'll have to if I want you," said Colin. "I won't!" said Mary. "I'll make you," said Colin, "They shall drag you in." "Shall they, Mr. Rajah!" said Mary fiercely. "They may drag me in but they can't make me talk when they get me here. I'll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. I won't even look at you. I'll stare at the floor!" They were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. If they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. As it was, they did the next thing to it. "You are a selfish thing!" cried Colin. "What are you?" said Mary. "Selfish people always say that. Any one is selfish who doesn't do what they want. You're more selfish than I am. You're the most selfish boy I ever saw." "I'm not!" snapped Colin. "I'm not as selfish as your fine Dickon is! He keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself. He's selfish, if you like!" Mary's eyes flashed fire. "He's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "He's--he's like an angel!" It might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care. "A nice angel!" Colin sneered ferociously. "He's a common cottage boy off the moor!" "He's better than a common Rajah!" retorted Mary. "He's a thousand times better!" Because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. The truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor Mary knew anything about that. He turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. He was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--not for any one else. "I'm not as selfish as you, because I'm always ill, and I'm sure there is a lump coming on my back," he said. "And I am going to die besides." "You're not!" contradicted Mary unsympathetically. He opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. He had never heard such a thing said before. He was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at the same time. "I'm not?" he cried. "I am! You know I am! Everybody says so." "I don't believe it!" said Mary sourly. "You just say that to make people sorry. I believe you're proud of it. I don't believe it! If you were a nice boy it might be true--but you're too nasty!" In spite of his invalid back Colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage. "Get out of the room!" he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her. He was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but Mary's face looked as pinched as a nutcracker. "I'm going," she said. "And I won't come back!" She walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again. "I was going to tell you all sorts of nice things," she said. "Dickon brought his fox and his rook and I was going to tell you all about them. Now I won't tell you a single thing!" She marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still--she was laughing. She was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave Colin to Martha or any one else who would take her place. Mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief. "What are you laughing at?" she asked her. "At you two young ones," said the nurse. "It's the best thing that could happen to the sickly pampered thing to have some one to stand up to him that's as spoiled as himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again. "If he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving of him." "Is he going to die?" "I don't know and I don't care," said the nurse. "Hysterics and temper are half what ails him." "What are hysterics?" asked Mary. "You'll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this--but at any rate you've given him something to have hysterics about, and I'm glad of it." Mary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from the garden. She was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for Colin. She had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great secret. She had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely. She would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked! It would serve him right! She felt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about Dickon and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from the moor. Martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity. There was a wooden box on the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages. "Mr. Craven sent it to you," said Martha. "It looks as if it had picture-books in it." Mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room. "Do you want anything--dolls--toys--books?" She opened the package wondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had. But he had not sent one. There were several beautiful books such as Colin had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. There were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. Everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. She had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm. "I can write better than I can print," she said, "and the first thing I shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him I am much obliged." If she had been friends with Colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. He had a way of doing that which she could not bear. It gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. He said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. Something he had heard Mrs. Medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. Mrs. Medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. He had never told any one but Mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. Mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "He always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "And he has been cross to-day. Perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." She stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "I said I would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. Perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--I think--I'll go." CHAPTER XVII A TANTRUM She had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "I'll go out before breakfast and work with Dickon and then afterward--I believe--I'll go to see him." She thought it was the middle of the night when she was wakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was it--what was it? The next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. "It's Colin," she said. "He's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. How awful it sounds." As she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them. She put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do," she kept saying. "I can't bear it." Once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse. Even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful sounds out. She hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. She was not used to any one's tempers but her own. She took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "He ought to be stopped! Somebody ought to make him stop! Somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. Just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means. She even looked rather pale. "He's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "He'll do himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try, like a good child. He likes you." "He turned me out of the room this morning," said Mary, stamping her foot with excitement. The stamp rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been afraid she might find Mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "That's right," she said. "You're in the right humor. You go and scold him. Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever you can." It was not until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as Colin himself. She flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. She slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "You stop!" she almost shouted. "You stop! I hate you! Everybody hates you! I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! You _will_ scream yourself to death in a minute, and I wish you would!" A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. He had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. His face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little Mary did not care an atom. "If you scream another scream," she said, "I'll scream too--and I can scream louder than you can and I'll frighten you, I'll frighten you!" He actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The scream which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "I can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "I can't--I can't!" "You can!" shouted Mary. "Half that ails you is hysterics and temper--just hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!" and she stamped each time she said it. "I felt the lump--I felt it," choked out Colin. "I knew I should. I shall have a hunch on my back and then I shall die," and he began to writhe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream. "You didn't feel a lump!" contradicted Mary fiercely. "If you did it was only a hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps. There's nothing the matter with your horrid back--nothing but hysterics! Turn over and let me look at it!" She liked the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him. He was probably like herself and had never heard it before. "Nurse," she commanded, "come here and show me his back this minute!" The nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha had been standing huddled together near the door staring at her, their mouths half open. All three had gasped with fright more than once. The nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. Colin was heaving with great breathless sobs. "Perhaps he--he won't let me," she hesitated in a low voice. Colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs: "Sh--show her! She--she'll see then!" It was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared. Every rib could be counted and every joint of the spine, though Mistress Mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage little face. She looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. There was just a minute's silence, for even Colin tried to hold his breath while Mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from London. "There's not a single lump there!" she said at last. "There's not a lump as big as a pin--except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're thin. I've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until I began to get fatter, and I am not fat enough yet to hide them. There's not a lump as big as a pin! If you ever say there is again, I shall laugh!" No one but Colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him. If he had ever had any one to talk to about his secret terrors--if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions--if he had had childish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself. But he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years. And now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth. "I didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought he had a lump on his spine. His back is weak because he won't try to sit up. I could have told him there was no lump there." Colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her. "C-could you?" he said pathetically. "Yes, sir." "There!" said Mary, and she gulped too. Colin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. Actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had come to him. Presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a Rajah at all as he spoke to her. "Do you think--I could--live to grow up?" he said. The nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the London doctor's words. "You probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air." Colin's tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle. He put out his hand a little toward Mary, and I am glad to say that, her own tantrum having passed, she was softened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up. "I'll--I'll go out with you, Mary," he said. "I shan't hate fresh air if we can find--" He remembered just in time to stop himself from saying "if we can find the secret garden" and he ended, "I shall like to go out with you if Dickon will come and push my chair. I do so want to see Dickon and the fox and the crow." The nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows. Then she made Colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to Mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement. Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also. She was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at Mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding Colin's hand. "You must go back and get your sleep out," she said. "He'll drop off after a while--if he's not too upset. Then I'll lie down myself in the next room." "Would you like me to sing you that song I learned from my Ayah?" Mary whispered to Colin. His hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly. "Oh, yes!" he answered. "It's such a soft song. I shall go to sleep in a minute." "I will put him to sleep," Mary said to the yawning nurse. "You can go if you like." "Well," said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance. "If he doesn't go to sleep in half an hour you must call me." "Very well," answered Mary. The nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone Colin pulled Mary's hand again. "I almost told," he said; "but I stopped myself in time. I won't talk and I'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me. Have you--do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden?" Mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented. "Ye-es," she answered, "I think I have. And if you will go to sleep I will tell you to-morrow." His hand quite trembled. "Oh, Mary!" he said. "Oh, Mary! If I could get into it I think I should live to grow up! Do you suppose that instead of singing the Ayah song--you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like inside? I am sure it will make me go to sleep." "Yes," answered Mary. "Shut your eyes." He closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice. "I think it has been left alone so long--that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist. Some of them have died but many--are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. I think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. Now the spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--" The soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on. "Perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now. Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping--and creeping over--everything. And the birds are coming to look at it--because it is--so safe and still. And perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly and slowly indeed, "the robin has found a mate--and is building a nest." And Colin was asleep. CHAPTER XVIII "THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME" Of course Mary did not waken early the next morning. She slept late because she was tired, and when Martha brought her breakfast she told her that though Colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying. Mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened. "He says he wishes tha' would please go and see him as soon as tha' can," Martha said. "It's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. Tha' did give it him last night for sure--didn't tha'? Nobody else would have dared to do it. Eh! poor lad! He's been spoiled till salt won't save him. Mother says as th' two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way--or always to have it. She doesn't know which is th' worst. Tha' was in a fine temper tha'self, too. But he says to me when I went into his room, 'Please ask Miss Mary if she'll please come an' talk to me?' Think o' him saying please! Will you go, Miss?" "I'll run and see Dickon first," said Mary. "No, I'll go and see Colin first and tell him--I know what I'll tell him," with a sudden inspiration. She had her hat on when she appeared in Colin's room and for a second he looked disappointed. He was in bed and his face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes. "I'm glad you came," he said. "My head aches and I ache all over because I'm so tired. Are you going somewhere?" Mary went and leaned against his bed. "I won't be long," she said. "I'm going to Dickon, but I'll come back. Colin, it's--it's something about the secret garden." His whole face brightened and a little color came into it. "Oh! is it!" he cried out. "I dreamed about it all night. I heard you say something about gray changing into green, and I dreamed I was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves--and there were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still. I'll lie and think about it until you come back." In five minutes Mary was with Dickon in their garden. The fox and the crow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels. "I came over on the pony this mornin'," he said. "Eh! he is a good little chap--Jump is! I brought these two in my pockets. This here one he's called Nut an' this here other one's called Shell." When he said "Nut" one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he said "Shell" the other one leaped on to his left shoulder. When they sat down on the grass with Captain curled at their feet, Soot solemnly listening on a tree and Nut and Shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to Mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the look in Dickon's funny face gradually changed her mind. She could see he felt sorrier for Colin than she did. He looked up at the sky and all about him. "Just listen to them birds--th' world seems full of 'em--all whistlin' an' pipin'," he said. "Look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em callin' to each other. Come springtime seems like as if all th' world's callin'. The leaves is uncurlin' so you can see 'em--an', my word, th' nice smells there is about!" sniffing with his happy turned-up nose. "An' that poor lad lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he gets to thinkin' o' things as sets him screamin'. Eh! my! we mun get him out here--we mun get him watchin' an' listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soaked through wi' sunshine. An' we munnot lose no time about it." When he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad Yorkshire though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that Mary could better understand. But she loved his broad Yorkshire and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. So she spoke a little now. "Aye, that we mun," she said (which meant "Yes, indeed, we must"). "I'll tell thee what us'll do first," she proceeded, and Dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking Yorkshire it amused him very much. "He's took a graidely fancy to thee. He wants to see thee and he wants to see Soot an' Captain. When I go back to the house to talk to him I'll ax him if tha' canna' come an' see him to-morrow mornin'--an' bring tha' creatures wi' thee--an' then--in a bit, when there's more leaves out, an' happen a bud or two, we'll get him to come out an' tha' shall push him in his chair an' we'll bring him here an' show him everything." When she stopped she was quite proud of herself. She had never made a long speech in Yorkshire before and she had remembered very well. "Tha' mun talk a bit o' Yorkshire like that to Mester Colin," Dickon chuckled. "Tha'll make him laugh an' there's nowt as good for ill folk as laughin' is. Mother says she believes as half a hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure a chap as was makin' ready for typhus fever." "I'm going to talk Yorkshire to him this very day," said Mary, chuckling herself. The garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if Magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands. It was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as Nut had actually crept on to her dress and Shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. But she went back to the house and when she sat down close to Colin's bed he began to sniff as Dickon did though not in such an experienced way. "You smell like flowers and--and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously. "What is it you smell of? It's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time." "It's th' wind from th' moor," said Mary. "It comes o' sittin' on th' grass under a tree wi' Dickon an' wi' Captain an' Soot an' Nut an' Shell. It's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." She said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh. "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds." "I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire," answered Mary triumphantly. "I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." And then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked. "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." Colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. "I wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people." "Can't you bear me?" asked Mary. "Yes, I can," he answered. "It's very funny but I even like you." "Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. "He said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him too. We are all three alike--you and I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. But I don't feel as sour as I used to before I knew the robin and Dickon." "Did you feel as if you hated people?" "Yes," answered Mary without any affectation. "I should have detested you if I had seen you before I saw the robin and Dickon." Colin put out his thin hand and touched her. "Mary," he said, "I wish I hadn't said what I did about sending Dickon away. I hated you when you said he was like an angel and I laughed at you but--but perhaps he is." "Well, it was rather funny to say it," she admitted frankly, "because his nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over them and he talks broad Yorkshire, but--but if an angel did come to Yorkshire and live on the moor--if there was a Yorkshire angel--I believe he'd understand the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as Dickon does and they'd know he was friends for sure." "I shouldn't mind Dickon looking at me," said Colin; "I want to see him." "I'm glad you said that," answered Mary, "because--because--" Quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. Colin knew something new was coming. "Because what?" he cried eagerly. Mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I trust you--for sure--_for sure_?" she implored. Her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "Yes--yes!" "Well, Dickon will come to see you to-morrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "Oh! Oh!" Colin cried out in delight. "But that's not all," Mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is under the ivy on the wall." If he had been a strong healthy boy Colin would probably have shouted "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get into it? Shall I _live_ to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "Of course you'll see it!" snapped Mary indignantly. "Of course you'll live to get into it! Don't be silly!" And she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and Colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "It is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "It sounds just as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told me first." Mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "I had seen it--and I had been in," she said. "I found the key and got in weeks ago. But I daren't tell you--I daren't because I was so afraid I couldn't trust you--_for sure_!" CHAPTER XIX "IT HAS COME!" Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Colin had had his tantrum. He was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. On this occasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon. "How is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "He will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "Well, sir," answered Mrs. Medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. That plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him. How she's done it there's no telling. The Lord knows she's nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none of us dare do. She just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop, and this afternoon--well just come up and see, sir. It's past crediting." The scene which Dr. Craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him. As Mrs. Medlock opened the door he heard laughing and chattering. Colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so glowing with enjoyment. "Those long spires of blue ones--we'll have a lot of those," Colin was announcing. "They're called Del-phin-iums." "Dickon says they're larkspurs made big and grand," cried Mistress Mary. "There are clumps there already." Then they saw Dr. Craven and stopped. Mary became quite still and Colin looked fretful. "I am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy," Dr. Craven said a trifle nervously. He was rather a nervous man. "I'm better now--much better," Colin answered, rather like a Rajah. "I'm going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. I want some fresh air." Dr. Craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously. "It must be a very fine day," he said, "and you must be very careful not to tire yourself." "Fresh air won't tire me," said the young Rajah. As there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled. "I thought you did not like fresh air," he said. "I don't when I am by myself," replied the Rajah; "but my cousin is going out with me." "And the nurse, of course?" suggested Dr. Craven. "No, I will not have the nurse," so magnificently that Mary could not help remembering how the young native Prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders. "My cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always better when she is with me. She made me better last night. A very strong boy I know will push my carriage." Dr. Craven felt rather alarmed. If this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. "He must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "And I must know something about him. Who is he? What is his name?" "It's Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know Dickon. And she was right, too. She saw that in a moment Dr. Craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. "Oh, Dickon," he said. "If it is Dickon you will be safe enough. He's as strong as a moor pony, is Dickon." "And he's trusty," said Mary. "He's th' trustiest lad i' Yorkshire." She had been talking Yorkshire to Colin and she forgot herself. "Did Dickon teach you that?" asked Dr. Craven, laughing outright. "I'm learning it as if it was French," said Mary rather coldly. "It's like a native dialect in India. Very clever people try to learn them. I like it and so does Colin." "Well, well," he said. "If it amuses you perhaps it won't do you any harm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin?" "No," Colin answered. "I wouldn't take it at first and after Mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--in a low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden." "That sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. "You are evidently better, but you must remember--" "I don't want to remember," interrupted the Rajah, appearing again. "When I lie by myself and remember I begin to have pains everywhere and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so. If there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it I would have him brought here." And he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies. "It is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better." Dr. Craven had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. This afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any disagreeable scenes. When he went down-stairs he looked very thoughtful and when he talked to Mrs. Medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled man. "Well, sir," she ventured, "could you have believed it?" "It is certainly a new state of affairs," said the doctor. "And there's no denying it is better than the old one." "I believe Susan Sowerby's right--I do that," said Mrs. Medlock. "I stopped in her cottage on my way to Thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk with her. And she says to me, 'Well, Sarah Ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs children.' We went to school together, Susan Sowerby and me." "She's the best sick nurse I know," said Dr. Craven. "When I find her in a cottage I know the chances are that I shall save my patient." Mrs. Medlock smiled. She was fond of Susan Sowerby. "She's got a way with her, has Susan," she went on quite volubly. "I've been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. She says, 'Once when I was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' I ses to 'em all, "When I was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' I found out before I was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. But don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." What children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. If you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "She's a shrewd woman," said Dr. Craven, putting on his coat. "Well, she's got a way of saying things," ended Mrs. Medlock, much pleased. "Sometimes I've said to her, 'Eh! Susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad Yorkshire I've seen the times when I should have said you was clever.'" * * * * * That night Colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. It was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of Dickon and his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about. And he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and Mary was at the door. The next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "You've been out! You've been out! There's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. She had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "It's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "You never saw anything so beautiful! It has _come_! I thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. It is here now! It has come, the Spring! Dickon says so!" "Has it?" cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. He actually sat up in bed. "Open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" And though he laughed, Mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds' songs were pouring through. "That's fresh air," she said. "Lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it. That's what Dickon does when he's lying on the moor. He says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever. Breathe it and breathe it." She was only repeating what Dickon had told her, but she caught Colin's fancy. "'Forever and ever'! Does it make him feel like that?" he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him. Mary was at his bedside again. "Things are crowding up out of the earth," she ran on in a hurry. "And there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. And the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb." And then she paused for breath. The new-born lamb Dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. It was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it. He had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk. It was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body. Dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when Mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. A lamb--a lamb! A living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby! She was describing it with great joy and Colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. She started a little at the sight of the open window. She had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold. "Are you sure you are not chilly, Master Colin?" she inquired. "No," was the answer. "I am breathing long breaths of fresh air. It makes you strong. I am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast and my cousin will have breakfast with me." The nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts. She found the servants' hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from up-stairs. There was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, "had found his master, and good for him." The servants' hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better "for a good hiding." When Colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an announcement to the nurse in his most Rajah-like manner. "A boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming to see me this morning. I want them brought up-stairs as soon as they come," he said. "You are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants' hall and keep them there. I want them here." The nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough. "Yes, sir," she answered. "I'll tell you what you can do," added Colin, waving his hand. "You can tell Martha to bring them here. The boy is Martha's brother. His name is Dickon and he is an animal charmer." "I hope the animals won't bite, Master Colin," said the nurse. "I told you he was a charmer," said Colin austerely. "Charmers' animals never bite." "There are snake-charmers in India," said Mary; "and they can put their snakes' heads in their mouths." "Goodness!" shuddered the nurse. They ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. Colin's breakfast was a very good one and Mary watched him with serious interest. "You will begin to get fatter just as I did," she said. "I never wanted my breakfast when I was in India and now I always want it." "I wanted mine this morning," said Colin. "Perhaps it was the fresh air. When do you think Dickon will come?" He was not long in coming. In about ten minutes Mary held up her hand. "Listen!" she said. "Did you hear a caw?" Colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a hoarse "caw-caw." "Yes," he answered. "That's Soot," said Mary. "Listen again! Do you hear a bleat--a tiny one?" "Oh, yes!" cried Colin, quite flushing. "That's the new-born lamb," said Mary. "He's coming." Dickon's moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. Mary and Colin heard him marching--marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of Colin's own passage. "If you please, sir," announced Martha, opening the door, "if you please, sir, here's Dickon an' his creatures." [Illustration: "DICKON CAME IN SMILING HIS NICEST WIDE SMILE."--_Page 251_] Dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. The new-born lamb was in his arms and the little red fox trotted by his side. Nut sat on his left shoulder and Soot on his right and Shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket. Colin slowly sat up and stared and stared--as he had stared when he first saw Mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight. The truth was that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself. Colin had never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking. But Dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. He had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. Creatures were always like that until they found out about you. He walked over to Colin's sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. Of course no boy could have helped speaking then. "What is it doing?" cried Colin. "What does it want?" "It wants its mother," said Dickon, smiling more and more. "I brought it to thee a bit hungry because I knowed tha'd like to see it feed." He knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket. "Come on, little 'un," he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand. "This is what tha's after. Tha'll get more out o' this than tha' will out o' silk velvet coats. There now," and he pushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy. After that there was no wondering what to say. By the time the lamb fell asleep questions poured forth and Dickon answered them all. He told them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. He had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue. "I'd almost lost him but for his song an' I was wonderin' how a chap could hear it when it seemed as if he'd get out o' th' world in a minute--an' just then I heard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes. It was a weak bleatin' an' I knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an' I knowed it wouldn't be hungry if it hadn't lost its mother somehow, so I set off searchin'. Eh! I did have a look for it. I went in an' out among th' gorse bushes an' round an' round an' I always seemed to take th' wrong turnin'. But at last I seed a bit o' white by a rock on top o' th' moor an' I climbed up an' found th' little 'un half dead wi' cold an' clemmin'." While he talked, Soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while Nut and Shell made excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored branches. Captain curled up near Dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from preference. They looked at the pictures in the gardening books and Dickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden. "I couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to one under which was written "Aquilegia," "but us calls that a columbine, an' that there one it's a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones an' they're bigger an' grander. There's some big clumps o' columbine in th' garden. They'll look like a bed o' blue an' white butterflies flutterin' when they're out." "I'm going to see them," cried Colin. "I am going to see them!" "Aye, that tha' mun," said Mary quite seriously. "An tha' munnot lose no time about it." CHAPTER XX "I SHALL LIVE FOREVER--AND EVER--AND EVER!" But they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy days and then Colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day Dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. The things he had to tell about otters' and badgers' and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds' nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working. "They're same as us," said Dickon, "only they have to build their homes every year. An' it keeps 'em so busy they fair scuffle to get 'em done." The most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before Colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. No one must see the chair-carriage and Dickon and Mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. As each day passed, Colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. Nothing must spoil that. No one must ever suspect that they had a secret. People must think that he was simply going out with Mary and Dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him. They had long and quite delightful talks about their route. They would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the "bedding-out plants" the head gardener, Mr. Roach, had been having arranged. That would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious. They would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls. It was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war. Rumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid's apartments had of course filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, Mr. Roach was startled one day when he received orders from Master Colin's room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to speak to him. "Well, well," he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, "what's to do now? His Royal Highness that wasn't to be looked at calling up a man he's never set eyes on." Mr. Roach was not without curiosity. He had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers. The thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him. "Things are changing in this house, Mr. Roach," said Mrs. Medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber. "Let's hope they're changing for the better, Mrs. Medlock," he answered. "They couldn't well change for the worse," she continued; "and queer as it all is there's them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under. Don't you be surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and Martha Sowerby's Dickon more at home than you or me could ever be." There really was a sort of Magic about Dickon, as Mary always privately believed. When Mr. Roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently. "He'd be at home in Buckingham Palace or at the bottom of a coal mine," he said. "And yet it's not impudence, either. He's just fine, is that lad." It was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled. When the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying "Caw--Caw" quite loudly. In spite of Mrs. Medlock's warning, Mr. Roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward. The young Rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. He was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as Dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. A squirrel was perched on Dickon's bent back attentively nibbling a nut. The little girl from India was sitting on a big footstool looking on. "Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin," said Mrs. Medlock. The young Rajah turned and looked his servitor over--at least that was what the head gardener felt happened. "Oh, you are Roach, are you?" he said. "I sent for you to give you some very important orders." "Very good, sir," answered Roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens. "I am going out in my chair this afternoon," said Colin. "If the fresh air agrees with me I may go out every day. When I go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the Long Walk by the garden walls. No one is to be there. I shall go out about two o'clock and every one must keep away until I send word that they may go back to their work." "Very good, sir," replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe. "Mary," said Colin, turning to her, "what is that thing you say in India when you have finished talking and want people to go?" "You say, 'You have my permission to go,'" answered Mary. The Rajah waved his hand. "You have my permission to go, Roach," he said. "But, remember, this is very important." "Caw--Caw!" remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir," said Mr. Roach, and Mrs. Medlock took him out of the room. Outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed. "My word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he? You'd think he was a whole Royal Family rolled into one--Prince Consort and all." "Eh!" protested Mrs. Medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born for." "Perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested Mr. Roach. "Well, there's one thing pretty sure," said Mrs. Medlock. "If he does live and that Indian child stays here I'll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as Susan Sowerby says. And he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter." Inside the room Colin was leaning back on his cushions. "It's all safe now," he said. "And this afternoon I shall see it--this afternoon I shall be in it!" Dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and Mary stayed with Colin. She did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. She wondered why and asked him about it. "What big eyes you've got, Colin," she said. "When you are thinking they get as big as saucers. What are you thinking about now?" "I can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered. "The garden?" asked Mary. "The springtime," he said. "I was thinking that I've really never seen it before. I scarcely ever went out and when I did go I never looked at it. I didn't even think about it." "I never saw it in India because there wasn't any," said Mary. Shut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. "That morning when you ran in and said 'It's come! It's come!' you made me feel quite queer. It sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. I've a picture like it in one of my books--crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, every one laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That was why I said, 'Perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the window." "How funny!" said Mary. "That's really just what it feels like. And if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! I'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music." They both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it. A little later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with Mary all the time. "This is one of his good days, sir," she said to Dr. Craven, who dropped in to inspect him. "He's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger." "I'll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in," said Dr. Craven. "I must see how the going out agrees with him. I wish," in a very low voice, "that he would let you go with him." "I'd rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's suggested," answered the nurse with sudden firmness. "I hadn't really decided to suggest it," said the doctor, with his slight nervousness. "We'll try the experiment. Dickon's a lad I'd trust with a new-born child." The strongest footman in the house carried Colin down-stairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which Dickon waited outside. After the manservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the Rajah waved his hand to him and to the nurse. "You have my permission to go," he said, and they both disappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house. Dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. Mistress Mary walked beside it and Colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. The arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness. The wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness. Colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening--listening, instead of his ears. "There are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out," he said. "What is that scent the puffs of wind bring?" "It's gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," answered Dickon. "Eh! th' bees are at it wonderful to-day." Not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. In fact every gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. But they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. But when at last they turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers. "This is it," breathed Mary. "This is where I used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "Is it?" cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "But I can see nothing," he whispered. "There is no door." "That's what I thought," said Mary. Then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on. "That is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works," said Mary. "Is it?" said Colin. A few yards more and Mary whispered again. "This is where the robin flew over the wall," she said. "Is it?" cried Colin. "Oh! I wish he'd come again!" "And that," said Mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." Then Colin sat up. "Where? Where? There?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in Red Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt called upon to remark on them. Dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped. "And this," said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. And this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. "Oh! is it--is it!" gasped Colin. "And here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon push him in--push him in quickly!" And Dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push. But Colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. Not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as Dickon and Mary had done. And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. And the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him--ivory face and neck and hands and all. "I shall get well! I shall get well!" he cried out. "Mary! Dickon! I shall get well! And I shall live forever and ever and ever!" CHAPTER XXI BEN WEATHERSTAFF One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes. And it was like that with Colin when he first saw and heard and felt the Springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. That afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowded everything it possibly could into that one place. More than once Dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly. "Eh! it is graidely," he said. "I'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like I never seed one as graidely as this 'ere." "Aye, it is a graidely one," said Mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "I'll warrant it's th' graidelest one as ever was in this world." "Does tha' think," said Colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?" "My word!" cried Mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good Yorkshire. Tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art." And delight reigned. They drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees. It was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. There were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. Between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes. Mary and Dickon worked a little here and there and Colin watched them. They brought him things to look at--buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. Dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. It was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained. "I wonder if we shall see the robin?" said Colin. "Tha'll see him often enow after a bit," answered Dickon. "When th' eggs hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim. Tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in. An' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. Mother says as when she sees th' work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin' to do. She says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it." This made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. Colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. He liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper. Every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and Dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when Colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. "That's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. Dickon looked across the grass at the tree and Mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness. "Yes," answered Dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. Mary gazed at the tree and thought. "The branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," Colin went on. "It's quite dead, isn't it?" "Aye," admitted Dickon. "But them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It won't look dead then. It'll be th' prettiest of all." Mary still gazed at the tree and thought. "It looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said Colin. "I wonder how it was done." "It's been done many a year," answered Dickon. "Eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on Colin. "Look at that robin! There he is! He's been foragin' for his mate." Colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. He darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "He's taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five o'clock. I think I'd like some tea myself." And so they were safe. "It was Magic which sent the robin," said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward. "I know it was Magic." For both she and Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and Dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. "We mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "We couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "Aye, that we mun," had answered Mary. But she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinks maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin' after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. They have to come back, tha' sees. Happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here." Mary had thought he meant something about Magic. She was a great believer in Magic. Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. She wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when Colin asked that dangerous question. She felt that his Magic was working all the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. The faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. He looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax. They saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some. "Go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "And then you and Dickon can bring it here." It was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and Shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and Soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. The afternoon was dragging toward its mellow hour. The sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was re-packed ready to be taken back to the house, and Colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color. "I don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but I shall come back to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after." "You'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said Mary. "I'm going to get nothing else," he answered. "I've seen the spring now and I'm going to see the summer. I'm going to see everything grow here. I'm going to grow here myself." "That tha' will," said Dickon. "Us'll have thee walkin' about here an' diggin' same as other folk afore long." Colin flushed tremendously. "Walk!" he said. "Dig! Shall I?" Dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. Neither he nor Mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs. "For sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "Tha'--tha's got legs o' thine own, same as other folks!" Mary was rather frightened until she heard Colin's answer. "Nothing really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. They shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand on them." Both Mary and Dickon drew a relieved breath. "When tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," Dickon said with renewed cheer. "An' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit." "I shall?" said Colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things. They were really very quiet for a little while. The sun was dropping lower. It was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. Colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. Even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. Soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute. In the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when Colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper: "Who is that man?" Dickon and Mary scrambled to their feet. "Man!" they both cried in low quick voices. Colin pointed to the high wall. "Look!" he whispered excitedly. "Just look!" Mary and Dickon wheeled about and looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! He actually shook his fist at Mary. "If I wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "I'd give thee a hidin'!" He mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her. "I never thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "I couldna' abide thee th' first time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna' wanted. I never knowed how tha' got so thick wi' me. If it hadna' been for th' robin--Drat him--" "Ben Weatherstaff," called out Mary, finding her breath. She stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "Ben Weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!" Then it did seem as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged. "Tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "Layin' tha' badness on a robin,--not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way! Him! Eh! tha' young nowt,"--she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity--"however i' this world did tha' get in?" "It was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "He didn't know he was doing it but he did. And I can't tell you from here while you're shaking your fist at me." He stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him. At the first sound of his torrent of words Colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. But in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon. "Wheel me over there!" he commanded. "Wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!" And this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of State Coach because a young Rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. And it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff's nose. It was really no wonder his mouth dropped open. "Do you know who I am?" demanded the Rajah. How Ben Weatherstaff stared! His red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost. He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word. "Do you know who I am?" demanded Colin still more imperiously. "Answer!" Ben Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice. "Who tha' art?" he said. "Aye, that I do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me out o' tha' face. Lord knows how tha' come here. But tha'rt th' poor cripple." Colin forgot that he had ever had a back. His face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright. "I'm not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "I'm not!" "He's not!" cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. "He's not got a lump as big as a pin! I looked and there was none there--not one!" Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. His hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. He was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard. "Tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely. "No!" shouted Colin. "Tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered Ben more hoarsely yet. It was too much. The strength which Colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crooked legs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff's voice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure. His anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength. "Come here!" he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "Come here! Come here! This minute!" Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale. "He can do it! He can do it! He can do it! He can!" she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could. There was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on to the ground, Dickon held Colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. Colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "Look at me!" he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff. "Just look at me--you! Just look at me!" "He's as straight as I am!" cried Dickon. "He's as straight as any lad i' Yorkshire!" What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure. He choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together. "Eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! Tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. Tha'lt make a mon yet. God bless thee!" Dickon held Colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. He stood straighter and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face. "I'm your master," he said, "when my father is away. And you are to obey me. This is my garden. Don't dare to say a word about it! You get down from that ladder and go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet you and bring you here. I want to talk to you. We did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. Be quick!" Ben Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears. It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight Colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back. "Eh! lad," he almost whispered. "Eh! my lad!" And then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. CHAPTER XXII WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN When his head was out of sight Colin turned to Mary. "Go and meet him," he said; and Mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. Dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. There were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling. "I can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly. "I told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered Dickon. "An' tha's stopped." "Yes, I've stopped," said Colin. Then suddenly he remembered something Mary had said. "Are you making Magic?" he asked sharply. Dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. "Tha's doin' Magic thysel'," he said. "It's same Magic as made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. Colin looked down at them. "Aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger Magic then that there--there couldna' be." He drew himself up straighter than ever. "I'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. "I'm going to be standing when Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest against the tree if I like. When I want to sit down I will sit down, but not before. Bring a rug from the chair." He walked to the tree and though Dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. When he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. When Ben Weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard Mary muttering something under her breath. "What art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face. But she did not tell him. What she was saying was this: "You can do it! You can do it! I told you you could! You can do it! You can do it! You _can_!" She was saying it to Colin because she wanted to make Magic and keep him on his feet looking like that. She could not bear that he should give in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not give in. She was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. He fixed his eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny imperious way. "Look at me!" he commanded. "Look at me all over! Am I a hunchback? Have I got crooked legs?" Ben Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way. "Not tha'," he said. "Nowt o' th' sort. What's tha' been doin' with thysel'--? hidin' out o' sight an' lettin' folk think tha' was cripple an' half-witted?" "Half-witted!" said Colin angrily. "Who thought that?" "Lots o' fools," said Ben. "Th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. What did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "Every one thought I was going to die," said Colin shortly. "I'm not!" And he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "Tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too much pluck in thee. When I seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry I knowed tha' was all right. Sit thee down on th' rug a bit young Mester an' give me thy orders." There was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner. Mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the Long Walk. The chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that Colin was getting well--getting well. The garden was doing it. No one must let him remember about having humps and dying. The Rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree. "What work do you do in the gardens, Weatherstaff?" he inquired. "Anythin' I'm told to do," answered old Ben. "I'm kep' on by favor--because she liked me." "She?" said Colin. "Tha' mother," answered Ben Weatherstaff. "My mother?" said Colin, and he looked about him quietly. "This was her garden, wasn't it?" "Aye, it was that!" and Ben Weatherstaff looked about him too. "She were main fond of it." "It is my garden now, I am fond of it. I shall come here every day," announced Colin. "But it is to be a secret. My orders are that no one is to know that we come here. Dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. I shall send for you sometimes to help--but you must come when no one can see you." Ben Weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile. "I've come here before when no one saw me," he said. "What!" exclaimed Colin. "When?" "Th' last time I was here," rubbing his chin and looking round, "was about two year' ago." "But no one has been in it for ten years!" cried Colin. "There was no door!" "I'm no one," said old Ben dryly. "An' I didn't come through th' door. I come over th' wall. Th' rheumatics held me back th' last two year'." "Tha' come an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cried Dickon. "I couldn't make out how it had been done." "She was so fond of it--she was!" said Ben Weatherstaff slowly. "An' she was such a pretty young thing. She says to me once, 'Ben,' says she laughin', 'if ever I'm ill or if I go away you must take care of my roses.' When she did go away th' orders was no one was ever to come nigh. But I come," with grumpy obstinacy. "Over th' wall I come--until th' rheumatics stopped me--an' I did a bit o' work once a year. She'd gave her order first." "It wouldn't have been as wick as it is if tha' hadn't done it," said Dickon. "I did wonder." "I'm glad you did it, Weatherstaff," said Colin. "You'll know how to keep the secret." "Aye, I'll know, sir," answered Ben. "An' it'll be easier for a man wi' rheumatics to come in at th' door." On the grass near the tree Mary had dropped her trowel. Colin stretched out his hand and took it up. An odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at the earth. His thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him--Mary with quite breathless interest--he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over. "You can do it! You can do it!" said Mary to herself. "I tell you, you can!" Dickon's round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word. Ben Weatherstaff looked on with interested face. Colin persevered. After he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to Dickon in his best Yorkshire. "Tha' said as tha'd have me walkin' about here same as other folk--an' tha' said tha'd have me diggin'. I thowt tha' was just leein' to please me. This is only th' first day an' I've walked--an' here I am diggin'." Ben Weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "Eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. Tha'rt a Yorkshire lad for sure. An' tha'rt diggin', too. How'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I can get thee a rose in a pot." "Go and get it!" said Colin, digging excitedly. "Quick! Quick!" It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon had deepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "I want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. Mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. He had begun to be excited, too. He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "Here, lad," he said, handing the plant to Colin. "Set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." The thin white hands shook a little and Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nut and Shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "It's planted!" said Colin at last. "And the sun is only slipping over the edge. Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes. That's part of the Magic." And Dickon helped him, and the Magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. CHAPTER XXIII MAGIC Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "You should not have stayed so long," he said. "You must not overexert yourself." "I am not tired at all," said Colin. "It has made me well. To-morrow I am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "I am not sure that I can allow it," answered Dr. Craven. "I am afraid it would not be wise." "It would not be wise to try to stop me," said Colin quite seriously. "I am going." Even Mary had found out that one of Colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. He had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with. Mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at Misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. Having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin. So she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did. "What are you looking at me for?" he said. "I'm thinking that I am rather sorry for Dr. Craven." "So am I," said Colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction. "He won't get Misselthwaite at all now I'm not going to die." "I'm sorry for him because of that, of course," said Mary, "but I was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. I would never have done it." "Am I rude?" Colin inquired undisturbedly. "If you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man," said Mary, "he would have slapped you." "But he daren't," said Colin. "No, he daren't," answered Mistress Mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice. "Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like--because you were going to die and things like that. You were such a poor thing." "But," announced Colin stubbornly, "I am not going to be a poor thing. I won't let people think I'm one. I stood on my feet this afternoon." "It is always having your own way that has made you so queer," Mary went on, thinking aloud. Colin turned his head, frowning. "Am I queer?" he demanded. "Yes," answered Mary, "very. But you needn't be cross," she added impartially, "because so am I queer--and so is Ben Weatherstaff. But I am not as queer as I was before I began to like people and before I found the garden." "I don't want to be queer," said Colin. "I am not going to be," and he frowned again with determination. He was a very proud boy. He lay thinking for a while and then Mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face. "I shall stop being queer," he said, "if I go every day to the garden. There is Magic in there--good Magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there is." "So am I," said Mary. "Even if it isn't real Magic," Colin said, "we can pretend it is. _Something_ is there--_something_!" "It's Magic," said Mary, "but not black. It's as white as snow." They always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed--the wonderful months--the radiant months--the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden, you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "She was main fond o' them--she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. She just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses--the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades--they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. Colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even gray days pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. Also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. Ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him a new world to explore and when Dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways, squirrels' ways, and trout's and water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over. And this was not the half of the Magic. The fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set Colin thinking tremendously and when Mary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly. He talked of it constantly. "Of course there must be lots of Magic in the world," he said wisely one day, "but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. I am going to try and experiment." The next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for Ben Weatherstaff. Ben came as quickly as he could and found the Rajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling. "Good morning, Ben Weatherstaff," he said. "I want you and Dickon and Miss Mary to stand in a row and listen to me because I am going to tell you something very important." "Aye, aye, sir!" answered Ben Weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (One of the long concealed charms of Ben Weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages. So he could reply like a sailor.) "I am going to try a scientific experiment," explained the Rajah. "When I grow up I am going to make great scientific discoveries and I am going to begin now with this experiment." "Aye, aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries. It was the first time Mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, Colin had read about a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. When he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he was only ten years old--going on eleven. At this moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person. "The great scientific discoveries I am going to make," he went on, "will be about Magic. Magic is a great thing and scarcely any one knows anything about it except a few people in old books--and Mary a little, because she was born in India where there are fakirs. I believe Dickon knows some Magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it. He charms animals and people. I would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal charmer--which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal. I am sure there is Magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us--like electricity and horses and steam." This sounded so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff became quite excited and really could not keep still. "Aye, aye, sir," he said and he began to stand up quite straight. "When Mary found this garden it looked quite dead," the orator proceeded. "Then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing. One day things weren't there and another they were. I had never watched things before and it made me feel very curious. Scientific people are always curious and I am going to be scientific. I keep saying to myself, 'What is it? What is it?' It's something. It can't be nothing! I don't know its name so I call it Magic. I have never seen the sun rise but Mary and Dickon have and from what they tell me I am sure that is Magic too. Something pushes it up and draws it. Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this garden--in all the places. The Magic in this garden has made me stand up and know I am going to live to be a man. I am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. I don't know how to do it but I think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come. Perhaps that is the first baby way to get it. When I was going to try to stand that first time Mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, 'You can do it! You can do it!' and I did. I had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her Magic helped me--and so did Dickon's. Every morning and evening and as often in the daytime as I can remember I am going to say, 'Magic is in me! Magic is making me well! I am going to be as strong as Dickon, as strong as Dickon!' And you must all do it, too. That is my experiment. Will you help, Ben Weatherstaff?" "Aye, aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff. "Aye, aye!" "If you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds. You learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever and I think it will be the same with Magic. If you keep calling it to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things." "I once heard an officer in India tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times," said Mary. "I've heard Jem Fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over thousands o' times--callin' Jem a drunken brute," said Ben Weatherstaff dryly. "Summat allus come o' that, sure enough. He gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' Blue Lion an' got as drunk as a lord." Colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. Then he cheered up. "Well," he said, "you see something did come of it. She used the wrong Magic until she made him beat her. If she'd used the right Magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps--perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet." Ben Weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes. "Tha'rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, Mester Colin," he said. "Next time I see Bess Fettleworth I'll give her a bit of a hint o' what Magic will do for her. She'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment worked--an' so 'ud Jem." Dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight. Nut and Shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself. "Do you think the experiment will work?" Colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking. He so often wondered what Dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his "creatures" with his happy wide smile. He smiled now and his smile was wider than usual. "Aye," he answered, "that I do. It'll work same as th' seeds do when th' sun shines on 'em. It'll work for sure. Shall us begin it now?" Colin was delighted and so was Mary. Fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations Colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy. "It will be like sitting in a sort of temple," said Colin. "I'm rather tired and I want to sit down." "Eh!" said Dickon, "tha' musn't begin by sayin' tha'rt tired. Tha' might spoil th' Magic." Colin turned and looked at him--into his innocent round eyes. "That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'," said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back to-morrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery." "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir," answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em a drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin' o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' theirselves, I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' play actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty, that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th' fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now," replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If we can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be very happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rose-bush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body.' An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oat-cakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair _invented_ a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully. He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left Colin's skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said Dr. Craven, turning to look at her. Mary became quite severe in her manner. "It was something between a sneeze and a cough," she replied with reproachful dignity, "and it got into my throat." "But" she said afterward to Colin, "I couldn't stop myself. It just burst out because all at once I couldn't help remembering that last big potato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it." "Is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" Dr. Craven inquired of Mrs. Medlock. "There's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," Mrs. Medlock answered. "They stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other. And if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to them they need only ask for it." "Well," said Dr. Craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves. The boy is a new creature." "So is the girl," said Mrs. Medlock. "She's begun to be downright pretty since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. Her hair's grown thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. The glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and Master Colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. Perhaps they're growing fat on that." "Perhaps they are," said Dr. Craven. "Let them laugh." CHAPTER XXV THE CURTAIN And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. In the robin's nest there were Eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. At first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. Even Dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves--nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end--if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air. But they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it. At first the robin watched Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety. For some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch Dickon. The first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on Dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers. He could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other). To speak robin to a robin is like speaking French to a Frenchman. Dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. The robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech. His movements also were robin. They never startled one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening. Any robin could understand Dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing. But at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two. In the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs. He was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him. That in itself was doubtful. Then when he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him. The robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head tilted first on one side and then on the other. He thought that the slow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do. When cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly. The robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the Eggs. When the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense relief. But for a long time--or it seemed a long time to the robin--he was a source of some anxiety. He did not act as the other humans did. He seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again. One day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing. He had taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to rest. So it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly--or rather to walk. He mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the Eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her nest--though she always thought that the Eggs would be much cleverer and learn more quickly. But then she said indulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slow than Eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly at all. You never met them in the air or on tree-tops. After a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at times did unusual things. They would stand under the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor sitting down. They went through these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or trying to do. He could only say that he was sure that the Eggs would never flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a dangerous nature. Of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, Bob Haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps. Robins are not like human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural manner. If you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use). When the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content. Fears for the Eggs became things of the past. Knowing that your Eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation. On wet days the Eggs' mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not come into the garden. But even on wet days it could not be said that Mary and Colin were dull. One morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and Colin was beginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, Mary had an inspiration. "Now that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of Magic that I can't keep them still. They want to be doing things all the time. Do you know that when I waken in the morning, Mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--I feel as if I must jump out of bed and shout myself. And if I did it, just think what would happen!" Mary giggled inordinately. "The nurse would come running and Mrs. Medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. Colin giggled himself. He could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "I wish my father would come home," he said. "I want to tell him myself. I'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. I can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides I look too different. I wish it wasn't raining to-day." It was then Mistress Mary had her inspiration. "Colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "About a thousand, I suppose," he answered. "There's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy day I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was coming back and I stopped at the end of your corridor. That was the second time I heard you crying." Colin started up on his sofa. "A hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It sounds almost like a secret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. You could wheel me in my chair and nobody would know where we went." "That's what I was thinking," said Mary. "No one would dare to follow us. There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises. There is a little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. There are all sorts of rooms." "Ring the bell," said Colin. When the nurse came in he gave his orders. "I want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary and I are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us alone until I send for him again." Rainy days lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As soon as Mary had made sure that John was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, Colin got out of his chair. "I am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and then I am going to jump and then we will do Bob Haworth's exercises." And they did all these things and many others. They looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger. "All these," said Colin, "must be my relations. They lived a long time ago. That parrot one, I believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts. She looks rather like you, Mary--not as you look now but as you looked when you came here. Now you are a great deal fatter and better looking." "So are you," said Mary, and they both laughed. They went to the Indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants. They found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty. They saw more rooms and made more discoveries than Mary had made on her first pilgrimage. They found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of. It was a curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away from them was a fascinating thing. "I'm glad we came," Colin said. "I never knew I lived in such a big queer old place. I like it. We will ramble about every rainy day. We shall always be finding new queer corners and things." That morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they returned to Colin's room it was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched. When the nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser so that Mrs. Loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates. "Look at that!" she said. "This is a house of mystery, and those two children are the greatest mysteries in it." "If they keep that up every day," said the strong young footman John, "there'd be small wonder that he weighs twice as much to-day as he did a month ago. I should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my muscles an injury." That afternoon Mary noticed that something new had happened in Colin's room. She had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance. She said nothing to-day but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel. She could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. That was the change she noticed. "I know what you want me to tell you," said Colin, after she had stared a few minutes. "I always know when you want me to tell you something. You are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. I am going to keep it like that." "Why?" asked Mary. "Because it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. I wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the Magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that I couldn't lie still. I got up and looked out of the window. The room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. She looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad I was standing there. It made me like to look at her. I want to see her laughing like that all the time. I think she must have been a sort of Magic person perhaps." "You are so like her now," said Mary, "that sometimes I think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy." That idea seemed to impress Colin. He thought it over and then answered her slowly. "If I were her ghost--my father would be fond of me," he said. "Do you want him to be fond of you?" inquired Mary. "I used to hate it because he was not fond of me. If he grew fond of me I think I should tell him about the Magic. It might make him more cheerful." CHAPTER XXVI "IT'S MOTHER!" Their belief in the Magic was an abiding thing. After the morning's incantations Colin sometimes gave them Magic lectures. "I like to do it," he explained, "because when I grow up and make great scientific discoveries I shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. I can only give short lectures now because I am very young, and besides Ben Weatherstaff would feel as if he was in church and he would go to sleep." "Th' best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. I wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes." But when Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there. He looked him over with critical affection. It was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he remembered in another pair. Sometimes when Colin felt Ben's earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him. "What are you thinking about, Ben Weatherstaff?" he asked. "I was thinkin'," answered Ben, "as I'd warrant tha's gone up three or four pound this week. I was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders. I'd like to get thee on a pair o' scales." "It's the Magic and--and Mrs. Sowerby's buns and milk and things," said Colin. "You see the scientific experiment has succeeded." That morning Dickon was too late to hear the lecture. When he came he was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual. As they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work. They always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking rain. The moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. Colin was as good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture while he was doing it. "The Magic works best when you work yourself," he said this morning. "You can feel it in your bones and muscles. I am going to read books about bones and muscles, but I am going to write a book about Magic. I am making it up now. I keep finding out things." It was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on his feet. He had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did. When he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to Mary and Dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. He stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly. Color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness. All at once he had realized something to the full. "Mary! Dickon!" he cried. "Just look at me!" They stopped their weeding and looked at him. "Do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he demanded. Dickon was looking at him very hard. Being an animal charmer he could see more things than most people could and many of them were things he never talked about. He saw some of them now in this boy. "Aye, that we do," he answered. Mary looked hard too, but she said nothing. "Just this minute," said Colin, "all at once I remembered it myself--when I looked at my hand digging with the trowel--and I had to stand up on my feet to see if it was real. And it _is_ real! I'm _well_--I'm _well_!" "Aye, that tha' art!" said Dickon. "I'm well! I'm well!" said Colin again, and his face went quite red all over. He had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through him--a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling out. "I shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "I shall find out thousands and thousands of things. I shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows--like Dickon--and I shall never stop making Magic. I'm well! I'm well! I feel--I feel as if I want to shout out something--something thankful, joyful!" Ben Weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him. "Tha' might sing th' Doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. He had no opinion of the Doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular reverence. But Colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the Doxology. "What is that?" he inquired. "Dickon can sing it for thee, I'll warrant," replied Ben Weatherstaff. Dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile. "They sing it i' church," he said. "Mother says she believes th' skylarks sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'." "If she says that, it must be a nice song," Colin answered. "I've never been in a church myself. I was always too ill. Sing it, Dickon. I want to hear it." Dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. He understood what Colin felt better than Colin did himself. He understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. He pulled off his cap and looked round still smiling. "Tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to Colin, "an' so mun tha', Ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' knows." Colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched Dickon intently. Ben Weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing. Dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye Heavenly Host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen." When he had finished, Ben Weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on Colin. Colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative. "It is a very nice song," he said. "I like it. Perhaps it means just what I mean when I want to shout out that I am thankful to the Magic." He stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "Perhaps they are both the same thing. How can we know the exact names of everything? Sing it again, Dickon. Let us try, Mary. I want to sing it, too. It's my song. How does it begin? 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow'?" [Illustration: "'PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW'"--_Page 344_] And they sang it again, and Mary and Colin lifted their voices as musically as they could and Dickon's swelled quite loud and beautiful--and at the second line Ben Weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third he joined in with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the "Amen" came to an end Mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out that Colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitching and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet. "I never seed no sense in th' Doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but I may change my mind i' time. I should say tha'd gone up five pound this week, Mester Colin--five on 'em!" Colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one. "Who is coming in here?" he said quickly. "Who is it?" The door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. She had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them. With the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of Colin's books. She had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them, even Ben Weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flower that was in bloom. Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. Dickon's eyes lighted like lamps. "It's Mother--that's who it is!" he cried and he went across the grass at a run. Colin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both felt their pulses beat faster. "It's Mother!" Dickon said again when they met half-way. "I knowed tha' wanted to see her an' I told her where th' door was hid." Colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face. "Even when I was ill I wanted to see you," he said, "you and Dickon and the secret garden. I'd never wanted to see any one or anything before." The sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. She flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes. "Eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "Eh! dear lad!" as if she had not known she were going to say it. She did not say, "Mester Colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. She might have said it to Dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. Colin liked it. "Are you surprised because I am so well?" he asked. She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "Aye, that I am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump." "Do you think," said Colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father like me?" "Aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat. "He mun come home--he mun come home." "Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getting close to her. "Look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? They was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' I heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. Look at 'em now!" Susan Sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh. "They're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "Let him go on playin' an' workin' in th' garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' Yorkshire, thank God for it." She put both hands on Mistress Mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion. "An' thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'Lizabeth Ellen. I'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. Our Martha told me as Mrs. Medlock heard she was a pretty woman. Tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee." She did not mention that when Martha came home on her "day out" and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what Mrs. Medlock had heard. "It doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added obstinately. Mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. She had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her pleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her. Susan Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin walked on one side of her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm, supported feeling. It seemed as if she understood them as Dickon understood his "creatures." She stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children. Soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were Dickon's. When they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat. "I suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but I'm feared I should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said. It was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the Magic. "Do you believe in Magic?" asked Colin after he had explained about Indian fakirs. "I do hope you do." "That I do, lad," she answered. "I never knowed it by that name but what does th' name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i' France an' a different one i' Germany. Th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin' made thee a well lad an' it's th' Good Thing. It isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. Th' Big Good Thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on makin' worlds by th' million--worlds like us. Never thee stop believin' in th' Big Good Thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it--an' call it what tha' likes. Tha' wert singin' to it when I come into th' garden." "I felt so joyful," said Colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her. "Suddenly I felt how different I was--how strong my arms and legs were, you know--and how I could dig and stand--and I jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen." "Th' Magic listened when tha' sung th' Doxology. It would ha' listened to anything tha'd sung. It was th' joy that mattered. Eh! lad, lad--what's names to th' Joy Maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again. She had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. She was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. She told them stories in broad Yorkshire and taught them new words. She laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that Colin was still a fretful invalid. "You see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are together," explained Colin. "And it doesn't sound ill at all. We try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever." "There's one thing that comes into my mind so often," said Mary, "and I can scarcely ever hold in when I think of it suddenly. I keep thinking suppose Colin's face should get to look like a full moon. It isn't like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some morning it should look like one--what should we do!" "Bless us all, I can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said Susan Sowerby. "But tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. Mester Craven'll come home." "Do you think he will?" asked Colin. "Why?" Susan Sowerby chuckled softly. "I suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. "Tha's laid awake nights plannin' it." "I couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said Colin. "I think about different ways every day. I think now I just want to run into his room." "That'd be a fine start for him," said Susan Sowerby. "I'd like to see his face, lad. I would that! He mun come back--that he mun." One of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. They planned it all. They were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather. They would see all the twelve children and Dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired. Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs. Medlock. It was time for Colin to be wheeled back also. But before he got into his chair he stood quite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "You are just what I--what I wanted," he said. "I wish you were my mother--as well as Dickon's!" All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been Dickon's brother. The quick mist swept over her eyes. "Eh! dear lad!" she said. "Thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, I do believe. She couldna' keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" CHAPTER XXVII IN THE GARDEN In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live. So long as Mistress Mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. Circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push her about for her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired. So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood. His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all. Much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place. "Where you tend a rose, my lad, A thistle cannot grow." While the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the Norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of Switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. He had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. A terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to allow any rift of light to pierce through. He had forgotten and deserted his home and his duties. When he traveled about, darkness so brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. Most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on his soul. He was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was, "Archibald Craven, Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire, England." He had traveled far and wide since the day he saw Mistress Mary in his study and told her she might have her "bit of earth." He had been in the most beautiful places in Europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days. He had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. He had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born. But the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. He was in a wonderful valley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted any man's soul out of shadow. He had walked a long way and it had not lifted his. But at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. It was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness. Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones. He saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. It seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. The valley was very, very still. As he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. He sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. There was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago. He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. He did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside. It was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away. But of course he did not think of this himself. He only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness. He did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself. Something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly. "What is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "I almost feel as if--I were alive!" I do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him. Neither does any one else yet. He did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at Misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day Colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: "I am going to live forever and ever and ever!" The singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. He did not know that it could be kept. By the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. He left the valley and went on his wandering way again. But, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one. Slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden. As the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the Lake of Como. There he found the loveliness of a dream. He spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep. But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him. "Perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger." It was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. He began to think of Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. Now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. He shrank from it. One marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. He walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. He felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep. He did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. He remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was. He thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling. It was sweet and clear and happy and far away. It seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side. "Archie! Archie! Archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before, "Archie! Archie!" He thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. It was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it. "Lilias! Lilias!" he answered. "Lilias! where are you?" "In the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "In the garden!" And then the dream ended. But he did not awaken. He slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night. When he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. He was an Italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do. No one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. The man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craven took them. When he had gone away Mr. Craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake. His strange calm was still upon him and something more--a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought--as if something had changed. He was remembering the dream--the real--real dream. "In the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "In the garden! But the door is locked and the key is buried deep." When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from Yorkshire. It was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew. He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once. "_Dear Sir:_ "I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. It was about Miss Mary I spoke. I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir, I would come home if I was you. I think you would be glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--I think your lady would ask you to come if she was here. "Your obedient servant, "SUSAN SOWERBY." Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope. He kept thinking about the dream. "I will go back to Misselthwaite," he said. "Yes, I'll go at once." And he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to prepare for his return to England. * * * * * In a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to forget him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature. He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. The first time after a year's absence he returned to Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death. After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. He could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail. All this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming alive" began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply. "Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "Ten years is a long time. It may be too late to do anything--quite too late. What have I been thinking of!" Of course this was the wrong Magic--to begin by saying "too late." Even Colin could have told him that. But he knew nothing of Magic--either black or white. This he had yet to learn. He wondered if Susan Sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse--was fatally ill. If he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever. But the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things. "Could it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good and control him?" he thought. "I will go and see her on my way to Misselthwaite." But when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. "Our Dickon," they volunteered, was over at the Manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week. Mr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to "our 'Lizabeth Ellen" who was the oldest. "If you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of you," he said. Then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind. The drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing. Why did it seem to give him a sense of home-coming which he had been sure he could never feel again--that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six hundred years? How he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings. Was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his shrinking from him? How real that dream had been--how wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him, "In the garden--In the garden!" "I will try to find the key," he said. "I will try to open the door. I must--though I don't know why." When he arrived at the Manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by Pitcher. He went into the library and sent for Mrs. Medlock. She came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered. "How is Master Colin, Medlock?" he inquired. "Well, sir," Mrs. Medlock answered, "he's--he's different, in a manner of speaking." "Worse?" he suggested. Mrs. Medlock really was flushed. "Well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither Dr. Craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out." "Why is that?" "To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse. His appetite, sir, is past understanding--and his ways--" "Has he become more--more peculiar?" her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously. "That's it, sir. He's growing very peculiar--when you compare him with what he used to be. He used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous--and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be. You never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. The things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. He'd throw himself into such a state that Dr. Craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir, just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night." "How does he look?" was the next question. "If he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone with Miss Mary. He never used to laugh at all. Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. He never was as puzzled in his life." "Where is Master Colin now?" Mr. Craven asked. "In the garden, sir. He's always in the garden--though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him." Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words. "In the garden," he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again. "In the garden!" He had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room. He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. The fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers. He crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls. He did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. He felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why. As he drew near to it his step became still more slow. He knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key. So he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were walking in a dream. The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet inside the garden there were sounds. They were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and smothered joyous cries. It seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitement mounted--would burst forth. What in heaven's name was he dreaming of--what in heaven's name did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had meant? And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster--they were nearing the garden door--there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained--and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms. Mr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath. He was a tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It was the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath. "Who--What? Who!" he stammered. This was not what Colin had expected--this was not what he had planned. He had never thought of such a meeting. And yet to come dashing out--winning a race--perhaps it was even better. He drew himself up to his very tallest. Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before--inches taller. "Father," he said, "I'm Colin. You can't believe it. I scarcely can myself. I'm Colin." Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly: "In the garden! In the garden!" "Yes," hurried on Colin. "It was the garden that did it--and Mary and Dickon and the creatures--and the Magic. No one knows. We kept it to tell you when you came. I'm well, I can beat Mary in a race. I'm going to be an athlete." He said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness--that Mr. Craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy. Colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm. "Aren't you glad, Father?" he ended. "Aren't you glad? I'm going to live forever and ever and ever!" Mr. Craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment. "Take me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "And tell me all about it." And so they led him in. The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together--lilies which were white or white and ruby. He remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves. Late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold. The newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness. He looked round and round. "I thought it would be dead," he said. "Mary thought so at first," said Colin. "But it came alive." Then they sat down under their tree--all but Colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story. It was the strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and Magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting--the coming of the spring--the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet to defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face. The odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. The listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing. The Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific Discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing. "Now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any more. I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me--but I am never going to get into the chair again. I shall walk back with you, Father--to the house." * * * * * Ben Weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants' hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most dramatic event Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the present generation actually took place. One of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn. Mrs. Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with Master Colin. "Did you see either of them, Weatherstaff?" she asked. Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Aye, that I did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air. "Both of them?" suggested Mrs. Medlock. "Both of 'em," returned Ben Weatherstaff. "Thank ye kindly, ma'am, I could sup up another mug of it." "Together?" said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement. "Together, ma'am," and Ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp. "Where was Master Colin? How did he look? What did they say to each other?" "I didna' hear that," said Ben, "along o' only bein' on th' step-ladder lookin' over th' wall. But I'll tell thee this. There's been things goin' on outside as you house people knows nowt about. An' what tha'll find out tha'll find out soon." And it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the lawn. "Look there," he said, "if tha's curious. Look what's comin' across th' grass." When Mrs. Medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants' hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads. Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him. And by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in Yorkshire--Master Colin! THE END * * * * * Transcriber's notes: Table of Contents, an exclamation point was added to Chapter VI's title to match the text. (there was!") Page 34, quotation mark added. (India," said) Page 62, apostrophe added to "an'". (readin' an') Page 101, quotation mark added. (come to-morrow.") Page 117, comma changed to period. (she ventured.) Page 163, extraneous quotation mark removed. (the gardeners?) Page 216, "it" changed to "if". (wondering if he) Page 262, Illustration: Closing punctuation added. (WIDE SMILE.") Page 272, period added. (he said.) Page 284, apostrophe added. (Dickon. "An') Page 318, "every" changed to "very". (very easily) Page 330, "eggs" changed to "Eggs" to fit rest of text. (injurious to the Eggs) 
39049	----	Old Time Gardens [Illustration] OLD-TIME GARDENS _Newly set forth_ _by_ ALICE MORSE EARLE _A BOOK OF_ THE SWEET O' THE YEAR "_Life is sweet, brother! There's day and night, brother! both sweet things: sun, moon and stars, brother! all sweet things: There is likewise a wind on the heath._" [Illustration] NEW YORK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON MACMILLAN & CO LTD MCMII _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped November, 1901. Reprinted December, 1901; January, 1902. _Norwood Press_ _J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith_ _Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._ [Illustration: TO MY DAUGHTER ALICE CLARY EARLE TO WHOSE KNOWLEDGE OF FLOWERS AND LOVE OF FLOWER LORE I OWE MANY PAGES OF THIS BOOK....] Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. COLONIAL GARDEN-MAKING 1 II. FRONT DOORYARDS 38 III. VARIED GARDENS FAIR 54 IV. BOX EDGINGS 91 V. THE HERB GARDEN 107 VI. IN LILAC TIDE 132 VII. OLD FLOWER FAVORITES 161 VIII. COMFORT ME WITH APPLES 192 IX. GARDENS OF THE POETS 215 X. THE CHARM OF COLOR 233 XI. THE BLUE FLOWER BORDER 252 XII. PLANT NAMES 280 XIII. TUSSY-MUSSIES 296 XIV. JOAN SILVER-PIN 309 XV. CHILDHOOD IN A GARDEN 326 XVI. MEETIN' SEED AND SABBATH DAY POSIES 341 XVII. SUN-DIALS 353 XVIII. GARDEN FURNISHINGS 383 XIX. GARDEN BOUNDARIES 399 XX. A MOONLIGHT GARDEN 415 XXI. FLOWERS OF MYSTERY 433 XXII. ROSES OF YESTERDAY 459 INDEX 479 List of Illustrations The end papers of this book bear a design of the flower Ambrosia. The vignette on the title-page is re-drawn from one in _The Compleat Body of Husbandry_, Thomas Hale, 1756. It represents "Love laying out the surface of the earth in a garden." The device of the dedication is an ancient garden-knot for flowers, from _A New Orchard and Garden_, William Lawson, 1608. The chapter initials are from old wood-cut initials in the English Herbals of Gerarde, Parkinson, and Cole. PAGE _Garden of Johnson Mansion, Germantown. Photographed by Henry Troth_ facing 4 _Garden at Grumblethorp, Home of Charles J. Wister, Esq., Germantown, Pennsylvania_ 7 _Garden of Bartram House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_ 9 _Garden of Abigail Adams, Quincy, Massachusetts_ 10 _Garden at Mount Vernon-on-the-Potomac, Virginia. Home of George Washington_ facing 12 _Gate and Hedge of Preston Garden, Columbia, South Carolina_ 15 _Fountain Path in Preston Garden, Columbia, South Carolina_ 18 _Door in Wall of Kitchen Garden at Van Cortlandt Manor. Croton-on-Hudson, New York. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 20 _Garden of Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 24 _Garden at Prince Homestead, Flushing, Long Island_ 28 _Old Dutch Garden of Bergen Homestead, Bay Ridge, Long Island_ facing 32 _Garden at Duck Cove, Narragansett, Rhode Island_ 35 _The Flowering Almond under the Window. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 39 _Peter's Wreath. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 41 _Peonies in Garden of John Robinson, Esq., Salem, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ facing 42 _White Peonies. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 42 _Yellow Day Lilies. Photographed by Clifton Johnson_ facing 48 _Orange Lilies. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 50 _Preston Garden, Columbia, South Carolina_ facing 54 _Box-edged Parterre at Hampton, County Baltimore, Maryland. Home of Mrs. John Ridgely. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 57 _Parterre and Clipped Box at Hampton, County Baltimore, Maryland. Home of Mrs. John Ridgely. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 60 _Garden of Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright, Waldstein, Fairfield, Connecticut. Photographed by Mabel Osgood Wright_ 63 _A Shaded Walk. In the Garden of Miss Harriet P. F. Burnside, Worcester, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ facing 64 _Roses and Larkspur in the Garden of Miss Harriet P. F. Burnside, Worcester, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 65 _The Homely Back Yard. Photographed by Henry Troth_ facing 66 _Covered Well at Home of Bishop Berkeley, Whitehall, Newport, Rhode Island_ 68 _Kitchen Doorway and Porch at The Hedges, New Hope, County Bucks, Pennsylvania_ 70 _Greenwood, Thomasville, Georgia_ 73 _Roses and Violets in Garden of Greenwood, Thomasville, Georgia_ facing 74 _Water Garden at Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York. Home of Miss Cornelia Horsford_ 75 _Garden at Avonwood Court, Haverford, Pennsylvania. Country-seat of Charles E. Mather, Esq. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 76 _Terrace Wall at Drumthwacket, Princeton, New Jersey. Country-seat of M. Taylor Pyne, Esq._ 76 _Garden at Drumthwacket, Princeton, New Jersey. Country-seat of M. Taylor Pyne, Esq._ 77 _Sun-dial at Avonwood Court, Haverford, Pennsylvania. Country-seat of Charles E. Mather, Esq. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 80 _Entrance Porch and Gate to the Rose Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 82 _Pergola and Terrace Walk in Rose Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 83 _Statue of Christalan in Rose Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 84 _Sun-dial in Rose Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 86 _Bronze Dial-face in Rose Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 87 _Ancient Pine in Garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 89 _House and Garden at Napanock, County Ulster, New York. Photographed by Edward Lamson Henry, N. A._ facing 92 _Box Parterre at Hampton, County Baltimore, Maryland. Home of Mrs. John Ridgely. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 95 _Sun-dial in Box at Broughton Castle, Banbury, England. Garden of Lady Lennox_ 98 _Sun-dial in Box at Ascott, near Leighton Buzzard, England. Country-seat of Mr. Leopold Rothschild_ facing 100 _Garden at Tudor Place, Georgetown, District of Columbia. Home of Mrs. Beverly Kennon. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 103 _Anchor-shaped Flower Beds, Kingston, Rhode Island. Photographed by Sarah P. Marchant_ 104 _Ancient Box at Tuckahoe, Virginia_ 105 _Herb Garden at White Birches, Elmhurst, Illinois_ 108 _Garden at White Birches, Elmhurst, Illinois_ 111 _Garden of Manning Homestead, Salem, Massachusetts_ facing 112 _Under the Garret Eaves of Ward Homestead, Shrewsbury, Massachusetts_ 116 _A Gatherer of Simples. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ facing 120 _Sage. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 126 _Tansy. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 129 _Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ facing 130 _Ladies' Delights. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 133 _Garden House and Long Walk in Garden of Hon. William H. Seward, Auburn, New York_ facing 134 _Sun-dial in Garden of Hon. William H. Seward, Auburn, New York_ 136 _Lilacs in Midsummer. In Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ facing 138 _Lilacs at Craigie House, Cambridge, Massachusetts, the Home of Longfellow. Photographed by Arthur N. Wilmarth_ 141 _Box-edged Garden at Home of Longfellow, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Photographed by Arthur N. Wilmarth_ 142 _Joepye-weed and Queen Anne's Laces. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 145 _Boneset. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 146 _Magnolias in Garden of William Brown, Esq., Flatbush, Long Island_ facing 148 _Lilacs at Hopewell_ 149 _Persian Lilacs and Peonies in Garden of Kimball Homestead, Portsmouth, New Hampshire_ 151 _Opyn-tide, the Thought of Spring. Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York. Photographed by Pirie MacDonald_ facing 154 _A Thought of Winter's Snows. Garden of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq., Waterbury, Connecticut_ 157 _Larkspur and Phlox. Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ 162 _Sweet William and Foxglove_ 163 _Plume Poppy_ 164 _Meadow Rue_ 167 _Money-in-both-Pockets_ 171 _Box Walk in Garden of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq., Waterbury, Connecticut_ 173 _Lunaria in Garden of Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright, Fairfield, Connecticut. Photographed by Mabel Osgood Wright_ facing 174 _Dahlia Walk at Ravensworth, County Fairfax, Virginia. Home of Mrs. W. R. Fitzhugh Lee. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 177 _Petunias_ 180 _Virgin's Bower, in Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ 184 _Matrimony Vine at Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ 186 _White Chinese Wistaria, in Garden of Mortimer Howell, Esq., West Hampton Beach, Long Island_ 188 _Spiræa Van Houtteii. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 190 _Old Apple Tree at Whitehall. Home of Bishop Berkeley, near Newport, Rhode Island_ 194 "_The valley stretching below Is white with blossoming Apple trees, As if touched with lightest snow._" _Photographed by T. E. M. and G. F. White_ 197 _Old Hand-power Cider Mill. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 198 _Pressing out the Cider in Old Hand Mill_ 200 _Old Cider Mill with Horse Power. Photographed by T. E. M. and G. F. White_ 203 _Straining off the Cider into Barrels_ 204 _Drying Apples. Photographed by T. E. M. and G. F. White_ facing 208 _Ancient Apple Picker, Apple Racks, Apple Parers, Apple Butter Kettle, Apple Butter Paddle, Apple Butter Stirrer, Apple Butter Crocks. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 211 _Making Apple Butter. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ facing 214 _Shakespeare Border in Garden at Hillside, Menand's, near Albany, New York. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ 216 _Long Border at Hillside, Menand's, near Albany, New York. Photographed by Gustave Lorey_ facing 218 _The Beauty of Winter Lilacs. In Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York. Photographed by Pirie MacDonald_ 220 _Garden of Mrs. Frank Robinson, Wakefield, Rhode Island_ 222 _The Parson's Walk_ 225 _Garden of Mary Washington_ 228 _Box and Phlox. Garden of Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York_ 230 _Within the Weeping Beech. Photographed by E. C. Nichols_ facing 232 _Spring Snowflake, Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 234 _Star of Bethlehem, in Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 237 _"The Pearl" Achillæa_ 238 _Pyrethrum. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 242 _Terraced Garden of the Misses Nichols, Salem, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 246 _Arbor in a Salem Garden_ 250 _Scilla in Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ 254 _Sweet Alyssum Edging of White Border at Indian Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts_ 256 _Bachelor's Buttons in a Salem Garden. Home of Mrs. Edward B. Peirson_ 258 _A "Sweet Garden-side" in Salem, Massachusetts, Home of John Robinson, Esq._ facing 260 _Salpiglossis in Garden at Indian Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 261 _The Old Campanula, Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ 263 _Chinese Bellflower. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 264 _Garden at Tudor Place, Georgetown, District of Columbia. Home of Mrs. Beverly Kennon. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ facing 266 _Light as a Loop of Larkspur, in Garden of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes, Beverly, Massachusetts_ 269 _Viper's Bugloss. Photographed by Henry Troth_ 274 _The Prim Precision of Leaf and Flower of Lupine. Photographed by Henry Troth_ 276 _The Garden's Friend. Photographed by Clifton Johnson_ 281 _Edging of Striped Lilies in a Salem Garden. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 283 _Garden Seat at Avonwood Court. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 286 _Terraced Garden of the Misses Nichols, Salem, Massachusetts_ 288 _"A Running Ribbon of Perfumed Snow which the Sun is melting rapidly." At Marchant Farm, Kingston, Rhode Island. Photographed by Sarah F. Marchant_ 292 _Fountain Garden at Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York_ facing 294 _Hawthorn Arch at Holly House, Peace Dale, Rhode Island. Home of Rowland G. Hazard, Esq._ 298 _Thyme-covered Graves. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 301 "_White Umbrellas of Elder_" 305 _Lower Garden at Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York_ facing 308 "_Black-heart Amorous Poppies_" 310 _Valerian. Photographed by E. C. Nichols_ 314 _Old War Office in Garden at Salem, New Jersey_ 319 _Crown Imperial. Page from Gerarde's Herball_ facing 324 _The Children's Garden_ facing 330 _Foxgloves in a Narragansett Garden_ 333 _Hollyhocks in Garden of Kimball Homestead, Portsmouth, New Hampshire_ facing 334 _Autumn View of an Old Worcester Garden_ facing 338 _Hollyhocks at Tudor Place, Georgetown, District of Columbia. Home of Mrs. Beverly Kennon_ 339 _An Old Worcester Garden. Home of Edwin A. Fawcett, Esq._ facing 340 _Caraway_ 342 _Sun-dial of Jonathan Fairbanks, Esq., Dedham, Massachusetts_ 344 _Bronze Sun-dial on Dutch Reformed Church, West End Avenue, New York_ 346 _Sun-dial mounted on Boulder, Swiftwater, Pennsylvania_ 347 _Buckthorn Arch in Garden of Mrs. Edward B. Peirson, Salem, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ facing 348 _Sun-dial at Emery Place, Brightwood, District of Columbia. Photographed by William Van Zandt Cox_ 349 _Sun-dial at Travellers' Rest, Virginia. Home of Mrs. Bowie Gray. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 350 _Two Old Cronies; the Sun-dial and Bee skepe. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 354 _Portable Sun-dial from Collection of the Author_ 356 _Sun-dial in Garden of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq., Waterbury, Connecticut_ 358 _Sun-dial at Morristown, New Jersey. Designed by W. Gedney Beatty, Esq._ 359 "_Yes, Toby, it's Three o'clock._" _Judge Daly and his Sun-dial at Sag Harbor, Long Island. Drawn by Edward Lamson Henry, N.A._ 361 _Face of Dial at Sag Harbor, Long Island_ 362 _Sun-dial in Garden of Grace Church Rectory, New York. Photographed by J. W. Dow_ 364 _Fugio Bank-note_ 365 _Sun-dial at "Washington House," Little Brington, England_ 367 _Dial-face from Mount Vernon. Owned by William F. Havemeyer, Jr._ 368 _Sun-dial from Home of Mary Washington, Fredericksburg, Virginia. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 369 _Kenmore, the Home of Betty Washington Lewis, Fredericksburg, Virginia. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 371 _Sun-dial in Garden of Charles T. Jenkins, Esq., Germantown, Pennsylvania_ 373 _Sun-dial at Ophir Farm, White Plains, New York. Country-seat of Hon. Whitelaw Reid_ 375 _Sun-dial at Hillside, Menand's, near Albany, New York_ 378 _Old Brass and Pewter Dial-faces from Collection of Author_ 379 _Beata Beatrix_ facing 380 _The Faithful Gardener_ 381 _A Garden Lyre at Waterford, Virginia_ facing 384 _A Virginia Lyre with Vines_ 386 _Old Iron Gates at Westover-on-James, Virginia. Photographed by George S. Cook_ 388 _Ironwork in Court of Colt Mansion, Bristol, Rhode Island. Photographed by J. W. Dow_ 390 _Sharpening the Old Dutch Scythe. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ facing 392 _Summer-house at Ravensworth, County Fairfax, Virginia. Home of Mrs. W. H. Fitzhugh Lee. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 392 _Beehives at Waterford, Virginia. Photographed by Henry Troth_ facing 394 _Beehives under the Trees. Photographed by Henry Troth_ 395 _Spring House at Johnson Homestead, Germantown, Pennsylvania. Photographed by Henry Troth_ facing 396 _Dovecote at Shirley-on-James, Virginia. From_ Some Colonial Mansions and Those who lived in Them. _Published by Henry T. Coates & Co., Philadelphia_ 397 _The Peacock in his Pride_ 398 _The Guardian of the Garden_ 400 _Brick Terrace Wall at Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 402 _Rail Fence Corner_ 403 _Topiary Work at Levens Hall_ 404 _Oval Pergola at Arlington, Virginia. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ facing 406 _French Homestead, Kingston, Rhode Island, with Old Stone Terrace Wall. Photographed by Sarah F. Marchant_ 407 _Italian Garden at Wellesley, Massachusetts. Country-seat of Hollis H. Hunnewell, Esq._ facing 408 _Marble Steps in Italian Garden at Wellesley, Massachusetts_ 410 _Topiary Work in California_ 412 _Serpentine Brick Wall at University of Virginia, Charlottesville, Virginia. Photographed by Elizabeth W. Trescot_ 413 _Chestnut Path in Garden at Indian Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ facing 418 _Foxgloves in Lower Garden at Indian Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ 421 _Dame's Rocket. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ 424 _Snakeroot. Photographed by Mary F. C Paschall_ 426 _Title-page of Parkinson's_ Paradisi in Solis, _etc._ facing 428 _Yuccas, like White Marble against the Evergreens_ 430 _Fraxinella in Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ facing 432 _Love-in-a-Mist. Photographed by Henry Troth_ 436 _Spiderwort in an Old Worcester Garden. Photographed by Herschel F. Davis_ facing 438 _Gardener's Garters at Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ 440 _Garden Walk at The Manse, Deerfield, Massachusetts. Photographed by Clifton Johnson_ facing 442 _London Pride. Photographed by Eva E. Newell_ 445 _White Fritillaria in Garden of Miss Frances Clary Morse, Worcester, Massachusetts_ 448 _Bouncing Bet_ 451 _Overgrown Garden at Llanerck, Pennsylvania. Photographed by Henry Troth_ facing 454 _Fountain at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York. Country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq._ 455 _Avenue of White Pines at Wellesley, Massachusetts. Country-seat of Hollis H. Hunnewell, Esq._ 456 _Violets in Silver Double Coaster_ 461 _York and Lancaster Rose at Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 462 _Cinnamon Roses. Photographed by Mabel Osgood Wright_ 465 _Cottage Garden with Roses. Photographed by Mary F. C. Paschall_ facing 468 _Madame Plantier Rose. Photographed by Mabel Osgood Wright_ 474 _Sun-dial and Roses at Van Cortlandt Manor. Photographed by J. Horace McFarland_ facing 476 Old Time Gardens CHAPTER I COLONIAL GARDEN-MAKING "There is not a softer trait to be found in the character of those stern men than that they should have been sensible of these flower-roots clinging among the fibres of their rugged hearts, and felt the necessity of bringing them over sea, and making them hereditary in the new land." --_American Note-book_, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. After ten wearisome weeks of travel across an unknown sea, to an equally unknown world, the group of Puritan men and women who were the founders of Boston neared their Land of Promise; and their noble leader, John Winthrop, wrote in his Journal that "we had now fair Sunshine Weather and so pleasant a sweet Aire as did much refresh us, and there came a smell off the Shore like the Smell of a Garden." A _Smell of a Garden_ was the first welcome to our ancestors from their new home; and a pleasant and perfect emblem it was of the life that awaited them. They were not to become hunters and rovers, not to be eager to explore quickly the vast wilds beyond; they were to settle down in the most domestic of lives, as tillers of the soil, as makers of gardens. What must that sweet air from the land have been to the sea-weary Puritan women on shipboard, laden to them with its promise of a garden! for I doubt not every woman bore with her across seas some little package of seeds and bulbs from her English home garden, and perhaps a tiny slip or plant of some endeared flower; watered each day, I fear, with many tears, as well as from the surprisingly scant water supply which we know was on board that ship. And there also came flying to the _Arbella_ as to the Ark, a Dove--a bird of promise--and soon the ship came to anchor. "With hearts revived in conceit new Lands and Trees they spy, Scenting the Cædars and Sweet Fern from heat's reflection dry," wrote one colonist of that arrival, in his _Good Newes from New England_. I like to think that Sweet Fern, the characteristic wild perfume of New England, was wafted out to greet them. And then all went on shore in the sunshine of that ineffable time and season,--a New England day in June,--and they "gathered store of fine strawberries," just as their Salem friends had on a June day on the preceding year gathered strawberries and "sweet Single Roses" so resembling the English Eglantine that the hearts of the women must have ached within them with fresh homesickness. And ere long all had dwelling-places, were they but humble log cabins; and pasture lands and commons were portioned out; and in a short time all had garden-plots, and thus, with sheltering roof-trees, and warm firesides, and with gardens, even in this lonely new world, they had _homes_. The first entry in the Plymouth Records is a significant one; it is the assignment of "Meresteads and Garden-Plotes," not meresteads alone, which were farm lands, but home gardens: the outlines of these can still be seen in Plymouth town. And soon all sojourners who bore news back to England of the New-Englishmen and New-Englishwomen, told of ample store of gardens. Ere a year had passed hopeful John Winthrop wrote, "My Deare Wife, wee are here in a Paradise." In four years the chronicler Wood said in his _New England's Prospect_, "There is growing here all manner of herbs for meat and medicine, and that not only in planted gardens, but in the woods, without the act and help of man." Governor Endicott had by that time a very creditable garden. And by every humble dwelling the homesick goodwife or dame, trying to create a semblance of her fair English home so far away, planted in her "garden plot" seeds and roots of homely English flowers and herbs, that quickly grew and blossomed and smiled on bleak New England's rocky shores as sturdily and happily as they had bloomed in the old gardens and by the ancient door sides in England. What good cheer they must have brought! how they must have been beloved! for these old English garden flowers are such gracious things; marvels of scent, lavish of bloom, bearing such genial faces, growing so readily and hardily, spreading so quickly, responding so gratefully to such little care: what pure refreshment they bore in their blossoms, what comfort in their seeds; they must have seemed an emblem of hope, a promise of a new and happy home. I rejoice over every one that I know was in those little colonial gardens, for each one added just so much measure of solace to what seems to me, as I think upon it, one of the loneliest, most fearsome things that gentlewomen ever had to do, all the harder because neither by poverty nor by unavoidable stress were they forced to it; they came across-seas willingly, for conscience' sake. These women were not accustomed to the thought of emigration, as are European folk to-day; they had no friends to greet them in the new land; they were to encounter wild animals and wild men; sea and country were unknown--they could scarce expect ever to return: they left everything, and took nothing of comfort but their Bibles and their flower seeds. So when I see one of the old English flowers, grown of those days, blooming now in my garden, from the unbroken chain of blossom to seed of nearly three centuries, I thank the flower for all that its forbears did to comfort my forbears, and I cherish it with added tenderness. [Illustration: Garden of the Johnson Mansion, Germantown, Pennsylvania.] We should have scant notion of the gardens of these New England colonists in the seventeenth century were it not for a cheerful traveller named John Josselyn, a man of everyday tastes and much inquisitiveness, and the pleasing literary style which comes from directness, and an absence of self-consciousness. He published in 1672 a book entitled _New England's Rarities discovered_, etc., and in 1674 another volume giving an account of his two voyages hither in 1638 and 1663. He made a very careful list of vegetables which he found thriving in the new land; and since his flower list is the earliest known, I will transcribe it in full; it isn't long, but there is enough in it to make it a suggestive outline which we can fill in from what we know of the plants to-day, and form a very fair picture of those gardens. "Spearmint, Rew, will hardly grow Fetherfew prospereth exceedingly; Southernwood, is no Plant for this Country, Nor Rosemary. Nor Bayes. White-Satten groweth pretty well, so doth Lavender-Cotton. But Lavender is not for the Climate. Penny Royal Smalledge. Ground Ivey, or Ale Hoof. Gilly Flowers will continue two Years. Fennel must be taken up, and kept in a Warm Cellar all Winter Horseleek prospereth notably Holly hocks Enula Canpana, in two years time the Roots rot. Comferie, with White Flowers. Coriander, and Dill, and Annis thrive exceedingly, but Annis Seed, as also the seed of Fennel seldom come to maturity; the Seed of Annis is commonly eaten with a Fly. Clary never lasts but one Summer, the Roots rot with the Frost. Sparagus thrives exceedingly, so does Garden Sorrel, and Sweet Bryer or Eglantine Bloodwort but sorrily, but Patience and English Roses very pleasantly. Celandine, by the West Country now called Kenning Wort grows but slowly. Muschater, as well as in England Dittander or Pepperwort flourisheth notably and so doth Tansie." These lists were published fifty years after the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth; from them we find that the country was just as well stocked with vegetables as it was a hundred years later when other travellers made lists, but the flowers seem few; still, such as they were, they formed a goodly sight. With rows of Hollyhocks glowing against the rude stone walls and rail fences of their little yards; with clumps of Lavender Cotton and Honesty and Gillyflowers blossoming freely; with Feverfew "prospering" to sow and slip and pot and give to neighbors just as New England women have done with Feverfew every year of the centuries that have followed; with "a Rose looking in at the window"--a Sweetbrier, Eglantine, or English Rose--these colonial dames might well find "Patience growing very pleasantly" in their hearts as in their gardens. [Illustration: Garden at Grumblethorp, Germantown, Pennsylvania.] They had plenty of pot herbs for their accustomed savoring; and plenty of medicinal herbs for their wonted dosing. Shakespeare's "nose-herbs" were not lacking. Doubtless they soon added to these garden flowers many of our beautiful native blooms, rejoicing if they resembled any beloved English flowers, and quickly giving them, as we know, familiar old English plant-names. And there were other garden inhabitants, as truly English as were the cherished flowers, the old garden weeds, which quickly found a home and thrived in triumph in the new soil. Perhaps the weed seeds came over in the flower-pot that held a sheltered plant or cutting; perhaps a few were mixed with garden seeds; perhaps they were in the straw or other packing of household goods: no one knew the manner of their coming, but there they were, Motherwort, Groundsel, Chickweed, and Wild Mustard, Mullein and Nettle, Henbane and Wormwood. Many a goodwife must have gazed in despair at the persistent Plantain, "the Englishman's foot," which seems to have landed in Plymouth from the Mayflower. Josselyn made other lists of plants which he found in America, under these headings:-- "Such plants as are common with us in England. Such plants as are proper to the Country. Such plants as are proper to the Country and have no name. Such plants as have sprung up since the English planted, and kept cattle in New England." In these lists he gives a surprising number of English weeds which had thriven and rejoiced in their new home. [Illustration: Garden of the Bartram House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.] Mr. Tuckerman calls Josselyn's list of the fishes of the new world a poor makeshift; his various lists of plants are better, but they are the lists of an herbalist, not of a botanist. He had some acquaintance with the practice of physic, of which he narrates some examples; and an interest in kitchen recipes, and included a few in his books. He said that Parkinson or another botanist might have "found in New England a thousand, at least, of plants never heard of nor seen by any Englishman before," and adds that he was himself an indifferent observer. He certainly lost an extraordinary opportunity of distinguishing himself, indeed of immortalizing himself; and it is surprising that he was so heedless, for Englishmen of that day were in general eager botanists. The study of plants was new, and was deemed of such absorbing interest and fascination that some rigid Puritans feared they might lose their immortal souls through making their new plants their idols. [Illustration: Garden of Abigail Adams.] When Josselyn wrote, but few of our American flowers were known to European botanists; Indian Corn, Pitcher Plant, Columbine, Milkweed, Everlasting, and Arbor-vitæ had been described in printed books, and the Evening Primrose. A history of Canadian and other new plants, by Dr. Cornuti, had been printed in Europe, giving thirty-seven of our plants; and all English naturalists were longing to add to the list; the ships which brought over homely seeds and plants for the gardens of the colonists carried back rare American seeds and plants for English physic gardens. In Pennsylvania, from the first years of the settlement, William Penn encouraged his Quaker followers to plant English flowers and fruit in abundance, and to try the fruits of the new world. Father Pastorius, in his Germantown settlement, assigned to each family a garden-plot of three acres, as befitted a man who left behind him at his death a manuscript poem of many thousand words on the pleasures of gardening, the description of flowers, and keeping of bees. George Fox, the founder of the Friends, or Quakers, died in 1690. He had travelled in the colonies; and in his will he left sixteen acres of land to the Quaker meeting in the city of Philadelphia. Of these sixteen acres, ten were for "a close to put Friends' horses in when they came afar to the Meeting, that they may not be Lost in the Woods," while the other six were for a site for a meeting-house and school-house, and "for a Playground for the Children of the town to Play on, and for a Garden to plant with Physical Plants, for Lads and Lasses to know Simples, and to learn to make Oils and Ointments." Few as are these words, they convey a positive picture of Fox's intent, and a pleasing picture it is. He had seen what interest had been awakened and what instruction conveyed through the "Physick-Garden" at Chelsea, England; and he promised to himself similar interest and information from the study of plants and flowers by the Quaker "lads and lasses" of the new world. Though nothing came from this bequest, there was a later fulfilment of Fox's hopes in the establishment of a successful botanic garden in Philadelphia, and, in the planting, growth, and flourishing in the province of Pennsylvania of the loveliest gardens in the new world; there floriculture reached by the time of the Revolution a very high point; and many exquisite gardens bore ample testimony to the "pride of life," as well as to the good taste and love of flowers of Philadelphia Friends. The garden at Grumblethorp, the home of Charles J. Wister, Esq., of Germantown, Pennsylvania, shown on page 7, dates to colonial days and is still flourishing and beautiful. In 1728 was established, by John Bartram, in Philadelphia, the first botanic garden in America. The ground on which it was planted, and the stone dwelling-house he built thereon in 1731, are now part of the park system of Philadelphia. A view of the garden as now in cultivation is given on page 9. Bartram travelled much in America, and through his constant correspondence and flower exchanges with distinguished botanists and plant growers in Europe, many native American plants became well known in foreign gardens, among them the Lady's Slipper and Rhododendron. He was a Quaker,--a quaint and picturesque figure,--and his example helped to establish the many fine gardens in the vicinity of Philadelphia. The example and precept of Washington also had important influence; for he was constant in his desire and his effort to secure every good and new plant, grain, shrub, and tree for his home at Mount Vernon. A beautiful tribute to his good taste and that of his wife still exists in the Mount Vernon flower garden, which in shape, Box edgings, and many details is precisely as it was in their day. A view of its well-ordered charms is shown opposite page 12. Whenever I walk in this garden I am deeply grateful to the devoted women who keep it in such perfection, as an object-lesson to us of the dignity, comeliness, and beauty of a garden of the olden times. [Illustration: Garden at Mount Vernon-on-the-Potomac. Home of George Washington.] There is little evidence that a general love and cultivation of flowers was as common in humble homes in the Southern colonies as in New England and the Middle provinces. The teeming abundance near the tropics rendered any special gardening unnecessary for poor folk; flowers grew and blossomed lavishly everywhere without any coaxing or care. On splendid estates there were splendid gardens, which have nearly all suffered by the devastations of war--in some towns they were thrice thus scourged. So great was the beauty of these Southern gardens and so vast the love they provoked in their owners, that in more than one case the life of the garden's master was merged in that of the garden. The British soldiers during the War of the Revolution wantonly destroyed the exquisite flowers at "The Grove," just outside the city of Charleston, and their owner, Mr. Gibbes, dropped dead in grief at the sight of the waste. The great wealth of the Southern planters, their constant and extravagant following of English customs and fashions, their fertile soil and favorable climate, and their many slaves, all contributed to the successful making of elaborate gardens. Even as early as 1682 South Carolina gardens were declared to be "adorned with such Flowers as to the Smell or Eye are pleasing or agreeable, as the Rose, Tulip, Lily, Carnation, &c." William Byrd wrote of the terraced gardens of Virginia homes. Charleston dames vied with each other in the beauty of their gardens, and Mrs. Logan, when seventy years old, in 1779, wrote a treatise called _The Gardener's Kalendar_. Eliza Lucas Pinckney of Charleston was devoted to practical floriculture and horticulture. Her introduction of indigo raising into South Carolina revolutionized the trade products of the state and brought to it vast wealth. Like many other women and many men of wealth and culture at that time, she kept up a constant exchange of letters, seeds, plants, and bulbs with English people of like tastes. She received from them valuable English seeds and shrubs; and in turn she sent to England what were so eagerly sought by English flower raisers, our native plants. The good will and national pride of ship captains were enlisted; even young trees of considerable size were set in hogsheads, and transported, and cared for during the long voyage. [Illustration: Gate and Hedge of Preston Garden.] The garden at Mount Vernon is probably the oldest in Virginia still in original shape. In Maryland are several fine, formal gardens which do not date, however, to colonial days; the beautiful one at Hampton, the home of the Ridgelys, in Baltimore County, is shown on pages 57, 60 and 95. In both North and South Carolina the gardens were exquisite. Many were laid out by competent landscape gardeners, and were kept in order by skilled workmen, negro slaves, who were carefully trained from childhood to special labor, such as topiary work. In Camden and Charleston the gardens vied with the finest English manor-house gardens. Remains of their beauty exist, despite devastating wars and earthquakes. Views of the Preston Garden, Columbia, South Carolina, are shown on pages 15 and 18 and facing page 54. They are now the grounds of the Presbyterian College for Women. The hedges have been much reduced within a few years; but the garden still bears a surprising resemblance to the Garden of the Generalife, Granada. The Spanish garden has fewer flowers and more fountains, yet I think it must have been the model for the Preston Garden. The climax of magnificence in Southern gardens has been for years, at Magnolia-on-the-Ashley, the ancestral home of the Draytons since 1671. It is impossible to describe the affluence of color in this garden in springtime; masses of unbroken bloom on giant Magnolias; vast Camellia Japonicas, looking, leaf and flower, thoroughly artificial, as if made of solid wax; splendid Crape Myrtles, those strange flower-trees; mammoth Rhododendrons; Azaleas of every Azalea color,--all surrounded by walls of the golden Banksia Roses, and hedges covered with Jasmine and Honeysuckle. The Azaleas are the special glory of the garden; the bushes are fifteen to twenty feet in height, and fifty or sixty feet in circumference, with rich blossoms running over and crowding down on the ground as if color had been poured over the bushes; they extend in vistas of vivid hues as far as the eye can reach. All this gay and brilliant color is overhung by a startling contrast, the most sombre and gloomy thing in nature, great Live-oaks heavily draped with gray Moss; the avenue of largest Oaks was planted two centuries ago. I give no picture of this Drayton Garden, for a photograph of these many acres of solid bloom is a meaningless thing. Even an oil painting of it is confused and disappointing. In the garden itself the excess of color is as cloying as its surfeit of scent pouring from the thousands of open flower cups; we long for green hedges, even for scanter bloom and for fainter fragrance. It is not a garden to live in, as are our box-bordered gardens of the North, our cheerful cottage borders, and our well-balanced Italian gardens, so restful to the eye; it is a garden to look at and wonder at. The Dutch settlers brought their love of flowering bulbs, and the bulbs also, to the new world. Adrian Van der Donck, a gossiping visitor to New Netherland when the little town of New Amsterdam had about a thousand inhabitants, described the fine kitchen gardens, the vegetables and fruits, and gave an interesting list of garden flowers which he found under cultivation by the Dutch vrouws. He says: "OF THE FLOWERS. The flowers in general which the Netherlanders have introduced there are the white and red roses of different kinds, the cornelian roses, and stock roses; and those of which there were none before in the country, such as eglantine, several kinds of gillyflowers, jenoffelins, different varieties of fine tulips, crown imperials, white lilies, the lily frutularia, anemones, baredames, violets, marigolds, summer sots, etc. The clove tree has also been introduced, and there are various indigenous trees that bear handsome flowers, which are unknown in the Netherlands. We also find there some flowers of native growth, as, for instance, sunflowers, red and yellow lilies, mountain lilies, morning stars, red, white, and yellow maritoffles (a very sweet flower), several species of bell flowers, etc., to which I have not given particular attention, but _amateurs_ would hold them in high estimation and make them widely known." [Illustration: Fountain Path in Preston Garden, Columbia, South Carolina.] I wish I knew what a Cornelian Rose was, and Jenoffelins, Baredames, and Summer Sots; and what the Lilies were and the Maritoffles and Bell Flowers. They all sound so cheerful and homelike--just as if they bloomed well. Perhaps the Cornelian Rose may have been striped red and white like cornelian stone, and like our York and Lancaster Rose. Tulips are on all seed and plant lists of colonial days, and they were doubtless in every home dooryard in New Netherland. Governor Peter Stuyvesant had a fine farm on the Bouwerie, and is said to have had a flower garden there and at his home, White Hall, at the Battery, for he had forty or fifty negro slaves who were kept at work on his estate. In the city of New York many fine formal gardens lingered, on what are now our most crowded streets, till within the memory of persons now living. One is described as full of "Paus bloemen of all hues, Laylocks, and tall May Roses and Snowballs intermixed with choice vegetables and herbs all bounded and hemmed in by huge rows of neatly-clipped Box-edgings." An evidence of increase in garden luxury in New York is found in the advertisement of one Theophilus Hardenbrook, in 1750, a practical surveyor and architect, who had an evening school for teaching architecture. He designed pavilions, summer-houses, and garden seats, and "Green-houses for the preservation of Herbs with winding Funnels through the walls so as to keep them warm." A picture of the green-house of James Beekman, of New York, 1764, still exists, a primitive little affair. The first glass-house in North America is believed to be one built in Boston for Andrew Faneuil, who died in 1737. Mrs. Anne Grant, writing of her life near Albany in the middle of the eighteenth century, gives a very good description of the Schuyler garden. Skulls of domestic animals on fence posts, would seem astounding had I not read of similar decorations in old Continental gardens. Vines grew over these grisly fence-capitals and birds built their nests in them, so in time the Dutch housewife's peaceful kitchen garden ceased to resemble the kraal of an African chieftain; to this day, in South Africa, natives and Dutch Boers thus set up on gate posts the skulls of cattle. Mrs. Grant writes of the Dutch in Albany:-- "The care of plants, such as needed peculiar care or skill to rear them, was the female province. Every one in town or country had a garden. Into this garden no foot of man intruded after it was dug in the Spring. I think I see yet what I have so often beheld--a respectable mistress of a family going out to her garden, on an April morning, with her great calash, her little painted basket of seeds, and her rake over her shoulder to her garden of labours. A woman in very easy circumstances and abundantly gentle in form and manners would sow and plant and rake incessantly." We have happily a beautiful example of the old Dutch manor garden, at Van Cortlandt Manor, at Croton-on-Hudson, New York, still in the possession of the Van Cortlandt family. It is one of the few gardens in America that date really to colonial days. The manor house was built in 1681; it is one of those fine old Dutch homesteads of which we still have many existing throughout New York, in which dignity, comfort, and fitness are so happily combined. These homes are, in the words of a traveller of colonial days, "so pleasant in their building, and contrived so delightful." Above all, they are so suited to their surroundings that they seem an intrinsic part of the landscape, as they do of the old life of this Hudson River Valley. [Illustration: Door in Wall of Kitchen Garden at Van Cortlandt Manor.] I do not doubt that this Van Cortlandt garden was laid out when the house was built; much of it must be two centuries old. It has been extended, not altered; and the grass-covered bank supporting the upper garden was replaced by a brick terrace wall about sixty years ago. Its present form dates to the days when New York was a province. The upper garden is laid out in formal flower beds; the lower border is rich in old vines and shrubs, and all the beloved old-time hardy plants. There is in the manor-house an ancient portrait of the child Pierre Van Cortlandt, painted about the year 1732. He stands by a table bearing a vase filled with old garden flowers--Tulip, Convolvulus, Harebell, Rose, Peony, Narcissus, and Flowering Almond; and it is the pleasure of the present mistress of the manor, to see that the garden still holds all the great-grandfather's flowers. There is a vine-embowered old door in the wall under the piazza (see opposite page 20) which opens into the kitchen and fruit garden; a wall-door so quaint and old-timey that I always remind me of Shakespeare's lines in _Measure for Measure_:-- "He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a Vineyard back'd; And to that Vineyard is a planchéd gate That makes his opening with this bigger key: The other doth command a little door Which from the Vineyard to the garden leads." The long path is a beautiful feature of this garden (it is shown in the picture of the garden opposite page 24); it dates certainly to the middle of the eighteenth century. Pierre Van Cortlandt, the son of the child with the vase of flowers, and grandfather of the present generation bearing his surname, was born in 1762. He well recalled playing along this garden path when he was a child; and that one day he and his little sister Ann (Mrs. Philip Van Rensselaer) ran a race along this path and through the garden to see who could first "see the baby" and greet their sister, Mrs. Beekman, who came riding to the manor-house up the hill from Tarrytown, and through the avenue, which shows on the right-hand side of the garden-picture. This beautiful young woman was famed everywhere for her grace and loveliness, and later equally so for her intelligence and goodness, and the prominent part she bore in the War of the Revolution. She was seated on a pillion behind her husband, and she carried proudly in her arms her first baby (afterward Dr. Beekman) wrapped in a scarlet cloak. This is one of the home-pictures that the old garden holds. Would we could paint it! In this garden, near the house, is a never failing spring and well. The house was purposely built near it, in those days of sudden attacks by Indians; it has proved a fountain of perpetual youth for the old Locust tree, which shades it; a tree more ancient than house or garden, serene and beautiful in its hearty old age. Glimpses of this manor-house garden and its flowers are shown on many pages of this book, but they cannot reveal its beauty as a whole--its fine proportions, its noble background, its splendid trees, its turf, its beds of bloom. Oh! How beautiful a garden can be, when for two hundred years it has been loved and cherished, ever nurtured, ever guarded; how plainly it shows such care! Another Dutch garden is pictured opposite page 32, the garden of the Bergen Homestead, at Bay Ridge, Long Island. Let me quote part of its description, written by Mrs. Tunis Bergen:-- "Over the half-open Dutch door you look through the vines that climb about the stoop, as into a vista of the past. Beyond the garden is the great Quince orchard of hundreds of trees in pink and white glory. This orchard has a story which you must pause in the garden to hear. In the Library at Washington is preserved, in quaint manuscript, 'The Battle of Brooklyn,' a farce written and said to have been performed during the British occupation. The scene is partly laid in 'the orchard of one Bergen,' where the British hid their horses after the battle of Long Island--this is the orchard; but the blossoming Quince trees tell no tale of past carnage. At one side of the garden is a quaint little building with moss-grown roof and climbing hop-vine--the last slave kitchen left standing in New York--on the other side are rows of homely beehives. The old Locust tree overshadowing is an ancient landmark--it was standing in 1690. For some years it has worn a chain to bind its aged limbs together. All this beauty of tree and flower lived till 1890, when it was swept away by the growing city. Though now but a memory, it has the perfume of its past flowers about it." The Locust was so often a "home tree" and so fitting a one, that I have grown to associate ever with these Dutch homesteads a light-leaved Locust tree, shedding its beautiful flickering shadows on the long roof. I wonder whether there was any association or tradition that made the Locust the house-friend in old New York! The first nurseryman in the new world was stern old Governor Endicott of Salem. In 1644 he wrote to Governor Winthrop, "My children burnt mee at least 500 trees by setting the ground on fire neere them"--which was a very pretty piece of mischief for sober Puritan children. We find all thoughtful men of influence and prominence in all the colonies raising various fruits, and selling trees and plants, but they had no independent business nurseries. [Illustration: Garden at Van Cortlandt Manor.] If tradition be true, it is to Governor Endicott we owe an indelible dye on the landscape of eastern Massachusetts in midsummer. The Dyer's-weed or Woad-waxen (_Genista tinctoria_), which, in July, covers hundreds of acres in Lynn, Salem, Swampscott, and Beverly with its solid growth and brilliant yellow bloom, is said to have been brought to this country as the packing of some of the governor's household belongings. It is far more probable that he brought it here to raise it in his garden for dyeing purposes, with intent to benefit the colony, as he did other useful seeds and plants. Woadwaxen, or Broom, is a persistent thing; it needs scythe, plough, hoe, and bitter labor to eradicate it. I cannot call it a weed, for it has seized only poor rock-filled land, good for naught else; and the radiant beauty of the Salem landscape for many weeks makes us forgive its persistence, and thank Endicott for bringing it here. "The Broom, Full-flowered and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold." The Broom flower is the emblem of mid-summer, the hottest yellow flower I know--it seems to throw out heat. I recall the first time I saw it growing; I was told that it was "Salem Wood-wax." I had heard of "Roxbury Waxwork," the Bitter-sweet, but this was a new name, as it was a new tint of yellow, and soon I had its history, for I find Salem people rather proud both of the flower and its story. Oxeye Daisies (Whiteweed) are also by vague tradition the children of Governor Endicott's planting. I think it far more probable that they were planted and cherished by the wives of the colonists, when their beloved English Daisies were found unsuited to New England's climate and soil. We note the Woad-waxen and Whiteweed as crowding usurpers, not only because they are persistent, but because their great expanses of striking bloom will not let us forget them. Many other English plants are just as determined intruders, but their modest dress permits them to slip in comparatively unobserved. It has ever been characteristic of the British colonist to carry with him to any new home the flowers of old England and Scotland, and characteristic of these British flowers to monopolize the earth. Sweetbrier is called "the missionary-plant," by the Maoris in New Zealand, and is there regarded as a tiresome weed, spreading and holding the ground. Some homesick missionary or his more homesick wife bore it there; and her love of the home plant impressed even the savage native. We all know the story of the Scotch settlers who carried their beloved Thistles to Tasmania "to make it seem like home," and how they lived to regret it. Vancouver's Island is completely overrun with Broom and wild Roses from England. The first commercial nursery in America, in the sense of the term as we now employ it, was established about 1730 by Robert Prince, in Flushing, Long Island, a community chiefly of French Huguenot settlers, who brought to the new world many French fruits by seed and cuttings, and also a love of horticulture. For over a century and a quarter these Prince Nurseries were the leading ones in America. The sale of fruit trees was increased in 1774 (as we learn from advertisements in the _New York Mercury_ of that year), by the sale of "Carolina Magnolia flower trees, the most beautiful trees that grow in America, and 50 large Catalpa flower trees; they are nine feet high to the under part of the top and thick as one's leg," also other flowering trees and shrubs. The fine house built on the nursery grounds by William Prince suffered little during the Revolution. It was occupied by Washington and afterwards house and nursery were preserved from depredations by a guard placed by General Howe when the British took possession of Flushing. Of course, domestic nursery business waned in time of war; but an excellent demand for American shrubs and trees sprung up among the officers of the British army, to send home to gardens in England and Germany. Many an English garden still has ancient plants and trees from the Prince Nurseries. The "Linnæan Botanic Garden and Nurseries" and the "Old American Nursery" thrived once more at the close of the war, and William Prince the second entered in charge; one of his earliest ventures of importance was the introduction of Lombardy Poplars. In 1798 he advertises ten thousand trees, ten to seventeen feet in height. These became the most popular tree in America, the emblem of democracy--and a warmly hated tree as well. The eighty acres of nursery grounds were a centre of botanic and horticultural interest for the entire country; every tree, shrub, vine, and plant known to England and America was eagerly sought for; here the important botanical treasures of Lewis and Clark found a home. William Prince wrote several notable horticultural treatises; and even his trade catalogues were prized. He established the first steamboats between Flushing and New York, built roads and bridges on Long Island, and was a public-spirited, generous citizen as well as a man of science. His son, William Robert Prince, who died in 1869, was the last to keep up the nurseries, which he did as a scientific rather than a commercial establishment. He botanized the entire length of the Atlantic States with Dr. Torrey, and sought for collections of trees and wild flowers in California with the same eagerness that others there sought gold. He was a devoted promoter of the native silk industry, having vast plantations of Mulberries in many cities; for one at Norfolk, Virginia, he was offered $100,000. It is a curious fact that the interest in Mulberry culture and the practice of its cultivation was so universal in his neighborhood (about the year 1830), that cuttings of the Chinese Mulberry (_Morus multicaulis_) were used as currency in all the stores in the vicinity of Flushing, at the rate of 12-1/2 cents each. [Illustration: Garden at Prince Homestead, Flushing, Long Island.] The Prince homestead, a fine old mansion, is here shown; it is still standing, surrounded by that forlorn sight, a forgotten garden. This is of considerable extent, and evidences of its past dignity appear in the hedges and edgings of Box; one symmetrical great Box tree is fifty feet in circumference. Flowering shrubs, unkempt of shape, bloom and beautify the waste borders each spring, as do the oldest Chinese Magnolias in the United States. Gingkos, Paulownias, and weeping trees, which need no gardener's care, also flourish and are of unusual size. There are some splendid evergreens, such as Mt. Atlas Cedars; and the oldest and finest Cedar of Lebanon in the United States. It seemed sad, as I looked at the evidences of so much past beauty and present decay, that this historic house and garden should not be preserved for New York, as the house and garden of John Bartram, the Philadelphia botanist, have been for his native city. While there are few direct records of American gardens in the eighteenth century, we have many instructing side glimpses through old business letter-books. We find Sir Harry Frankland ordering Daffodils and Tulips for the garden he made for Agnes Surriage; and it is said that the first Lilacs ever seen in Hopkinton were planted by him for her. The gay young nobleman and the lovely woman are in the dust, and of all the beautiful things belonging to them there remain a splendid Portuguese fan, which stands as a memorial of that tragic crisis in their life--the great Lisbon earthquake; and the Lilacs, which still mark the site of her house and blossom each spring as a memorial of the shadowed romance of her life in New England. Let me give two pages from old letters to illustrate what I mean by side glimpses at the contents of colonial gardens. The fine Hancock mansion in Boston had a carefully-filled garden long previous to the Revolution. Such letters as the following were sent by Mr. Hancock to England to secure flowers for it:-- "My Trees and Seeds for Capt. Bennett Came Safe to Hand and I like them very well. I Return you my hearty Thanks for the Plumb Tree and Tulip Roots you were pleased to make me a Present off, which are very Acceptable to me. I have Sent my friend Mr. Wilks a mmo. to procure for me 2 or 3 Doz. Yew Trees, Some Hollys and Jessamine Vines, and if you have Any Particular Curious Things not of a high Price, will Beautifye a flower Garden Send a Sample with the Price or a Catalogue of 'em, I do not intend to spare Any Cost or Pains in making my Gardens Beautifull or Profitable. "P.S. The Tulip Roots you were Pleased to make a present off to me are all Dead as well." We find Richard Stockton writing in 1766 from England to his wife at their beautiful home "Morven," in Princeton, New Jersey:-- "I am making you a charming collection of bulbous roots, which shall be sent over as soon as the prospect of freezing on your coast is over. The first of April, I believe, will be time enough for you to put them in your sweet little flower garden, which you so fondly cultivate. Suppose I inform you that I design a ride to Twickenham the latter end of next month principally to view Mr. Pope's gardens and grotto, which I am told remain nearly as he left them; and that I shall take with me a gentleman who draws well, to lay down an exact plan of the whole." The fine line of Catalpa trees set out by Richard Stockton, along the front of his lawn, were in full flower when he rode up to his house on a memorable July day to tell his wife that he had signed the Declaration of American Independence. Since then Catalpa trees bear everywhere in that vicinity the name of Independence trees, and are believed to be ever in bloom on July 4th. [Illustration: Old Box at Prince Homestead.] In the delightful diary and letters of Eliza Southgate Bowne (_A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago_), are other side glimpses of the beautiful gardens of old Salem, among them those of the wealthy merchants of the Derby family. Terraces and arches show a formality of arrangement, for they were laid out by a Dutch gardener whose descendants still live in Salem. All had summer-houses, which were larger and more important buildings than what are to-day termed summer-houses; these latter were known in Salem and throughout Virginia as bowers. One summer-house had an arch through it with three doors on each side which opened into little apartments; one of them had a staircase by which you could ascend into a large upper room, which was the whole size of the building. This was constructed to command a fine view, and was ornamented with Chinese articles of varied interest and value; it was used for tea-drinkings. At the end of the garden, concealed by a dense Weeping Willow, was a thatched hermitage, containing the life-size figure of a man reading a prayer-book; a bed of straw and some broken furniture completed the picture. This was an English fashion, seen at one time in many old English gardens, and held to be most romantic. Apparently summer evenings were spent by the Derby household and their visitors wholly in the garden and summer-house. The diary keeper writes naïvely, "The moon shines brighter in this garden than anywhere else." [Illustration: Old Dutch Garden of Bergen Homestead.] The shrewd and capable women of the colonies who entered so freely and successfully into business ventures found the selling of flower seeds a congenial occupation, and often added it to the pursuit of other callings. I think it must have been very pleasant to buy packages of flower seed at the same time and place where you bought your best bonnet, and have all sent home in a bandbox together; each would prove a memorial of the other; and long after the glory of the bonnet had departed, and the bonnet itself was ashes, the thriving Sweet Peas and Larkspur would recall its becoming charms. I have often seen the advertisements of these seedswomen in old newspapers; unfortunately they seldom gave printed lists of their store of seeds. Here is one list printed in a Boston newspaper on March 30, 1760:-- Lavender. Palma Christi. Cerinthe or Honeywort, loved of bees. Tricolor. Indian Pink. Scarlet Cacalia. Yellow Sultans. Lemon African Marigold. Sensitive Plants. White Lupine. Love Lies Bleeding. Patagonian Cucumber. Lobelia. Catchfly. Wing-peas. Convolvulus. Strawberry Spinage. Branching Larkspur. White Chrysanthemum. Nigaella Romano. Rose Campion. Snap Dragon. Nolana prostrata. Summer Savory. Hyssop. Red Hawkweed. Red and White Lavater. Scarlet Lupine. Large blue Lupine. Snuff flower. Caterpillars. Cape Marigold. Rose Lupine. Sweet Peas. Venus' Navelwort. Yellow Chrysanthemum. Cyanus minor. Tall Holyhock. French Marigold. Carnation Poppy. Globe Amaranthus. Yellow Lupine. Indian Branching Coxcombs. Iceplants. Thyme. Sweet Marjoram. Tree Mallows. Everlasting. Greek Valerian. Tree Primrose. Canterbury Bells. Purple Stock. Sweet Scabiouse. Columbine. Pleasant-eyed Pink. Dwarf Mountain Pink. Sweet Rocket. Horn Poppy. French Honeysuckle. Bloody Wallflower. Sweet William. Honesty (to be sold in small parcels that every one may have a little). Persicaria. Polyanthos. 50 Different Sorts of mixed Tulip Roots. Ranunculus. Gladiolus. Starry Scabiouse. Curled Mallows. Painted Lady topknot peas. Colchicum. Persian Iris. Star Bethlehem. This list is certainly a pleasing one. It gives opportunity for flower borders of varied growth and rich color. There is a quality of some minds which may be termed historical imagination. It is the power of shaping from a few simple words or details of the faraway past, an ample picture, full of light and life, of which these meagre details are but a framework. Having this list of the names of these sturdy old annuals and perennials, what do you perceive besides the printed words? I see that the old mid-century garden where these seeds found a home was a cheerful place from earliest spring to autumn; that it had many bulbs, and thereafter a constant succession of warm blooms till the Coxcombs, Marigolds, Colchicums and Chrysanthemums yielded to New England's frosts. I know that the garden had beehives and that the bees were loved; for when they sallied out of their straw bee-skepes, these happy bees found their favorite blossoms planted to welcome them: Cerinthe, dropping with honey; Cacalia, a sister flower; Lupine, Larkspur, Sweet Marjoram, and Thyme--I can taste the Thyme-scented classic honey from that garden! There was variety of foliage as well as bloom, the dovelike Lavender, the glaucous Horned Poppy, the glistening Iceplants, the dusty Rose Campion. [Illustration: Old Garden at Duck Cove Farm in Narragansett.] Stately plants grew from the little seed-packets; Hollyhocks, Valerian, Canterbury Bells, Tree Primroses looked down on the low-growing herbs of the border; and there were vines of Convolvulus and Honeysuckle. It was a garden overhung by clouds of perfume from Thyme, Lavender, Sweet Peas, Pleasant-eyed Pink, and Stock. The garden's mistress looked well after her household; ample store of savory pot herbs grow among the finer blossoms. It was a garden for children to play in. I can see them; little boys with their hair tied in queues, in knee breeches and flapped coats like their stately fathers, running races down the garden path, as did the Van Cortlandt children; and demure little girls in caps and sacques and aprons, sitting in cubby houses under the Lilac bushes. I know what flowers they played with and how they played, for they were my great-grandmothers and grandfathers, and they played exactly what I did, and sang what I did when I was a child in a garden. And suddenly my picture expands, as a glow of patriotic interest thrills me in the thought that in this garden were sheltered and amused the boys of one hundred and forty years ago, who became the heroes of our American Revolution; and the girls who were Daughters of Liberty, who spun and wove and knit for their soldiers, and drank heroically their miserable Liberty tea. I fear the garden faded when bitter war scourged the land, when the women turned from their flower beds to the plough and the field, since their brothers and husbands were on the frontier. But when that winter of gloom to our country and darkness to the garden was ended, the flowers bloomed still more brightly, and to the cheerful seedlings of the old garden is now given perpetual youth and beauty; they are fated never to grow faded or neglected or sad, but to live and blossom and smile forever in the sunshine of our hearts through the magic power of a few printed words in a time-worn old news-sheet. CHAPTER II FRONT DOORYARDS "There are few of us who cannot remember a front yard garden which seemed to us a very paradise in childhood. Whether the house was a fine one and the enclosure spacious, or whether it was a small house with only a narrow bit of ground in front, the yard was kept with care, and was different from the rest of the land altogether.... People do not know what they lose when they make way with the reserve, the separateness, the sanctity, of the front yard of their grandmothers. It is like writing down family secrets for any one to read; it is like having everybody call you by your first name, or sitting in any pew in church." --_Country Byways_, SARAH ORNE JEWETT, 1881. Old New England villages and small towns and well-kept New England farms had universally a simple and pleasing form of garden called the front yard or front dooryard. A few still may be seen in conservative communities in the New England states and in New York or Pennsylvania. I saw flourishing ones this summer in Gloucester, Marblehead, and Ipswich. Even where the front yard was but a narrow strip of land before a tiny cottage, it was carefully fenced in, with a gate that was kept rigidly closed and latched. There seemed to be a law which shaped and bounded the front yard; the side fences extended from the corners of the house to the front fence on the edge of the road, and thus formed naturally the guarded parallelogram. Often the fence around the front yard was the only one on the farm; everywhere else were boundaries of great stone walls; or if there were rail fences, the front yard fence was the only painted one. I cannot doubt that the first gardens that our foremothers had, which were wholly of flowering plants, were front yards, little enclosures hard won from the forest. [Illustration: The Flowering Almond under the Window.] The word yard, not generally applied now to any enclosure of elegant cultivation, comes from the same root as the word garden. Garth is another derivative, and the word exists much disguised in orchard. In the sixteenth century yard was used in formal literature instead of garden; and later Burns writes of "Eden's bonnie yard, Where yeuthful lovers first were pair'd." This front yard was an English fashion derived from the forecourt so strongly advised by Gervayse Markham (an interesting old English writer on floriculture and husbandry), and found in front of many a yeoman's house, and many a more pretentious house as well in Markham's day. Forecourts were common in England until the middle of the eighteenth century, and may still be seen. The forecourt gave privacy to the house even when in the centre of a town. Its readoption is advised with handsome dwellings in England, where ground-space is limited,--and why not in America, too? [Illustration: Peter's Wreath.] The front yard was sacred to the best beloved, or at any rate the most honored, garden flowers of the house mistress, and was preserved by its fences from inroads of cattle, which then wandered at their will and were not housed, or even enclosed at night. The flowers were often of scant variety, but were those deemed the gentlefolk of the flower world. There was a clump of Daffodils and of the Poet's Narcissus in early spring, and stately Crown Imperial; usually, too, a few scarlet and yellow single Tulips, and Grape Hyacinths. Later came Phlox in abundance--the only native American plant,--Canterbury Bells, and ample and glowing London Pride. Of course there were great plants of white and blue Day Lilies, with their beautiful and decorative leaves, and purple and yellow Flower de Luce. A few old-fashioned shrubs always were seen. By inflexible law there must be a Lilac, which might be the aristocratic Persian Lilac. A Syringa, a flowering Currant, or Strawberry bush made sweet the front yard in spring, and sent wafts of fragrance into the house-windows. Spindling, rusty Snowberry bushes were by the gate, and Snowballs also, or our native Viburnums. Old as they seem, the Spiræas and Deutzias came to us in the nineteenth century from Japan; as did the flowering Quinces and Cherries. The pink Flowering Almond dates back to the oldest front yards (see page 39), and Peter's Wreath certainly seems an old settler and is found now in many front yards that remain. The lovely full-flowered shrub of Peter's Wreath, on page 41, which was photographed for this book, was all that remained of a once-loved front yard. The glory of the front yard was the old-fashioned early red "Piny," cultivated since the days of Pliny. I hear people speaking of it with contempt as a vulgar flower,--flaunting is the conventional derogatory adjective,--but I glory in its flaunting. The modern varieties, of every tint from white through flesh color, coral, pink, ruby color, salmon, and even yellow, to deep red, are as beautiful as Roses. Some are sweet-scented; and they have no thorns, and their foliage is ever perfect, so I am sure the Rose is jealous. I am as fond of the Peony as are the Chinese, among whom it is flower queen. It is by them regarded as an aristocratic flower; and in old New England towns fine Peony plants in an old garden are a pretty good indication of the residence of what Dr. Holmes called New England Brahmins. In Salem and Portsmouth are old "Pinys" that have a hundred blossoms at a time--a glorious sight. A Japanese name is "Flower-of-prosperity"; another name, "Plant-of-twenty-days," because its glories last during that period of time. [Illustration: Peonies in a Salem Garden.] Rhododendrons are to the modern garden what the Peony was in the old-fashioned flower border; and I am glad the modern flower cannot drive the old one out. They are equally varied in coloring, but the Peony is a much hardier plant, and I like it far better. It has no blights, no bugs, no diseases, no running out, no funguses; it doesn't have to be covered in winter, and it will bloom in the shade. No old-time or modern garden is to me fully furnished without Peonies; see how fair they are in this Salem garden. I would grow them in some corner of the garden for their splendid healthy foliage if they hadn't a blossom. The _Pæonia tenuifolia_ in particular has exquisite feathery foliage. The great Tree Peony, which came from China, grows eight feet or more in height, and is a triumph of the flower world; but it was not known to the oldest front yards. Some of the Tree Peonies have finely displayed leafage of a curious and very gratifying tint of green. Miss Jekyll, with her usual felicity, compares its blue cast with pinkish shading to the vari-colored metal alloys of the Japanese bronze workers--a striking comparison. The single Peonies of recent years are of great beauty, and will soon be esteemed here as in China. Not the least of the Peony's charms is its exceeding trimness and cleanliness. The plants always look like a well-dressed, well-shod, well-gloved girl of birth, breeding, and of equal good taste and good health; a girl who can swim, and skate, and ride, and play golf. Every inch has a well-set, neat, cared-for look which the shape and growth of the plant keeps from seeming artificial or finicky. See the white Peony on page 44; is it not a seemly, comely thing, as well as a beautiful one? No flower can be set in our garden of more distinct antiquity than the Peony; the Greeks believed it to be of divine origin. A green arbor of the fourteenth century in England is described as set around with Gillyflower, Tansy, Gromwell, and "Pyonys powdered ay betwene"--just as I like to see Peonies set to this day, "powdered" everywhere between all the other flowers of the border. [Illustration: White Peonies.] I am pleased to note of the common flowers of the New England front yard, that they are no new things; they are nearly all Elizabethan of date--many are older still. Lord Bacon in his essay on gardens names many of them, Crocus, Tulip, Hyacinth, Daffodil, Flower de Luce, double Peony, Lilac, Lily of the Valley. A favorite flower was the yellow garden Lily, the Lemon Lily, _Hemerocallis_, when it could be kept from spreading. Often its unbounded luxuriance exiled it from the front yard to the kitchen dooryard as befell the clump shown facing page 48. Its pretty old-fashioned name was Liricon-fancy, given, I am told, in England to the Lily of the Valley. I know no more satisfying sight than a good bank of these Lemon Lilies in full flower. Below Flatbush there used to be a driveway leading to an old Dutch house, set at regular intervals with great clumps of Lemon Lilies, and their full bloom made them glorious. Their power of satisfactory adaptation in our modern formal garden is happily shown facing page 76, in the lovely garden of Charles E. Mather, Esq., in Haverford, Pennsylvania. The time of fullest inflorescence of the nineteenth century front yard was when Phlox and Tiger Lilies bloomed; but the pinkish-orange colors of the latter (the oddest reds of any flower tints) blended most vilely and rampantly with the crimson-purple of the Phlox; and when London Pride joined with its glowing scarlet, the front yard fairly ached. Nevertheless, an adaptation of that front yard bloom can be most effective in a garden border, when white Phlox only is planted, and the Tiger Lily or cultivated stalks of our wild nodding Lily rise above the white trusses of bloom. These wild Lilies grow very luxuriantly in the garden, often towering above our heads and forming great candelabra bearing two score or more blooms. It is no easy task to secure their deep-rooted rhizomes in the meadow. I know a young man who won his sweetheart by the patience and assiduity with which he dug for her all one broiling morning to secure for her the coveted Lily roots, and collapsed with mild sunstroke at the finish. Her gratitude and remorse were equal factors in his favor. The Tiger Lily is usually thought upon as a truly old-fashioned flower, a veritable antique; it is a favorite of artists to place as an accessory in their colonial gardens, and of authors for their flower-beds of Revolutionary days, but it was not known either in formal garden or front yard, until after "the days when we lived under the King." The bulbs were first brought to England from Eastern Asia in 1804 by Captain Kirkpatrick of the East India Company's Service, and shared with the Japan Lily the honor of being the first Eastern Lilies introduced into European gardens. A few years ago an old gentleman, Mr. Isaac Pitman, who was then about eighty-five years of age, told me that he recalled distinctly when Tiger Lilies first appeared in our gardens, and where he first saw them growing in Boston. So instead of being an old-time flower, or even an old-comer from the Orient, it is one of the novelties of this century. How readily has it made itself at home, and even wandered wild down our roadsides! The two simple colors of Phlox of the old-time front yard, white and crimson-purple, are now augmented by tints of salmon, vermilion, and rose. I recall with special pleasure the profuse garden decoration at East Hampton, Long Island, of a pure cherry-colored Phlox, generally a doubtful color to me, but there so associated with the white blooms of various other plants, and backed by a high hedge covered solidly with blossoming Honeysuckle, that it was wonderfully successful. To other members of the Phlox family, all natives of our own continent, the old front yard owed much; the Moss Pink sometimes crowded out both Grass and its companion the Periwinkle; it is still found in our gardens, and bountifully also in our fields; either in white or pink, it is one of the satisfactions of spring, and its cheerful little blossom is of wonderful use in many waste places. An old-fashioned bloom, the low-growing _Phlox amoena_, with its queerly fuzzy leaves and bright crimson blossoms, was among the most distinctly old-fashioned flowers of the front yard. It was tolerated rather than cultivated, as was its companion, the Arabis or Rock Cress--both crowding, monopolizing creatures. I remember well how they spread over the beds and up the grass banks in my mother's garden, how sternly they were uprooted, in spite of the pretty name of the Arabis--"Snow in Summer." Sometimes the front yard path had edgings of sweet single or lightly double white or tinted Pinks, which were not deemed as choice as Box edgings. Frequently large Box plants clipped into simple and natural shapes stood at the side of the doorstep, usually in the home of the well-to-do. A great shell might be on either side of the door-sill, if there chanced to be seafaring men-folk who lived or visited under the roof-tree. Annuals were few in number; sturdy old perennial plants of many years' growth were the most honored dwellers in the front yard, true representatives of old families. The Roses were few and poor, for there was usually some great tree just without the gate, an Elm or Larch, whose shadow fell far too near and heavily for the health of Roses. Sometimes there was a prickly semidouble yellow Rose, called by us a Scotch Rose, a Sweet Brier, or a rusty-flowered white Rose, similar, though inferior, to the Madame Plantier. A new fashion of trellises appeared in the front yard about sixty years ago, and crimson Boursault Roses climbed up them as if by magic. One marked characteristic of the front yard was its lack of weeds; few sprung up, none came to seed-time; the enclosure was small, and it was a mark of good breeding to care for it well. Sometimes, however, the earth was covered closely under shrubs and plants with the cheerful little Ladies' Delights, and they blossomed in the chinks of the bricked path and under the Box edges. Ambrosia, too, grew everywhere, but these were welcome--they were not weeds. Our old New England houses were suited in color and outline to their front yards as to our landscape. Lowell has given in verse a good description of the kind of New England house that always had a front dooryard of flowers. [Illustration: Yellow Day Lilies.] "On a grass-green swell That towards the south with sweet concessions fell, It dwelt retired, and half had grown to be As aboriginal as rock or tree. It nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood O'er homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood. If paint it e'er had known, it knew no more Than yellow lichens spattered thickly o'er That soft lead gray, less dark beneath the eaves, Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves. The ample roof sloped backward to the ground And vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round, Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need. But the great chimney was the central thought. * * * * * It rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair, Its warm breath whitening in the autumn air." Sarah Orne Jewett, in the plaint of _A Mournful Villager_, has drawn a beautiful and sympathetic picture of these front yards, and she deplores their passing. I mourn them as I do every fenced-in or hedged-in garden enclosure. The sanctity and reserve of these front yards of our grandmothers was somewhat emblematic of woman's life of that day: it was restricted, and narrowed to a small outlook and monotonous likeness to her neighbor's; but it was a life easily satisfied with small pleasures, and it was comely and sheltered and carefully kept, and pleasant to the home household; and these were no mean things. The front yard was never a garden of pleasure; children could not play in these precious little enclosed plots, and never could pick the flowers--front yard and flowers were both too much respected. Only formal visitors entered therein, visitors who opened the gate and closed it carefully behind them, and knocked slowly with the brass knocker, and were ushered in through the ceremonious front door and the little ill-contrived entry, to the stiff fore-room or parlor. The parson and his wife entered that portal, and sometimes a solemn would-be sweetheart, or the guests at a tea party. It can be seen that every one who had enough social dignity to have a front door and a parlor, and visitors thereto, also desired a front yard with flowers as the external token of that honored standing. It was like owning a pew in church; you could be a Christian without having a pew, but not a respected one. Sometimes when there was a "vendue" in the house, reckless folk opened the front gate, and even tied it back. I attended one where the auctioneer boldly set the articles out through the windows under the Lilac bushes and even on the precious front yard plants. A vendue and a funeral were the only gatherings in country communities when the entire neighborhood came freely to an old homestead, when all were at liberty to enter the front dooryard. At the sad time when a funeral took place in the house, the front gate was fastened widely open, and solemn men-neighbors, in Sunday garments, stood rather uncomfortably and awkwardly around the front yard as the women passed into the house of mourning and were seated within. When the sad services began, the men too entered and stood stiffly by the door. Then through the front door, down the mossy path of the front yard, and through the open front gate was borne the master, the mistress, and then their children, and children's children. All are gone from our sight, many from our memory, and often too from our ken, while the Lilacs and Peonies and Flowers de Luce still blossom and flourish with perennial youth, and still claim us as friends. At the side of the house or by the kitchen door would be seen many thrifty blooms: poles of Scarlet Runners, beds of Portulacas and Petunias, rows of Pinks, bunches of Marigolds, level expanses of Sweet Williams, banks of cheerful Nasturtiums, tangles of Morning-glories and long rows of stately Hollyhocks, which were much admired, but were seldom seen in the front yard, which was too shaded for them. Weeds grew here at the kitchen door in a rank profusion which was hard to conquer; but here the winter's Fuchsias or Geraniums stood in flower pots in the sunlight, and the tubs of Oleanders and Agapanthus Lilies. The flowers of the front yard seemed to bear a more formal, a "company" aspect; conventionality rigidly bound them. Bachelor's Buttons might grow there by accident, but Marigolds never were tolerated,--they were pot herbs. Sunflowers were not even permitted in the flower beds at the side of the house unless these stretched down to the vegetable beds. Outside the front yard would be a rioting and cheerful growth of pink Bouncing Bet, or of purple Honesty, and tall straggling plants of a certain small flowered, ragged Campanula, and a white Mallow with flannelly leaves which, doubtless, aspired to inhabit the sacred bounds of the front yard (and probably dwelt there originally), and often were gladly permitted to grow in side gardens or kitchen dooryards, but which were regarded as interloping weeds by the guardians of the front yard, and sternly exiled. Sometimes a bed of these orange-tawny Day Lilies which had once been warmly welcomed from the Orient, and now were not wanted anywhere by any one, kept company with the Bouncing Bet, and stretched cheerfully down the roadside. [Illustration: Orange Day Lilies.] When the fences disappeared with the night rambles of the cows, the front yards gradually changed character; the tender blooms vanished, but the tall shrubs and the Peonies and Flower de Luce sturdily grew and blossomed, save where that dreary destroyer of a garden crept in--the desire for a lawn. The result was then a meagre expanse of poorly kept grass, with no variety, color, or change,--neither lawn nor front yard. It is ever a pleasure to me when driving in a village street or a country road to find one of these front yards still enclosed, or even to note in front of many houses the traces of a past front yard still plainly visible in the flourishing old-fashioned plants of many years' growth. CHAPTER III VARIED GARDENS FAIR "And all without were walkes and alleys dight With divers trees enrang'd in even rankes; And here and there were pleasant arbors pight And shadie seats, and sundry flowering bankes To sit and rest the walkers wearie shankes." --_Faerie Queene_, EDMUND SPENSER. Many simple forms of gardens were common besides the enclosed front yard; and as wealth poured in on the colonies, the beautiful gardens so much thought of in England were copied here, especially by wealthy merchants, as is noted in the first chapter of this book, and by the provincial governors and their little courts; the garden of Governor Hutchinson, in Milford, Massachusetts, is stately still and little changed. [Illustration: Preston Garden.] English gardens, at the time of the settlement of America, had passed beyond the time when, as old Gervayse Markham said, "Of all the best Ornaments used in our English gardens, Knots and Mazes are the most ancient." A maze was a placing of low garden hedges of Privet, Box, or Hyssop, usually set in concentric circles which enclosed paths, that opened into each other by such artful contrivance that it was difficult to find one's way in and out through these bewildering paths. "When well formed, of a man's height, your friend may perhaps wander in gathering berries as he cannot recover himself without your help." The maze was not a thing of beauty, it was "nothing for sweetness and health," to use Lord Bacon's words; it was only a whimsical notion of gardening amusement, pleasing to a generation who liked to have hidden fountains in their gardens to sprinkle suddenly the unwary. I doubt if any mazes were ever laid out in America, though I have heard vague references to one in Virginia. Knots had been the choice adornment of the Tudor garden. They were not wholly a thing of the past when we had here our first gardens, and they have had a distinct influence on garden laying-out till our own day. An Elizabethan poet wrote:-- "My Garden sweet, enclosed with walles strong, Embanked with benches to sitt and take my rest; The knots so enknotted it cannot be expressed The arbores and alyes so pleasant and so dulce." These garden knots were not flower beds edged with Box or Rosemary, with narrow walks between the edgings, as were the parterres of our later formal gardens. They were square, ornamental beds, each of which had a design set in some close-growing, trim plant, clipped flatly across the top, and the design filled in with colored earth or sand; and with no dividing paths. Elaborate models in complicated geometrical pattern were given in gardeners' books, for setting out these knots, which were first drawn on paper and subdivided into squares; then the square of earth was similarly divided, and set out by precise rules. William Lawson, the Izaak Walton of gardeners, gave, as a result of forty-eight years of experience, some very attractive directions for large "knottys" with different "thrids" of flowers, each of one color, which made the design appear as if "made of diverse colored ribands." One of his knots, from _A New Orchard and Garden_ 1618, being a garden fashion in vogue when my forbears came to America, I have chosen as a device for the dedication of this book, thinking it, in Lawson's words, "so comely, and orderly placed, and so intermingled, that one looking thereon cannot but wonder." His knots had significant names, such as "Cinkfoyle; Flower de Luce; Trefoyle; Frette; Lozenge; Groseboowe; Diamond; Ovall; Maze." Gervayse Markham gives various knot patterns to be bordered with Box cut eighteen inches broad at the bottom and kept flat at the top--with the ever present thought for the fine English linen. He has a varied list of circular, diamond-shaped, mixed, and "single impleated knots." [Illustration: Box-edged Parterre at Hampton.] These garden knots were mildly sneered at by Lord Bacon; he said, "they be but toys, you see as good sights many times in tarts;" still I think they must have been quaint, and I should like to see a garden laid out to-day in these pretty Elizabethan knots, set in the old patterns, and with the old flowers. Nor did Parkinson and other practical gardeners look with favor on "curiously knotted gardens," though all gave designs to "satisfy the desires" of their readers. "Open knots" were preferred; these were made with borders of lead, tiles, boards, or even the shankbones of sheep, "which will become white and prettily grace out the garden,"--a fashion I saw a few years ago around flower beds in Charlton, Massachusetts. "Round whitish pebble stones" for edgings were Parkinson's own invention, and proud he was of it, simple as it seems to us. These open knots were then filled in, but "thin and sparingly," with "English Flowers"; or with "Out-Landish Flowers," which were flowers fetched from foreign parts. The parterre succeeded the knot, and has been used in gardens till the present day. Parterres were of different combinations, "well-contriv'd and ingenious." The "parterre of cut-work" was a Box-bordered formal flower garden, of which the garden at Hampton, Maryland (pages 57, 60, and 95), is a striking and perfect example; also the present garden at Mount Vernon (opposite page 12), wherein carefully designed flower beds, edged with Box, are planted with variety of flowers, and separated by paths. Sometimes, of old, fine white sand was carefully strewn on the earth under the flowers. The "parterre à l'Anglaise" had an elaborate design of vari-shaped beds edged with Box, but enclosing grass instead of flowers. In the "parterre de broderie" the Box-edged beds were filled with vari-colored earths and sands. Black earth could be made of iron filings; red earth of pounded tiles. This last-named parterre differed from a knot solely in having the paths among the beds. The _Retir'd Gard'ner_ gives patterns for ten parterres. The main walks which formed the basis of the garden design had in ancient days a singular name--forthrights; these were ever to be "spacious and fair," and neatly spread with colored sands or gravel. Parkinson says, "The fairer and larger your allies and walks be the more grace your garden should have, the lesse harm the herbes and flowers shall receive, and the better shall your weeders cleanse both the bed and the allies." "Covert-walks," or "shade-alleys," had trees meeting in an arch over them. A curious term, found in references to old American flower beds and garden designs, as well as English ones, is the "goose-foot." A "goose-foot" consisted of three flower beds or three avenues radiating rather closely together from a small semicircle; and in some places and under some conditions it is still a charming and striking design, as you stand at the heel of the design and glance down the three avenues. [Illustration: Parterre and Clipped Box at Hampton.] In all these flower beds Box was the favorite edging, but many other trim edgings have been used in parterres and borders by those who love not Box. Bricks were used, and boards; an edging of boards was not as pretty as one of flowers, but it kept the beds trimly in place; a garden thus edged is shown on page 63 which realizes this description of the pleasure-garden in the _Scots Gard'ner_: "The Bordures box'd and planted with variety of fine Flowers orderly Intermixt, Weeded, Mow'd, Rolled and Kept all Clean and Handsome." Germander and Rosemary were old favorites for edging. I have seen snowy edgings of Candy-tuft and Sweet Alyssum, setting off well the vari-colored blooms of the border. One of Sweet Alyssum is shown on page 256. Ageratum is a satisfactory edging. Thyme is of ancient use, but rather unmanageable; one garden owner has set his edgings of Moneywort, otherwise Creeping-jenny. I should be loth to use Moneywort as an edging; I would not care for its yellow flowers in that place, though I find them very kindly and cheerful on dull banks or in damp spots, under the drip of trees and eaves, or better still, growing gladly in the flower pot of the poor. I fear if Moneywort thrived enough to make a close, suitable edging, that it would thrive too well, and would swamp the borders with its underground runners. The name Moneywort is akin to its older title Herb-twopence, or Twopenny Grass. Turner (1548) says the latter name was given from the leaves all "standying together of ech syde of the stalke lyke pence." The striped leaves of one variety of Day Lily make pretty edgings. Those from a Salem garden are here shown. We often see in neglected gardens in New England, or by the roadside where no gardens now exist, a dense gray-green growth of Lavender Cotton, "the female plant of Southernwood," which was brought here by the colonists and here will ever remain. It was used as an edging, and is very pretty when it can be controlled. I know two or three old gardens where it is thus employed. Sometimes in driving along a country road you are startled by a concentration of foliage and bloom, a glimpse of a tiny farm-house, over which are clustered and heaped, and round which are gathered, close enough to be within touch from door or window, flowers in a crowded profusion ample to fill a large flower bed. Such is the mass of June bloom at Wilbur Farm in old Narragansett (page 290)--a home of flowers and bees. Often by the side of the farm-house is a little garden or flower bed containing some splendid examples of old-time flowers. The splendid "running ribbons" of Snow Pinks, on page 292, are in another Narragansett garden that is a bower of blossoms. Thrift has been a common edging since the days of the old herbalist Gerarde. "We have a bright little garden, down on a sunny slope, Bordered with sea-pinks and sweet with the songs and blossoms of hope." The garden of Secretary William H. Seward (in Auburn, New York), so beloved by him in his lifetime, is shown on page 146 and facing page 134. In this garden some beds are edged with Periwinkle, others with Polyanthus, and some with Ivy which Mr. Seward brought from Abbotsford in 1836. This garden was laid out in its present form in 1816, and the sun-dial was then set in its place. The garden has been enlarged, but not changed, the old "George II. Roses" and York and Lancaster Roses still grow and blossom, and the lovely arches of single Michigan Roses still flourish. In it are many flowers and fruits unusual in America, among them a bed of Alpine strawberries. King James I. of Scotland thus wrote of the garden which he saw from his prison window in Windsor Castle:-- "A Garden fair, and in the Corners set An Herbere greene, with Wandis long and small Railit about." These wandis were railings which were much used before Box edgings became universal. Sometimes they were painted the family colors, as at Hampton Court they were green and white, the Tudor colors. These "wandis" still are occasionally seen. In the Berkshire Hills I drove past an old garden thus trimly enclosed in little beds. The rails were painted a dull light brown, almost the color of some tree trunks; and Larkspur, Foxglove, and other tall flowers crowded up to them and hung their heads over the top rails as children hang over a fence or a gate. I thought it a neat, trim fashion, not one I would care for in my own garden, yet not to be despised in the garden of another. [Illustration: Garden of Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright, Waldstein, Fairfield, Conn.] A garden enclosed! so full of suggestion are these simple words to me, so constant is my thought that an ideal flower garden must be an enclosed garden, that I look with regret upon all beautiful flower beds that are not enclosed, not shut in a frame of green hedges, or high walls, or vine-covered fences and dividing trees. It may be selfish to hide so much beauty from general view; but until our dwelling-houses are made with uncurtained glass walls, that all the world may see everything, let those who have ample grounds enclose at least a portion for the sight of friends only. In the heart of Worcester there is a fine old mansion with ample lawns, great trees, and flowering shrubs that all may see over the garden fence as they pass by. Flowers bloom lavishly at one side of the house; and the thoughtless stroller never knows that behind the house, stretching down between the rear gardens and walls of neighboring homes, is a long enclosure of loveliness--sequestered, quiet, full of refreshment to the spirits. We think of the "Old Garden" of Margaret Deland:-- "The Garden glows And 'gainst its walls the city's heart still beats. And out from it each summer wind that blows Carries some sweetness to the tired streets!" [Illustration: Shaded Walk in Garden of Miss Harriet P. F. Burnside, Worcester, Massachusetts.] There is a shaded walk in this garden which is a thing of solace and content to all who tread its pathway; a bit is shown opposite this page, overhung with shrubs of Lilac, Syringa, Strawberry Bush, Flowering Currant, all the old treelike things, so fair-flowered and sweet-scented in spring, so heavy-leaved and cool-shadowing in midsummer: what pleasure would there be in this shaded walk if this garden were separated from the street only by stone curbing or a low rail? And there is an old sun-dial too in this enclosed garden! I fear the street imps of a crowded city would quickly destroy the old monitor were it in an open garden; and they would make sad havoc, too, of the Roses and Larkspurs (page 65) so tenderly reared by the two sisters who together loved and cared for this "garden enclosed." Great trees are at the edges of this garden, and the line of tall shrubs is carried out by the lavish vines and Roses on fences and walls. Within all this border of greenery glow the clustered gems of rare and beautiful flowers, till the whole garden seems like some rich jewel set purposely to be worn in honor over the city's heart--a clustered jewel, not one to be displayed carelessly and heedlessly. [Illustration: Roses and Larkspur in the Garden of Miss Harriet P. F. Burnside, Worcester, Massachusetts.] Salem houses and gardens are like Salem people. Salem houses present to you a serene and dignified front, gracious yet reserved, not thrusting forward their choicest treasures to the eyes of passing strangers; but behind the walls of the houses, enclosed from public view, lie cherished gardens, full of the beauty of life. Such, in their kind, are Salem folk. I know no more speaking, though silent, criticism than those old Salem gardens afford upon the modern fashion in American towns of pulling down walls and fences, removing the boundaries of lawns, and living in full view of every passer-by, in a public grassy park. It is pleasant, I suppose, for the passer-by; but homes are not made for passers-by. Old Salem gardens lie behind the house, out of sight--you have to hunt for them. They are terraced down if they stretch to the water-side; they are enclosed with hedges, and set behind high vine-covered fences, and low out-buildings; and planted around with great trees: thus they give to each family that secluded centring of family life which is the very essence and being of a home. I sat through a June afternoon in a Salem garden whose gate is within a stone's throw of a great theatre, but a few hundred feet from lines of electric cars and a busy street of trade, scarce farther from lines of active steam cars, and with a great power house for a close neighbor. Yet we were as secluded, as embowered in vines and trees, with beehives and rabbit hutches and chicken coops for happy children at the garden's end, as truly in beautiful privacy, as if in the midst of a hundred acres. Could the sense of sound be as sheltered by the enclosing walls as the sense of sight, such a garden were a city paradise. [Illustration: The Homely Back Yard.] There is scant regularity in shape in Salem gardens; there is no search for exact dimensions. Little narrow strips of flower beds run down from the main garden in any direction or at any angle where the fortunate owner can buy a few feet of land. Salem gardens do not change with the whims of fancy, either in the shape or the planting. A few new flowers find place there, such as the _Anemone Japonica_ and the Japanese shrubs; for they are akin in flower sentiment, and consort well with the old inhabitants. There are many choice flowers and fruits in these gardens. In the garden of the Manning homestead (opposite page 112) grows a flourishing Fig tree, and other rare fruits; for fifty years ago this garden was known as the Pomological Garden. It is fitting it should be the home of two Robert Mannings--both well-known names in the history of horticulture in Massachusetts. [Illustration: Covered Well at Home of Bishop Berkeley, Whitehall, Rhode Island.] The homely back yard of an old house will often possess a trim and blooming flower border cutting off the close approach of the vegetable beds (see opposite page 66). These back yards, with the covered Grape arbors, the old pumps, and bricked paths, are cheerful, wholesome places, generally of spotless cleanliness and weedless flower beds. I know one such back yard where the pump was the first one set in the town, and children were taken there from a distance to see the wondrous sight. Why are all the old appliances for raising water so pleasing? A well-sweep is of course picturesque, with its long swinging pole, and you seem to feel the refreshment and purity of the water when you see it brought up from such a distance; and an old roofed well with bucket, such as this one still in use at Bishop Berkeley's Rhode Island home is ever a homelike and companionable object. But a pump is really an awkward-looking piece of mechanism, and hasn't a vestige of beauty in its lines; yet it has something satisfying about it; it may be its domesticity, its homeliness, its simplicity. We have gained infinitely in comfort in our perfect water systems and lavish water of to-day, but we have lost the gratification of the senses which came from the sight and sound of freshly drawn or running water. Much of the delight in a fountain comes, not only from the beauty of its setting and the graceful shape of its jets, but simply from the sight of the water. Sometimes a graceful and picturesque growth of vines will beautify gate posts, a fence, or a kitchen doorway in a wonderfully artistic and pleasing fashion. On page 70 is shown the sheltered doorway of the kitchen of a fine old stone farm-house called, from its hedges of Osage Orange, "The Hedges." It stands in the village of New Hope, County Bucks, Pennsylvania. In 1718 the tract of which this farm of over two hundred acres is but a portion was deeded by the Penns to their kinsman, the direct ancestor of the present owner, John Schofield Williams, Esq. This is but one of the scores of examples I know where the same estate has been owned in one family for nearly two centuries, sometimes even for two hundred and fifty years; and in several cases where the deed from the Indian sachem to the first colonist is the only deed there has ever been, the estate having never changed ownership save by direct bequest. I have three such cases among my own kinsfolk. [Illustration: Kitchen Doorway and Porch at the Hedges.] Another form of garden and mode of planting which was in vogue in the "early thirties" is shown facing page 92. This pillared house and the stiff garden are excellent types; they are at Napanock, County Ulster, New York. Such a house and grounds indicated the possession of considerable wealth when they were built and laid out, for both were costly. The semicircular driveway swept up to the front door, dividing off Box-edged parterres like those of the day of Queen Anne. These parterres were sparsely filled, the sunnier beds being set with Spring bulbs; and there were always the yellow Day Lilies somewhere in the flower beds, and the white and blue Day Lilies, the common Funkias. Formal urns were usually found in the parterres and sometimes a great cone or ball of clipped Box. These gardens had some universal details, they always had great Snowball bushes, and Syringas, and usually white Roses, chiefly Madame Plantiers; the piazza trellises had old climbing Roses, the Queen of the Prairie or Boursault Roses. These gardens are often densely overshadowed with great evergreen trees grown from the crowded planting of seventy years ago; none are cut down, and if one dies its trunk still stands, entwined with Woodbine. I don't know that we would lay out and plant just such a garden to-day, any more than we would build exactly such a house; but I love to see both, types of the refinement of their day, and I deplore any changes. An old Southern house of allied form is shown on page 72, and its garden facing page 70,--Greenwood, in Thomasville, Georgia; but of course this garden has far more lavish and rich bloom. The decoration of this house is most interesting--a conventionalized Magnolia, and the garden is surrounded with splendid Magnolias and Crape Myrtles. The border edgings in this garden are lines of bricks set overlapping in a curious manner. They serve to keep the beds firmly in place, and the bricks are covered over with an inner edging of thrifty Violets. Curious tubs and boxes for plants are made of bricks set solidly in mortar. The garden is glorious with Roses, which seem to consort so well with Magnolias and Violets. [Illustration: Greenwood, Thomasville, Georgia.] I love a Dutch garden, "circummured" with brick. By a Dutch garden, I mean a small garden, oblong or square, sunk about three or four feet in a lawn--so that when surrounded by brick walls they seem about two feet high when viewed outside, but are five feet or more high from within the garden. There are brick or stone steps in the middle of each of the four walls by which to descend to the garden, which may be all planted with flowers, but preferably should have set borders of flowers with a grass-plot in the centre. On either side of the steps should be brick posts surmounted by Dutch pots with plants, or by balls of stone. Planted with bulbs, these gardens in their flowering time are, as old Parkinson said, a "perfect fielde of delite." We have very pretty Dutch gardens, so called, in America, but their chief claim to being Dutch is that they are set with bulbs, and have Delft or other earthen pots or boxes for formal plants or shrubs. Sunken gardens should be laid out under the supervision of an intelligent landscape architect; and even then should have a reason for being sunken other than a whim or increase in costliness. I visited last summer a beautiful estate which had a deep sunken Dutch garden with a very low wall. It lay at the right side of the house at a little distance; and beyond it, in full view of the peristyle, extended the only squalid objects in the horizon. A garden on the level, well planted, with distant edging of shrubbery, would have hidden every ugly blemish and been a thing of beauty. As it is now, there can be seen from the house nothing of the Dutch garden but a foot or two of the tops of several clipped trees, looking like very poor, stunted shrubs. I must add that this garden, with its low wall, has been a perfect man-trap. It has been evident that often, on dark nights, workmen who have sought a "short cut" across the grounds have fallen over the shallow wall, to the gardener's sorrow, and the bulbs' destruction. Once, at dawn, the unhappy gardener found an ancient horse peacefully feeding among the Hyacinths and Tulips. He said he didn't like the grass in his new pasture nor the sudden approach to it; that he was too old for such new-fangled ways. I know another estate near Philadelphia, where the sinking of a garden revealed an exquisite view of distant hills; such a garden has reason for its form. [Illustration: Roses and Violets in Garden at Greenwood, Thomasville, Georgia.] We have had few water-gardens in America till recent years; and there are some drawbacks to their presence near our homes, as I was vividly aware when I visited one in a friend's garden early in May this year. Water-hyacinths were even then in bloom, and two or three exquisite Lilies; and the Lotus leaves rose up charmingly from the surface of the tank. Less charmingly rose up also a cloud of vicious mosquitoes, who greeted the newcomer with a warm chorus of welcome. As our newspapers at that time were filled with plans for the application of kerosene to every inch of water-surface, such as I saw in these Lily tanks, accompanied by magnified drawings of dreadful malaria-bearing insects, I fled from them, preferring to resign both _Nymphæa_ and _Anopheles_. [Illustration: Water Garden at Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York.] After the introduction to English folk of that wonder of the world, the Victoria Regia, it was cultivated by enthusiastic flower lovers in America, and was for a time the height of the floral fashion. Never has the glorious Victoria Regia and scarce any other flower been described as by Colonel Higginson, a wonderful, a triumphant word picture. I was a very little child when I saw that same lovely Lily in leaf and flower that he called his neighbor; but I have never forgotten it, nor how afraid I was of it; for some one wished to lift me upon the great leaf to see whether it would hold me above the water. We had heard that the native children in South America floated on the leaves. I objected to this experiment with vehemence; but my mother noted that I was no more frightened than was the faithful gardener at the thought of the possible strain on his precious plant of the weight of a sturdy child of six or seven years. I have seen the Victoria Regia leaves of late years, but I seldom hear of its blossoming; but alas! we take less heed of the blooming of unusual plants than we used to thirty or forty years ago. Then people thronged a greenhouse to see a new Rose or Camellia Japonica; even a Night-blooming Cereus attracted scores of visitors to any house where it blossomed. And a fine Cactus of one of our neighbors always held a crowded reception when in rich bloom. It was a part of the "Flower Exchange," an interest all had for the beautiful flowers of others, a part of the old neighborly life. [Illustration: Terrace Wall at Drumthwacket, Princeton, New Jersey.] Within the past five or six years there have been laid out in America, at the country seats of men of wealth and culture, a great number of formal gardens,--Italian gardens, some of them are worthily named, as they have been shaped and planted in conformity with the best laws and rules of Italian garden-making--that special art. On this page is shown the finely proportioned terrace wall, and opposite the upper terrace and formal garden of Drumthwacket, Princeton, New Jersey, the country seat of M. Taylor Pyne, Esq. This garden affords a good example of the accord which should ever exist between the garden and its surroundings. The name, Drumthwacket--a wooded hill--is a most felicitous one; the place is part of the original grant to William Penn, and has remained in the possession of one family until late in the nineteenth century. From this beautifully wooded hill the terrace-garden overlooks the farm buildings, the linked ponds, the fertile fields and meadows; a serene pastoral view, typical of the peaceful landscape of that vicinity--yet it was once the scene of fiercest battle. For the Drumthwacket farm is the battle-ground of that important encounter of 1777 between the British and the Continental troops, known as the Battle of Princeton, the turning point of the Revolution, in which Washington was victorious. To this day, cannon ball and grape shot are dug up in the Drumthwacket fields. The Lodge built in 1696 was, at Washington's request, the shelter for the wounded British officers; and the Washington Spring in front of the Lodge furnished water to Washington. The group of trees on the left of the upper pond marks the sheltered and honored graves of the British soldiers, where have slept for one hundred and twenty-four years those killed at this memorable encounter. If anything could cement still more closely the affections of the English and American peoples, it would be the sight of the tenderly sheltered graves of British soldiers in America, such as these at Drumthwacket and other historic fields on our Eastern coast. At Concord how faithfully stand the sentinel pines over the British dead of the Battle of Concord, who thus repose, shut out from the tread of heedless feet yet ever present for the care and thought of Concord people. [Illustration: Garden at Avonwood Court, Haverford, Pennsylvania, Country-seat of Charles E. Mather, Esq.] We have older Italian gardens. Some of them are of great loveliness, among them the unique and dignified garden of Hollis H. Hunnewell, Esq., but many of the newer ones, even in their few summers, have become of surprising grace and beauty, and their exquisite promise causes a glow of delight to every garden lover. I have often tried to analyze and account for the great charm of a formal garden, to one who loves so well the unrestrained and lavished blossoming of a flower border crowded with nature-arranged and disarranged blooms. A chance sentence in the letter of a flower-loving friend, one whose refined taste is an inherent portion of her nature, runs thus:-- "I have the same love, the same sense of perfect satisfaction, in the old formal garden that I have in the sonnet in poetry, in the Greek drama as contrasted with the modern drama; something within me is ever drawn toward that which is restrained and classic." In these few words, then, is defined the charm of the formal garden--a well-ordered, a classic restraint. [Illustration: Garden at Drumthwacket, Princeton, New Jersey.] Some of the new formal gardens seem imperfect in design and inadequate in execution; worse still, they are unsuited to their surroundings; but gracious nature will give even to these many charms of color, fragrance, and shape through lavish plant growth. I have had given to me sets of beautiful photographs of these new Italian gardens, which I long to include with my pictures of older flower beds; but I cannot do so in full in a book on Old-time Gardens, though they are copied from far older gardens than our American ones. I give throughout my book occasional glimpses of detail in modern formal gardens; and two examples may be fitly illustrated and described in comparative fulness in this book, because they are not only unusual in their beauty and promise, but because they have in plan and execution some bearing on my special presentation of gardens. These two are the gardens of Avonwood Court in Haverford, Pennsylvania, the country-seat of Charles E. Mather, Esq., of Philadelphia; and of Yaddo, in Saratoga, New York, the country-seat of Spencer Trask, Esq., of New York. [Illustration: Sun-dial at Avonwood Court, Haverford, Pennsylvania.] The garden at Avonwood Court was designed and laid out in 1896 by Mr. Percy Ash. The flower planting was done by Mr. John Cope; and the garden is delightsome in proportions, contour, and aspect. Its claim to illustrative description in this book lies in the fact that it is planted chiefly with old-fashioned flowers, and its beds are laid out and bordered with thriving Box in a truly old-time mode. It affords a striking example of the beauty and satisfaction that can come from the use of Box as an edging, and old-time flowers as a filling of these beds. Among the two hundred different plants are great rows of yellow Day Lilies shown in the view facing page 76; regular plantings of Peonies; borders of Flower de Luce; banks of Lilies of the Valley; rows of white Fraxinella and Lupine, beds of fringed Poppies, sentinels of Yucca--scores of old favorites have grown and thriven in the cheery manner they ever display when they are welcome and beloved. The sun-dial in this garden is shown facing page 82; it was designed by Mr. Percy Ash, and can be regarded as a model of simple outlines, good proportions, careful placing, and symmetrical setting. By placing I mean that it is in the right site in relation to the surrounding flower beds, and to the general outlines of the garden; it is a dignified and significant garden centre. By setting I mean its being raised to proper prominence in the garden scheme, by being placed at the top of a platform formed of three circular steps of ample proportion and suitable height, that its pedestal is also of the right size and not so high but one can, when standing on the top step, read with ease the dial's response to our question, "What's the time o' the day?" The hedges and walls of Honeysuckle, Roses, and other flowering vines that surround this garden have thriven wonderfully in the five years of the garden's life, and look like settings of many years. The simple but graceful wall seat gives some idea of the symmetrical and simple garden furnishings, as well as the profusion of climbing vines that form the garden's boundaries. [Illustration: Entrance Porch and Gate to the Rose Garden at Yaddo.] This book bears on the title-page a redrawing of a charming old woodcut of the eighteenth century, a very good example of the art thought and art execution of that day, being the work of a skilful designer. It is from an old stilted treatise on orchards and gardens, and it depicts a cheerful little Love, with anxious face and painstaking care, measuring and laying out the surface of the earth in a garden. On his either side are old clipped Yews; and at his feet a spade and pots of garden flowers, among them the Fritillary so beloved of all flower lovers and herbalists of that day, a significant flower--a flower of meaning and mystery. This drawing may be taken as an old-time emblem, and a happy one, to symbolize the making of the beautiful modern Rose Garden at Yaddo; where Love, with tenderest thought, has laid out the face of the earth in an exquisite garden of Roses, for the happiness and recreation of a dearly loved wife. The noble entrance gate and porch of this Rose Garden formed a happy surprise to the garden's mistress when unveiled at the dedication of the garden. They are depicted on page 81, and there may be read the inscription which tells in a few well-chosen words the story of the inspiration of the garden; but "between the lines," to those who know the Rose Garden and its makers, the inscription speaks with even deeper meaning the story of a home whose beauty is only equalled by the garden's spirit. To all such readers the Rose Garden becomes a fitting expression of the life of those who own it and care for it. This quality of expression, of significance, may be seen in many a smaller and simpler garden, even in a tiny cottage plot; you can perceive, through the care bestowed upon it, and its responsive blossoming, a _something_ which shows the life of the garden owners; you know that they are thoughtful, kindly, beauty-loving, home-loving. [Illustration: Pergola and Terrace Walk in Rose Garden at Yaddo.] Behind the beautiful pergola of the Yaddo garden, set thickly with Crimson Rambler, a screenlike row of poplars divides the Rose Garden from a luxuriant Rock Garden, and an Old-fashioned Garden of large extent, extraordinary profusion, and many years' growth. Perhaps the latter-named garden might seem more suited to my pages, since it is more advanced in growth and apparently more akin to my subject; but I wish to write specially of the Rose Garden, because it is an unusual example of what can be accomplished without aid of architect or landscape gardener, when good taste, careful thought, attention to detail, a love of flowers, and _intent to attain perfection_ guide the garden's makers. It is happily placed in a country of most charming topography, but it must not be thought that the garden shaped itself; its beautiful proportions, contour, and shape were carefully studied out and brought to the present perfection by the same force that is felt in the garden's smallest detail, the power of Love. The Rose Garden is unusually large for a formal garden; with its vistas and walks, the connected Daffodil Dell, and the Rock Garden, it fills about ten acres. But the estate is over eight hundred acres, and the house very large in ground extent, so the garden seems well-proportioned. This Rose Garden has an unusual attraction in the personal interest of every detail, such as is found in few American gardens of great size, and indeed in few English gardens. The gardens of the Countess Warwick, at Easton Lodge, in Essex, possess the same charm, a personal meaning and significance in the statues and fountains, and even in the planting of flower borders. The illustration on page 83 depicts the general shape of the Yaddo Rose Garden, as seen from the upper terrace; but it does not show how the garden stretches down the fine marble steps, past the marble figures of Diana and Paris, and along the paths of standard Roses, past the shallow fountain which is not so large as to obscure what speaks the garden's story, the statue of Christalan, that grand creation in one of Mrs. Trask's idyls, _Under King Constantine_. This heroic figure, showing to full extent the genius of the sculptor, William Ordway Partridge, also figures the genius of the poet-creator, and is of an inexpressible and impressive nobility. With hand and arm held to heaven, Christalan shows against the background of rich evergreens as the true knight of this garden of sentiment and chivalry. [Illustration: Statue of Christalan in Rose Garden at Yaddo.] "The sunlight slanting westward through the trees Fell first upon his lifted, golden head, Making a shining helmet of his curls, And then upon the Lilies in his hand. His eyes had a defiant, fearless glow; Against the sombre background of the wood He looked scarce human." The larger and more impressive fountain at Yaddo is shown on these pages. It is one hundred feet long and seventy feet wide, and is in front of the house, to the east. Its marble figures signify the Dawn; it will be noted that on this site its beauties show against a suited and ample background, and its grand proportions are not permitted to obscure the fine statue of Christalan from the view of those seated on the terrace or walking under the shade of the pergola. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Rose Garden at Yaddo.] Especially beautiful is the sun-dial on the upper terrace, shown on page 86. The metal dial face is supported by a marble slab resting on two carved standards of classic design representing conventionalized lions, these being copies of those two splendid standards unearthed at Pompeii, which still may be seen by the side of the impluvium in the atrium or main hall of the finest Græco-Roman dwelling-place which has been restored in that wonderful city. These sun-dial standards at Yaddo were made by the permission and under the supervision of the Italian government. I can conceive nothing more fitting or more inspiring to the imagination than that, telling as they do the story of the splendor of ancient Pompeii and of the passing centuries, they should now uphold to our sight a sun-dial as if to bid us note the flight of time and the vastness of the past. [Illustration: Bronze Face of Dial in Rose Garden at Yaddo.] The entire sun-dial, with its beautiful adjuncts of carefully shaped marble seats, stands on a semicircular plaza of marble at the head of the noble flight of marble steps. The engraved metal dial face bears two exquisite verses--the gift of one poet to another--of Dr. Henry Van Dyke to the garden's mistress, Katrina Trask. These dial mottoes are unusual, and perfect examples of that genius which with a few words can shape a lasting gem of our English tongue. At the edge of the dial face is this motto: "Hours fly, Flowers die, New Days, New Ways, Pass by; Love stays." At the base of the gnomon is the second motto:-- Time is Too Slow for those who Wait, Too Swift for those who Fear, Too Long for those who Grieve, Too Short for those who Rejoice; But for those who Love, Time is Eternity. I have for years been a student of sun-dial lore, a collector of sun-dial mottoes and inscriptions, of which I have many hundreds. I know nowhere, either in English, on English or Scotch sun-dials, or in the Continental tongues, any such exquisite dial legends as these two--so slight of form, so simple in wording, so pure in diction, yet of sentiment, of thought, how full! how impressive! They stamp themselves forever on the memory as beautiful examples of what James Russell Lowell called verbal magic; that wonderful quality which comes, neither from chosen words, nor from their careful combination into sentences, but from something which is as inexplicable in its nature as it is in its charm. [Illustration: Ancient Pine in Garden at Yaddo.] To tree lovers the gardens and grounds at Yaddo have glorious charms in their splendid trees; but one can be depicted here--the grand native Pine, over eight feet in diameter, which, with other stately sentinels of its race, stands a sombrely beautiful guard over all this loveliness. CHAPTER IV BOX EDGINGS "They walked over the crackling leaves in the garden, between the lines of Box, breathing its fragrance of eternity; for this is one of the odors which carry us out of time into the abysses of the unbeginning past; if we ever lived on another ball of stone than this, it must be that there was Box growing on it." --_Elsie Venner_, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 1861. To many of us, besides Dr. Holmes, the unique aroma of the Box, cleanly bitter in scent as in taste, is redolent of the eternal past; it is almost hypnotic in its effect. This strange power is not felt by all, nor is it a present sensitory influence; it is an hereditary memory, half-known by many, but fixed in its intensity in those of New England birth and descent, true children of the Puritans; to such ones the Box breathes out the very atmosphere of New England's past. I cannot see in clear outline those prim gardens of centuries ago, nor the faces of those who walked and worked therein; but I know, as I stroll to-day between our old Box-edged borders, and inhale the beloved bitterness of fragrance, and gather a stiff sprig of the beautiful glossy leaves, that in truth the garden lovers and garden workers of other days walk beside me, though unseen and unheard. About thirty years ago a bright young Yankee girl went to the island of Cuba as a governess to the family of a sugar planter. It was regarded as a somewhat perilous adventure by her home-staying folk, and their apprehensions of ill were realized in her death there five years later. This was not, however, all that happened to her. The planter's wife had died in this interval of time, and she had been married to the widower. A daughter had been born, who, after her mother's death, was reared in the Southern island, in Cuban ways, having scant and formal communication with her New England kin. When this girl was twenty years old, she came to the little Massachusetts town where her mother had been reared, and met there a group of widowed and maiden aunts, and great-aunts. After sitting for a time in her mother's room in the old home, the reserve which often exists between those of the same race who should be friends but whose lives have been widely apart, and who can never have more than a passing sight of each other, made them in semi-embarrassment and lack of resources of mutual interest walk out into the garden. As they passed down the path between high lines of Box, the girl suddenly stopped, looked in terror at the gate, and screamed out in fright, "The dog, the dog, save me, he will kill me!" _No dog was there_, but on that very spot, between those Box hedges, thirty years before, her mother had been attacked and bitten by an enraged dog, to the distress and apprehension of the aunts, who all recalled the occurrence, as they reassured the fainting and bewildered girl. She, of course, had never known aught of this till she was told it by the old Box. [Illustration: House and Garden at Napanock. County Ulster, New York.] Many other instances of the hypnotic effect of Box are known, and also of its strong influence on the mind through memory. I know of a man who travelled a thousand miles to renew acquaintance and propose marriage to an old sweetheart, whom he had not seen and scarcely thought of for years, having been induced to this act wholly through memories of her, awakened by a chance stroll in an old Box-edged garden such as those of his youth; at the gate of one of which he had often lingered, after walking home with her from singing-school. I ought to be able to add that the twain were married as a result of this sentimental memory-awakening through the old Box; but, in truth, they never came very close to matrimony. For when he saw her he remained absolutely silent on the subject of marriage; the fickle creature forgot the Box scent and the singing-school, while she openly expressed to her friends her surprise at his aged appearance, and her pity for his dulness. For the sense of sight is more powerful than that of smell, and the Box might prove a master hand at hinting, but it failed utterly in permanent influence. Those who have not loved the Box for centuries in the persons and with the partial noses of their Puritan forbears, complain of its curious scent, say, like Polly Peacham, that "they can't abear it," and declare that it brings ever the thought of old graveyards. I have never seen Box in ancient burying-grounds, they were usually too neglected to be thus planted; but it was given a limited space in the cemeteries of the middle of this century. Even those borders have now generally been dug up to give place to granite copings. The scent of Box has been aptly worded by Gabriel d'Annunzio, in his _Virgin of the Rocks_, in his description of a neglected garden. He calls it a "bitter sweet odor," and he notes its influence in making his wanderers in this garden "reconstruct some memory of their far-off childhood." The old Jesuit poet Rapin writing in the seventeenth century tells a fanciful tale that-- "Gardens of old, nor Art, nor Rules obey'd, But unadorn'd, or wild Neglect betray'd;" that Flora's hair hung undressed, neglected "in artless tresses," until in pity another nymph "around her head wreath'd a Boxen Bough" from the fields; which so improved her beauty that trim edgings were placed ever after--"where flowers disordered once at random grew." He then describes the various figures of Box, the way to plant it, its disadvantages, and the associate flowers that should be set with it, all in stilted verse. Queen Anne was a royal enemy of Box. By her order many of the famous Box hedges at Hampton Court were destroyed; by her example, many old Box-edged gardens throughout England were rooted up. There are manifold objections raised to Box besides the dislike of its distinctive odor: heavy edgings and hedges of Box "take away the heart of the ground" and flowers pine within Box-edged borders; the roots of Box on the inside of the flower knot or bed, therefore, have to be cut and pulled out in order to leave the earth free for flower roots. It is also alleged that Box harbors slugs--and I fear it does. [Illustration: Box Parterre at Hampton.] We are told that it is not well to plant Box edgings in our gardens, because Box is so frail, is so easily winter-killed, that it dies down in ugly fashion. Yet see what great trees it forms, even when untrimmed, as in the Prince Garden (page 31). It is true that Box does not always flourish in the precise shape you wish, but it has nevertheless a wonderfully tenacious hold on life. I know nothing more suggestive of persistence and of sad sentiment than the view often seen in forlorn city enclosures, as you drive past, or rush by in an electric car, of an aged bush of Box, or a few feet of old Box hedge growing in the beaten earth of a squalid back yard, surrounded by dirty tenement houses. Once a fair garden there grew; the turf and flowers and trees are vanished; but spared through accident, or because deemed so valueless, the Box still lives. Even in Washington and other Southern cities, where the negro population eagerly gather Box at Christmas-tide, you will see these forlorn relics of the garden still growing, and their bitter fragrance rises above the vile odors of the crowded slums. Box formed an important feature of the garden of Pliny's favorite villa in Tuscany, which he described in his letter to Apollinaris. How I should have loved its formal beauty! On the southern front a terrace was bordered with a Box hedge and "embellished with various figures in Box, the representation of divers animals." Beyond was a circus formed around by ranges of Box rising in walls of varied heights. The middle of this circus was ornamented with figures of Box. On one side was a hippodrome set with a plantation of Box trees backed with Plane trees; thence ran a straight walk divided by Box hedges into alleys. Thus expanses were enclosed, one of which held a beautiful meadow, another had "knots of Plane tree," another was "set with Box a thousand different forms." Some of these were letters expressing the name of the owner of all this extravagance; or the initials of various fair Roman dames, a very gallant pleasantry of young Pliny. Both Plane tree and Box tree of such ancient gardens were by tradition nourished with wine instead of water. Initials of Box may be seen to-day in English gardens, and heraldic devices. French gardens vied with English gardens in curious patterns in Box. The garden of Versailles during the reign of Louis XIV. had a stag chase, in clipped Box, with greyhounds in chase. Globes, pyramids, tubes, cylinders, cones, arches, and other shapes were cut in Box as they were in Yew. A very pretty conceit in Box was-- "Horizontal dials on the ground In living Box by cunning artists traced." Reference is frequent enough to these dials of Box to show that they were not uncommon in fine old English gardens. There were sun-dials either of Box or Thrift, in the gardens of colleges both at Oxford and Cambridge, as may be seen in Loggan's _Views_. Two modern ones are shown; one, on page 98, is in the garden of Lady Lennox, at Broughton Castle, Banbury, England. Another of exceptionally fine growth and trim perfection in the garden at Ascott, the seat of Mr. Leopold de Rothschild (opposite page 100.) These are curious rather than beautiful, but display well that quality given in the poet's term "the tonsile Box." [Illustration: Sun-dial in Box at Broughton Castle.] Writing of a similar sun-dial, Lady Warwick says:-- "Never was such a perfect timekeeper as my sun-dial, and the figures which record the hours are all cut out and trimmed in Box, and there again on its outer ring is a legend which read in whatever way you please: Les heures heureuses ne se comptent pas. They were outlined for me, those words, in baby sprigs of Box by a friend who is no more, who loved my garden and was good to it." Box hedges were much esteemed in England--so says Parkinson, to dry linen on, affording the raised expanse and even surface so much desired. It can always be noted in all domestic records of early days that the vast washing of linen and clothing was one of the great events of the year. Sometimes, in households of plentiful supply, these washings were done but once a year; in other homes, semi-annually. The drying and bleaching linen was an unceasing attraction to rascals like Autolycus, who had a "pugging tooth"--that is, a prigging tooth. These linen thieves had a special name, they were called "prygmen"; they wandered through the country on various pretexts, men and their doxies, and were the bane of English housewives. The Box hedges were also in constant use to hold the bleaching webs of homespun and woven flaxen and hempen stuff, which were often exposed for weeks in the dew and sunlight. In 1710 a reason given for the disuse and destruction of "quicksetted arbors and hedges" was that they "agreed very ill with the ladies' muslins." Box was of little value in the apothecary shop, was seldom used in medicine. Parkinson said that the leaves and dust of boxwood "boyld in lye" would make hair to be "of an Aborne or Abraham color"--that is, auburn. This was a very primitive hair dye, but it must have been a powerful one. Boxwood was a firm, beautiful wood, used to make tablets for inscriptions of note. The mottled wood near the root was called dudgeon. Holland's translation of Pliny says, "The Box tree seldome hath any grain crisped damaske-wise, and never but about the root, the which is dudgin." From its esteemed use for dagger hilts came the word dudgeon-dagger, and the terms "drawn-dudgeon" and "high-dudgeon," meaning offence or discord. I plead for the Box, not for its fragrance, for you may not be so fortunate as to have a Puritan sense of smell, nor for its weird influence, for that is intangible; but because it is the most becoming of all edgings to our garden borders of old-time flowers. The clear compact green of its shining leaves, the trim distinctness of its clipped lines, the attributes that made Pope term it the "shapely Box," make it the best of all foils for the varied tints of foliage, the many colors of bloom, and the careless grace in growth of the flowers within the border. Box edgings are pleasant, too, in winter, showing in grateful relief against the tiresome monotony of the snow expanse. And they bear sometimes a crown of lightest snow wreaths, which seem like a white blossoming in promise of the beauties of the border in the coming summer. Pick a bit of this winter Box, even with the mercury below zero. Lo! you have a breath of the hot dryness of the midsummer garden. Box grows to great size, even twenty feet in height. In Southern gardens, where it is seldom winter-killed, it is often of noble proportions. In the lovely garden of Martha Washington at Mount Vernon the Box is still preserved in the beauty and interest of its original form. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Box at Ascott.] The Box edgings and hedges of many other Southern gardens still are in good condition; those of the old Preston homestead at Columbia, South Carolina (shown on pages 15 and 18, and facing page 54), owe their preservation during the Civil War to the fact that the house was then the refuge of a sisterhood of nuns. The Ridgely estate, Hampton, in County Baltimore, Maryland, has a formal garden in which the perfection of the Box is a delight. The will of Captain Charles Ridgely, in 1787, made an appropriation of money and land for this garden. The high terrace which overlooks the garden and the shallow ones which break the southern slope and mark the boundaries of each parterre are fine examples of landscape art, and are said to be the work of Major Chase Barney, a famous military engineer. By 1829 the garden was an object of beauty and much renown. A part only of the original parterre remains, but the more modern flower borders, through the unusual perspective and contour of the garden, do not clash with the old Box-edged beds. These edgings were reset in 1870, and are always kept very closely cut. The circular domes of clipped box arise from stems at least a hundred years old. The design of the parterre is so satisfactory that I give three views of it in order to show it fully. (See pages 57, 60, and 95.) A Box-edged garden of much beauty and large extent existed for some years in the grounds connected with the County Jail in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. It was laid out by the wife of the warden, aided by the manual labor of convicted prisoners, with her earnest hope that working among flowers would have a benefiting and softening influence on these criminals. She writes rather dubiously: "They all enjoyed being out of doors with their pipes, whether among the flowers or the vegetables; and no attempt at escape was ever made by any of them while in the comparative freedom of the flower-garden." She planted and marked distinctly in this garden over seven hundred groups of annuals and hardy perennials, hoping the men would care to learn the names of the flowers, and through that knowledge, and their practise in the care of Box edgings and hedges, be able to obtain positions as under-gardeners when their terms of imprisonment expired. The garden at Tudor Place, the home of Mrs. Beverley Kennon (page 103), displays fine Box; and the garden of the poet Longfellow which is said to have been laid out after the Box-edged parterres at Versailles. Throughout this book are scattered several good examples of Box from Salem and other towns; in a sweet, old garden on Kingston Hill, Rhode Island (page 104) the flower-beds are anchor-shaped. In favorable climates Box edgings may grow in such vigor as to entirely fill the garden beds. An example of this is given on page 105, showing the garden at Tuckahoe. The beds were laid out over a large space of ground in a beautiful design, which still may be faintly seen by examining the dark expanse beside the house, which is now almost solid Box. The great hedges by the avenue are also Box; between similar ones at Upton Court in Camden, South Carolina, riders on horseback cannot be seen nor see over it. New England towns seldom show such growth of Box; but in Hingham, Massachusetts, at the home of Mrs. Robbins, author of that charming book, _The Rescue of an Old Place_, there is a Box bower, with walls of Box fifteen feet in height. These walls were originally the edgings of a flower bed on the "Old Place." Read Dr. John Brown's charming account of the Box bower of the "Queen's Maries." [Illustration: Garden at Tudor Place.] Box grows on Long Island with great vigor. At Brecknock Hall, the family residence of Mrs. Albert Delafield at Greenport, Long Island, the hedges of plain and variegated Box are unusually fine, and the paths are well laid out. Some of them are entirely covered by the closing together of the two hedges which are often six or seven feet in height. [Illustration: Anchor-shaped Flower-beds. Kingston, Rhode Island.] In spite of the constant assertion of the winter-killing of Box in the North, the oldest Box in the country is that at Sylvester Manor, Shelter Island, New York. The estate is now owned by the tenth mistress of the manor, Miss Cornelia Horsford; the first mistress of the manor, Grissel Sylvester, who had been Grissel Gardiner, came there in 1652. It is told, and is doubtless true, that she brought there the first Box plants, to make, in what was then a far-away island, a semblance of her home garden. It is said that this Box was thriving in Madam Sylvester's garden when George Fox preached there to the Indians. The oldest Box is fifteen or eighteen feet high; not so tall, I think, as the neglected Box at Vaucluse, the old Hazard place near Newport, but far more massive and thrifty and shapely. Box needs unusual care and judgment, an instinct almost, for the removal of certain portions. It sends out tiny rootlets at the joints of the sprays, and these grow readily. The largest and oldest Box bushes at Sylvester Manor garden are a study in their strong, hearty stems, their perfect foliage, their symmetry; they show their care of centuries. [Illustration: Ancient Box at Tuckahoe.] The delightful Box-edged flower beds were laid out in their present form about seventy years ago by the grandfather of the present owner. There is a Lower Garden, a Terrace Garden, which are shown on succeeding pages, a Fountain Garden, a Rose Garden, a Water Garden; a bit of the latter is on page 75. In some portions of these gardens, especially on the upper terrace, the Box is so high, and set in such quaint and rambling figures, that it closely approaches an old English maze; and it was a pretty sight to behold a group of happy little children running in and out among these Box hedges that extended high over their heads, searching long and eagerly for the central bower where their little tea party was set. Over these old garden borders hangs literally an atmosphere of the past; the bitter perfume stimulates the imagination as we walk by the side of these splendid Box bushes, and think, as every one must, of what they have seen, of what they know; on this garden is written the history of over two centuries of beautiful domestic home life. It is well that we still have such memorials to teach us the nobility and beauty of such a life. CHAPTER V THE HERB GARDEN "To have nothing here but Sweet Herbs, and those only choice ones too, and every kind its bed by itself." --DESIDERIUS ERASMUS, 1500. In Montaigne's time it was the custom to dedicate special chapters of books to special persons. Were it so to-day, I should dedicate this chapter to the memory of a friend who has been constantly in my mind while writing it; for she formed in her beautiful garden, near our modern city, Chicago, the only perfect herb garden I know,--a garden that is the counterpart of the garden of Erasmus, made four centuries ago; for in it are "nothing but Sweet Herbs, and choice ones too, and every kind its bed by itself." A corner of it is shown on page 108. This herb garden is so well laid out that I will give directions therefrom for a bed of similar planting. It may be placed at the base of a grass bank or at the edge of a garden. Let two garden walks be laid out, one at the lower edge, perhaps, of the bank, the other parallel, ten, fifteen, twenty feet away. Let narrow paths be left at regular intervals running parallel from walk to walk, as do the rounds of a ladder from the two side bars. In the narrow oblong beds formed by these paths plant solid rows of herbs, each variety by itself, with no attempt at diversity of design. You can thus walk among them, and into them, and smell them in their concentrated strength, and you can gather them at ease. On the bank can be placed the creeping Thyme, and other low-running herbs. Medicinal shrubs should be the companions of the herbs; plant these as you will, according to their growth and habit, making them give variety of outline to the herb garden. [Illustration: Herb Garden at White Birches, Elmhurst, Illinois.] There are few persons who have a strong enough love of leaf scents, or interest in herbs, to make them willing to spend much time in working in an herb garden. The beauty and color of flowers would compensate them, but not the growth or scent of leafage. It is impossible to describe to one who does not feel by instinct "the lure of green things growing," the curious stimulation, the sense of intoxication, of delight, brought by working among such green-growing, sweet-scented things. The maker of this interesting garden felt this stimulation and delight; and at her city home on a bleak day in December we both revelled in holding and breathing in the scent of tiny sprays of Rue, Rosemary, and Balm which, still green, had been gathered from beneath fallen leaves and stalks in her country garden, as a tender and grateful attention of one herb lover to another. Thus did she prove Shakespeare's words true even on the shores of Lake Michigan:-- "Rosemary and Rue: these keep Seeming and savor all the winter long." There is ample sentiment in the homely inhabitants of the herb garden. The herb garden of the Countess of Warwick is called by her a Garden of Sentiment. Each plant is labelled with a pottery marker, swallow-shaped, bearing in ineradicable colors the flower name and its significance. Thus there is Balm for sympathy, Bay for glory, Foxglove for sincerity, Basil for hatred. A recent number of _The Garden_ deplored the dying out of herbs in old English gardens; so I think it may prove of interest to give the list of herbs and medicinal shrubs and trees which grew in this friend's herb garden in the new world across the sea. Arnica, Anise, Ambrosia, Agrimony, Aconite. Belladonna, Black Alder, Betony, Boneset or Thorough-wort, Sweet Basil, Bryony, Borage, Burnet, Butternut, Balm, _Melissa officinalis_, Balm (variegated), Bee-balm, or Oswego tea, mild, false, and true Bergamot, Burdock, Bloodroot, Black Cohosh, Barberry, Bittersweet, Butterfly-weed, Birch, Blackberry, Button-Snakeroot, Buttercup. Costmary, or Sweet Mary, Calamint, Choke-cherry, Comfrey, Coriander, Cumin, Catnip, Caraway, Chives, Castor-oil Bean, Colchicum, Cedronella, Camomile, Chicory, Cardinal-flower, Celandine, Cotton, Cranesbill, Cow-parsnip, High-bush Cranberry. Dogwood, Dutchman's-pipe, Dill, Dandelion, Dock, Dogbane. Elder, Elecampane, Slippery Elm. Sweet Fern, Fraxinella, Fennel, Flax, Fumitory, Fig, Sweet Flag, Blue Flag, Foxglove. Goldthread, Gentian, Goldenrod. Hellebore, Henbane, Hops, Horehound, Hyssop, Horseradish, Horse-chestnut, Hemlock, Small Hemlock or Fool's Parsley. American Ipecac, Indian Hemp, Poison Ivy, wild, false, and blue Indigo, wild yellow Indigo, wild white Indigo. Juniper, Joepye-weed. Lobelia, Lovage, Lavender Lemon Verbena, Lemon, Mountain Laurel, Yellow Lady's-slippers, Lily of the Valley, Liverwort, Wild Lettuce, Field Larkspur, Lungwort. Mosquito plant, Wild Mint, Motherwort, Mullein, Sweet Marjoram, Meadowsweet, Marshmallow, Mandrake, Mulberry, black and white Mustard, Mayweed, Mugwort, Marigold. Nigella. Opium Poppy, Orange, Oak. Pulsatilla, Pellitory or Pyrethrum, Red Pepper, Peppermint, Pennyroyal, False Pennyroyal, Pope-weed, Pine, Pigweed, Pumpkin, Parsley, Prince's-pine, Peony, Plantain. Rhubarb, Rue, Rosemary, Rosa gallica, Dog Rose. Sassafras, Saxifrage, Sweet Cicely, Sage (common blue), Sage (red), Summer Savory, Winter Savory, Santonin, Sweet Woodruff, Saffron, Spearmint, wild Sarsaparilla, Black Snakeroot, Squills, Senna, St.-John's-Wort, Sorrel, Spruce Fir, Self-heal, Southernwood. Thorn Apple, Tansy, Thyme, Tobacco, Tarragon. Valerian, Dogtooth Violet, Blue Violet. Witchhazel, Wormwood, Wintergreen, Willow, Walnut. Yarrow. [Illustration: Garden at White Birches. Elmhurst, Illinois.] It will be noted that some common herbs and medicinal plants are missing; there is, for instance, no Box; it will not live in that climate; and there are many other herbs which this garden held for a short time, but which succumbed under the fierce winter winds from Lake Michigan. It is interesting to compare this list with one made in rhyme three centuries ago, the garland of herbs of the nymph Lelipa in Drayton's _Muse's Elyzium_. "A chaplet then of Herbs I'll make Than which though yours be braver, Yet this of mine I'll undertake Shall not be short in savour. With Basil then I will begin, Whose scent is wondrous pleasing: This Eglantine I'll next put in The sense with sweetness seizing. Then in my Lavender I lay Muscado put among it, With here and there a leaf of Bay, Which still shall run along it. Germander, Marjoram and Thyme, Which uséd are for strewing; With Hyssop as an herb most prime Here in my wreath bestowing. Then Balm and Mint help to make up My chaplet, and for trial Costmary that so likes the Cup, And next it Pennyroyal. Then Burnet shall bear up with this, Whose leaf I greatly fancy; Some Camomile doth not amiss With Savory and some Tansy. Then here and there I'll put a sprig Of Rosemary into it, Thus not too Little nor too Big, 'Tis done if I can do it." [Illustration: Garden of Manning Homestead, Salem, Massachusetts.] Another name for the herb garden was the olitory; and the word herber, or herbar, would at first sight appear to be an herbarium, an herb garden; it was really an arbor. I have such satisfaction in herb gardens, and in the herbs themselves, and in all their uses, all their lore, that I am confirmed in my belief that I really care far less for Botany than for that old-time regard and study of plants covered by the significant name, Wort-cunning. Wort was a good old common English word, lost now in our use, save as the terminal syllable of certain plant-names; it is a pity we have given it up since its equivalent, herb, seems so variable in application, especially in that very trying expression of which we weary so of late--herbaceous border. This seems an architect's phrase rather than a florist's; you always find it on the plans of fine houses with gardens. To me it annihilates every possibility of sentiment, and it usually isn't correct, since many of the plants in these borders are woody perennials instead of annuals; any garden planting that is not "bedding-out" is wildly named "an herbaceous border." Herb gardens were no vanity and no luxury in our grandmothers' day; they were a necessity. To them every good housewife turned for nearly all that gave variety to her cooking, and to fill her domestic pharmacopoeia. The physician placed his chief reliance for supplies on herb gardens and the simples of the fields. An old author says, "Many an old wife or country woman doth often more good with a few known and common garden herbs, than our bombast physicians, with all their prodigious, sumptuous, far-fetched, rare, conjectural medicines." Doctor and goodwife both had a rival in the parson. The picture of the country parson and his wife given by old George Herbert was equally true of the New England minister and his wife:-- "In the knowledge of simples one thing would be carefully observed, which is to know what herbs may be used instead of drugs of the same nature, and to make the garden the shop; for home-bred medicines are both more easy for the parson's purse, and more familiar for all men's bodies. So when the apothecary useth either for loosing Rhubarb, or for binding Bolearmana, the parson useth damask or white Rose for the one, and Plantain, Shepherd's Purse, and Knot-grass for the other; and that with better success. As for spices, he doth not only prefer home-bred things before them, but condemns them for vanities, and so shuts them out of his family, esteeming that there is no spice comparable for herbs to Rosemary, Thyme, savory Mints, and for seeds to Fennel and Caraway. Accordingly, for salves, his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums." Simples were medicinal plants, so called because each of these vegetable growths was held to possess an individual virtue, to be an element, a simple substance constituting a single remedy. The noun was generally used in the plural. You must not think that sowing, gathering, drying, and saving these herbs and simples in any convenient or unstudied way was all that was necessary. Not at all; many and manifold were the rules just when to plant them, when to pick them, how to pick them, how to dry them, and even how to keep them. Gervayse Markham was very wise in herb lore, in the suited seasons of the moon, and hour of the day or night, for herb culling. In the garret of every old house, such as that of the Ward Homestead, shown on page 116, with the wreckage of house furniture, were hung bunches of herbs and simples, waiting for winter use. The still-room was wholly devoted to storing these herbs and manufacturing their products. This was the careful work of the house mistress and her daughters. It was not intrusted to servants. One book of instruction was entitled, _The Vertuouse Boke of Distyllacyon of the Waters of all Manner of Herbs_. Thomas Tusser wrote:-- "Good huswives provide, ere an sickness do come, Of sundrie good things in house to have some, Good aqua composita, vinegar tart, Rose water and treacle to comfort the heart, Good herbes in the garden for agues that burn, That over strong heat to good temper turn." [Illustration: Under the Garret Eaves of the Ward Homestead. Shrewsbury, Massachusetts.] Both still-room and simple-closet of a dame of the time of Queen Elizabeth or Queen Anne had crowded shelves. Many an herb and root, unused to-day, was deemed then of sovereign worth. From a manuscript receipt book I have taken names of ingredients, many of which are seldom, perhaps never, used now in medicine. Unripe Blackberries, Ivy berries, Eglantine berries, "Ashen Keys," Acorns, stones of Sloes, Parsley seed, Houseleeks, unripe Hazelnuts, Daisy roots, Strawberry "strings," Woodbine tops, the inner bark of Oak and of red Filberts, green "Broom Cod," White Thorn berries, Turnips, Barberry bark, Dates, Goldenrod, Gourd seed, Blue Lily roots, Parsnip seed, Asparagus roots, Peony roots. From herbs and simples were made, for internal use, liquid medicines such as wines and waters, syrups, juleps; and solids, such as conserves, confections, treacles, eclegms, tinctures. There were for external use, amulets, oils, ointments, liniments, plasters, cataplasms, salves, poultices; also sacculi, little bags of flowers, seeds, herbs, etc., and pomanders and posies. That a certain stimulus could be given to the brain by inhaling the scent of these herbs will not be doubted, I think, by the herb lover even of this century. In the _Haven of Health_, 1636, cures were promised by sleeping on herbs, smelling of them, binding the leaves on the forehead, and inhaling the vapors of their boiling or roasting. Mint was "a good Posie for Students to oft smell." Pennyroyal "quickened the brain by smelling oft." Basil cleared the wits, and so on. The use of herbs in medicine is far from being obsolete; and when we give them more stately names we swallow the same dose. Dandelion bitters is still used for diseases caused by an ill-working liver. Wintergreen, which was universally made into tea or oil for rheumatism, appears now in prescriptions for the same disease under the name of Gaultheria. Peppermint, once a sovereign cure for heartburn and "nuralogy," serves us decked with the title of Menthol. "Saffern-tea" never has lost its good standing as a cure for the "jarnders." In country communities scores of old herbs and simples are used in vast amounts; and in every village is some aged man or woman wise in gathering, distilling, and compounding these "potent and parable medicines," to use Cotton Mather's words. One of these gatherers of simples is shown opposite page 120, a quaint old figure, seen afar as we drive through country by-roads, as she bends over some dense clump of weeds in distant meadow or pasture. In our large city markets bunches of sweet herbs are still sold; and within a year I have seen men passing my city home selling great bunches of Catnip and Mint, in the spring, and dried Sage, Marjoram, and other herbs in the autumn. In one case I noted that it was the same man, unmistakably a real countryman, whom I had noted selling quail on the street, when he had about forty as fine quail as I ever saw. I never saw him sell quail, nor herbs. I think his customers are probably all foreigners--emigrants from continental Europe, chiefly Poles and Italians. The use of herbs as component parts of love philters and charms is a most ancient custom, and lingered into the nineteenth century in country communities. I knew but one case of the manufacture and administering of a love philter, and it was by a person to whom such an action would seem utterly incongruous. A very gentle, retiring girl in a New England town eighty years ago was deeply in love with the minister whose church she attended, and of which her father was the deacon. The parson was a widower, nearly of middle age, and exceedingly sombre and reserved in character--saddened, doubtless, by the loss of his two young children and his wife through that scourge of New England, consumption; but he was very handsome, and even his sadness had its charm. His house, had burned down as an additional misfortune, and he lived in lodgings with two elderly women of his congregation. Therefore church meetings and various gatherings of committees were held at the deacon's house, and the deacon's daughter saw him day after day, and grew more desperately in love. Desperate certainly she was when she dared even to think of giving a love philter to a minister. The recipe was clearly printed on the last page of an old dream book; and she carried it out in every detail. It was easy to introduce it into the mug of flip which was always brewed for the meeting, and the parson drank it down abstractedly, thinking that it seemed more bitter than usual, but showing no sign of this thought. The philter was promised to have effect in making the drinker love profoundly the first person of opposite sex whom he or she saw after drinking it; and of course the minister saw Hannah as she stood waiting for his empty tankard. The dull details of parish work were talked over in the usual dragging way for half an hour, when the minister became conscious of an intense coldness which seemed to benumb him in every limb; and he tried to walk to the fireplace. Suddenly all in the room became aware that he was very ill, and one called out, "He's got a stroke." Luckily the town doctor was also a deacon, and was therefore present; and he promptly said, "He's poisoned," and hot water from the teakettle, whites of eggs, mustard, and other domestic antidotes were administered with promptitude and effect. It is useless to detail the days of agony to the wretched girl, during which the sick man wavered between life and death, nor her devoted care of him. Soon after his recovery he solemnly proposed marriage to her, and was refused. But he never wavered in his love for her; and every year he renewed his offer and told his wishes, to be met ever with a cold refusal, until ten years had passed; when into his brain there entered a perception that her refusal had some extraordinary element in it. Then, with a warmth of determination worthy a younger man, he demanded an explanation, and received a confession of the poisonous love philter. I suppose time had softened the memory of his suffering, at any rate they were married--so the promise of the love charm came true, after all. [Illustration: A Gatherer of Simples.] Amos Bronson Alcott was another author of Concord, a sweet philosopher whom I shall ever remember with deepest gratitude as the only person who in my early youth ever imagined any literary capacity in me (and in that he was sadly mistaken, for he fancied I would be a poet). I have read very faithfully all his printed writings, trying to believe him a great man, a seer; but I cannot, in spite of my gratitude for his flattering though unfulfilled prophecy, discover in his books any profound signs of depth or novelty of thought. In his _Tablets_ are some very pleasant, if not surprisingly wise, essays on domestic subjects; one, on "Sweet Herbs," tells cheerfully of the womanly care of the herb garden, but shows that, when written--about 1850--borders of herbs were growing infrequent. One great delight of old English gardens is never afforded us in New England; we do not grow Lavender beds. I have of course seen single plants of Lavender, so easily winter-killed, but I never have seen a Lavender bed, nor do I know of one. It is a great loss. A bed or hedge of Lavender is pleasing in the same way that the dress of a Quaker lady is pleasing; it is reposeful, refined. It has a soft effect at the edge of a garden, like a blue-gray haze, and always reminds me of doves. The power of association or some inherent quality of the plant, makes Lavender always suggest freshness and cleanliness. We may linger a little with a few of these old herb favorites. One of the most balmy and beautiful of all the sweet breaths borne by leaves or blossoms is that of Basil, which, alas! I see so seldom. I have always loved it, and can never pass it without pressing its leaves in my hand; and I cannot express the satisfaction, the triumph, with which I read these light-giving lines of old Thomas Tusser, which showed me why I loved it:-- "Faire Basil desireth it may be hir lot To growe as the gilly flower trim in a pot That Ladies and Gentils whom she doth serve May help hir as needeth life to preserve." An explanation of this rhyme is given by _Tusser Redivivus_: "Most people stroak Garden Basil which leaves a grateful smell on the hand and he will have it that Stroaking from a fair lady preserves the life of the Basil." This is a striking example of floral telepathy; you know what the Basil wishes, and the Basil knows and craves your affection, and repays your caress with her perfume and growth. It is a case of mutual attraction; and I beg the "Gentle Reader" never to pass a pot or plant of Basil without "stroaking" it; that it may grow and multiply and forever retain its relations with fair women, as a type of the purest, the most clinging, and grateful love. One amusing use of Basil (as given in one of my daughter's old Herbals) was intended to check obesity:-- "TO MAKE THAT A WOMAN SHALL EAT OF NOTHING THAT IS SET UPON THE TABLE:--Take a little green Basil, and when Men bring the Dishes to the Table put it underneath them that the Woman perceive it not; so Men say that she will eat of none of that which is in the Dish whereunder the Basil lieth." I cannot understand why so sinister an association was given to a pot of Basil by Boccaccio, who makes the unhappy Isabella conceal the head of her murdered lover in a flower pot under a plant of Basil; for in Italy Basil is ever a plant of love, not of jealousy or crime. One of its common names is _Bacia, Nicola_--Kiss me, Nicholas. Peasant girls always place Basil in their hair when they go to meet their sweethearts, and an offered sprig of Basil is a love declaration. It is believed that Boccaccio obtained this tale from some tradition of ancient Greece, where Basil is a symbol of hatred and despair. The figure of poverty was there associated with a Basil plant as with rags. It had to be sown with abuse, with cursing and railing, else it would not flourish. In India its sanctity is above all other herbs. A pious Indian has at death a leaf of Basil placed in his bosom as his reward. The house surrounded by Basil is blessed, and all who cherish the plant are sure of heaven. Mithridate was a favorite medicine of our Puritan ancestors; there were various elaborate compound rules for its manufacture, in which Rue always took a part. It was simple enough in the beginning, when King Mithridates invented it as an antidote against poison: twenty leaves of Rue pounded with two Figs, two dried Walnuts and a grain of salt; which receipt may be taken _cum grano salis_. Rue also entered into the composition of the famous "Vinegar of the Four Thieves." These four rascals, at the time of the Plague in Marseilles, invented this vinegar, and, protected by its power, entered infected houses and carried away property without taking the disease. Rue had innumerable virtues. Pliny says eighty-four remedies were made of it. It was of special use in case of venomous bites, and to counteract "Head-Ach" from over indulgence in wine, especially if a little Sage were added. It promoted love in man and diminished it in woman; it was good for the ear-ache, eye-ache, stomach-ache, leg-ache, back-ache; good for an ague, good for a surfeit; indeed, it would seem wise to make Rue a daily article of food and thus insure perpetual good health. The scent of Rue seems never dying. A sprig of it was given me by a friend, and it chanced to lie for a single night on the sheets of paper upon which this chapter is written. The scent has never left them, and indeed the odor of Rue hangs literally around this whole book. Summer Savory and Sweet Marjoram are rarely employed now in American cooking. They are still found in my kitchen, and are used in scant amount as a flavoring for stuffing of fowl. Many who taste and like the result know not the old-fashioned materials used to produce that flavor, and "of the younger sort" the names even are wholly unrecognized. Sage is almost the only plant of the English kitchen garden which is ordinarily grown in America. I like its fresh grayness in the garden. In the days of our friend John Gerarde, the beloved old herbalist, there was no fixed botanical nomenclature; but he scarcely needed botanical terms, for he had a most felicitous and dextrous use of words. "Sage hath broad leaves, long, wrinkled, rough, and whitish, like in roughness to woollen cloth threadbare." What a description! it is far more vivid than the picture here shown. Sage has never lost its established place as a flavoring for the stuffing for ducks, geese, and for sausages; but its universal employment as a flavoring for Sage cheese is nearly obsolete. In my childhood home, we always had Sage cheese with other cheeses; it was believed to be an aid in digestion. I had forgotten its taste; and I must say I didn't like it when I ate it last summer, in New Hampshire. [Illustration: Our Friend, John Gerarde.] Tansy was highly esteemed in England as a medicine, a cosmetic, and a flavoring and ingredient in cooking. It was rubbed over raw meat to keep the flies away and prevent decay, for in those days of no refrigerators there had to be strong measures taken for the preservation of all perishable food. Its strong scent and taste would be deemed intolerable to us, who can scarce endure even the milder Sage in any large quantity. A good folk name for it is "Bitter Buttons." Gerarde wrote of Tansy, "In the spring time, are made with the leaves hereof newly sprung up, and with Eggs, cakes or Tansies, which be pleasant in Taste and goode for the Stomach." [Illustration: Sage.] "To Make a Tansie the Best Way," I learn from _The Accomplisht Cook_, was thus:-- "Take twenty Eggs, and take away five whites, strain them with a quart of good sweet thick Cream, and put to it a grated nutmeg, a race of ginger grated, as much cinnamon beaten fine, and a penny white loaf grated also, mix them all together with a little salt, then stamp some green wheat with some tansie herbs, strain it into the cream and eggs and stir all together; then take a clean frying-pan, and a quarter of a pound of butter, melt it, and put in the tansie, and stir it continually over the fire with a slice, ladle, or saucer, chop it, and break it as it thickens, and being well incorporated put it out of the pan into a dish, and chop it very fine; then make the frying-pan very clean, and put in some more butter, melt it, and fry it whole or in spoonfuls; being finely fried on both sides, dish it up and sprinkle it with rose-vinegar, grape-verjuyce, elder-vinegar, cowslip-vinegar, or the juyce of three or four oranges, and strow on a good store of fine sugar." To all of this we can say that it would certainly be a very good dish--without the Tansy. Another mediæval recipe was of Tansy, Feverfew, Parsley, and Violets mixed with eggs, fried in butter, and sprinkled with sugar. The Minnow-Tansie of old Izaak Walton, a "Tanzie for Lent," was made thus:-- "Being well washed with salt and cleaned, and their heads and tails cut off, and not washed after, they prove excellent for that use; that is being fried with the yolks of eggs, the flowers of cowslips and of primroses, and a little tansy, thus used they make a dainty dish." The name Tansy was given afterward to a rich fruit cake which had no Tansy in it. It was apparently a favorite dish of Pepys. A certain derivative custom obtained in some New England towns--certainly in Hartford and vicinity. Tansy was used to flavor the Fast Day pudding. One old lady recalls that it was truly a bitter food to the younger members of the family; Miss Shelton, in her entertaining book, _The Salt Box House_, tells of Tansy cakes, and says children did not dislike them. Tansy bitters were made of Tansy leaves placed in a bottle with New England rum. They were a favorite spring tonic, where all physicians and housewives prescribed "the bitter principle" in the spring time. No doubt Tansy was among the earliest plants brought over by the settlers; it was carefully cherished in the herb garden, then spread to the dooryard and then to farm lanes. As early as 1746 the traveller Kalm noted Tansy growing wild in hedges and along roads in Pennsylvania. Now it extends its sturdy growth for miles along the country road, one of the rankest of weeds. It still is used in the manufacture of proprietary medicines, and for this purpose is cut with a sickle in great armfuls and gathered in cartloads. I have always liked its scent; and its leaves, as Gerarde said, "infinitely jagged and nicked and curled"; and its cheerful little "bitter buttons" of gold. Some old flowers adapt themselves to modern conditions and look up-to-date; but to me the Tansy, wherever found, is as openly old-fashioned as a betty-lamp or a foot-stove. [Illustration: Tansy.] On July 1, 1846, an old grave was opened in the ancient "God's Acre" near the halls of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This grave was a brick vault covered with irregularly shaped flagstones about three inches thick. Over it was an ancient slab of peculiar stone, unlike any others in the cemetery save those over the graves of two presidents of the College, Rev. Dr. Chauncy and Dr. Oakes. As there were headstones near this slab inscribed with the names of the great-grandchildren of President Dunster, it was believed that this was the grave of a third President, Dr. Dunster. He died in the year 1659; but his death took place in midwinter; and when this coffin was opened, the skeleton was found entirely surrounded with common Tansy, in seed, a portion of which had been pulled up by the roots, and it was therefore believed by many who thought upon the matter that it was the coffin and grave of President Mitchell, who died in July, 1668, of "an extream fever." The skeleton was found still wrapped in a cerecloth, and in the record of the church is a memorandum of payment "for a terpauling to wrap Mr. Mitchell." The Tansy found in this coffin, placed there more than two centuries ago, still retained its shape and scent. This use of Tansy at funerals lingered long in country neighborhoods in New England, in some vicinities till fifty years ago. To many older persons the Tansy is therefore so associated with grewsome sights and sad scenes, that they turn from it wherever seen, and its scent to them is unbearable. One elderly friend writes me: "I never see the leaves of Tansy without recalling also the pale dead faces I have so often seen encircled by the dank, ugly leaves. Often as a child have I been sent to gather all the Tansy I could find, to be carried by my mother to the house of mourning; and I gathered it, loathing to touch it, but not daring to refuse, and I loathe it still." Tansy not only retains its scent for a long period, but the "golden buttons" retain their color; I have seen them in New England parlors forming part of a winter posy; this, I suppose, in neighborhoods where Tansy was little used at funerals. [Illustration: Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York.] If an herb garden had no other reason for existence, let me commend it to the attention of those of ample grounds and kindly hearts, for a special purpose--as a garden for the blind. Our many flower-charities furnish flowers throughout the summer to our hospitals, but what sweet-scented flowers are there for those debarred from any sight of beauty? Through the past summer my daughters sent several times a week, by the generous carriage of the Long Island Express Company, boxes of wild flowers to any hospital of their choice. What could we send to the blind? The midsummer flowers of field and meadow gratified the sight, but scent was lacking. A sprig of Sweet Fern or Bayberry was the only resource. Think of the pleasure which could be given to the sightless by a posy of sweet-scented leaves, by Southernwood, Mint, Balm, or Basil, and when memory was thereby awakened in those who once had seen, what tender thoughts! If this book could influence the planting of an herb garden for the solace of those who cannot see the flowers of field and garden, then it will not have been written in vain. CHAPTER VI IN LILAC TIDE "Ere Man is aware That the Spring is here The Flowers have found it out." --_Ancient Chinese Saying._ "A flower opens, and lo! another Year," is the beautiful and suggestive legend on an old vessel found in the Catacombs. Since these words were written, how many years have begun! how many flowers have opened! and yet nature has never let us weary of spring and spring flowers. My garden knows well the time o' the year. It needs no almanac to count the months. "The untaught Spring is wise In Cowslips and Anemonies." While I sit shivering, idling, wondering when I can "start the garden"--lo, there are Snowdrops and spring starting up to greet me. Ever in earliest spring are there days when there is no green in grass, tree, or shrub; but when the garden lover is conscious that winter is gone and spring is waiting. There is in every garden, in every dooryard, as in the field and by the roadside, in some indefinable way a look of spring. One hint of spring comes even before its flowers--you can smell its coming. The snow is gone from the garden walks and some of the open beds; you walk warily down the softened path at midday, and you smell the earth as it basks in the sun, and a faint scent comes from some twigs and leaves. Box speaks of summer, not of spring; and the fragrance from that Cedar tree is equally suggestive of summer. But break off that slender branch of Calycanthus--how fresh and welcome its delightful spring scent. Carry it into the house with branches of Forsythia, and how quickly one fills its leaf buds and the other blossoms. [Illustration: Ladies' Delights.] For several years the first blossom of the new year in our garden was neither the Snowdrop nor Crocus, but the Ladies' Delight, that laughing, speaking little garden face, which is not really a spring flower, it is a stray from summer; but it is such a shrewd, intelligent little creature that it readily found out that spring was here ere man or other flowers knew it. This dear little primitive of the Pansy tribe has become wonderfully scarce save in cherished old gardens like those of Salem, where I saw this year a space thirty feet long and several feet wide, under flowering shrubs and bushes, wholly covered with the everyday, homely little blooms of Ladies' Delights. They have the party-colored petal of the existing strain of English Pansies, distinct from the French and German Pansies, and I doubt not are the descendants of the cherished garden children of the English settlers. Gerarde describes this little English Pansy or Heartsease in 1587 under the name of _Viola tricolor_:-- "The flouers in form and figure like the Violet, and for the most part of the same Bignesse, of three sundry colours, purple, yellow and white or blew, by reason of the beauty and braverie of which colours they are very pleasing to the eye, for smel they have little or none." In Breck's _Book of Flowers_, 1851, is the first printed reference I find to the flower under the name Ladies' Delight. In my childhood I never heard it called aught else; but it has a score of folk names, all testifying to an affectionate intimacy: Bird's-eye; Garden-gate; Johnny-jump-up; None-so-pretty; Kitty-come; Kit-run-about; Three-faces under-a-hood; Come-and-cuddle-me; Pink-of-my-Joan; Kiss-me; Tickle-my-fancy; Kiss-me-ere-I rise; Jump-up-and-kiss-me. To our little flower has also been given this folk name, Meet-her-in-the-entry-kiss-her-in-the-buttery, the longest plant name in the English language, rivalled only by Miss Jekyll's triumph of nomenclature for the Stonecrop, namely: Welcome-home-husband-be-he-ever-so-drunk. [Illustration: Garden House in Garden of Hon. William H. Seward, Auburn, New York.] These little Ladies' Delights have infinite variety of expression; some are laughing and roguish, some sharp and shrewd, some surprised, others worried, all are animated and vivacious, and a few saucy to a degree. They are as companionable as people--nay, more; they are as companionable as children. No wonder children love them; they recognize kindred spirits. I know a child who picked unbidden a choice Rose, and hid it under her apron. But as she passed a bed of Ladies' Delights blowing in the wind, peering, winking, mocking, she suddenly threw the Rose at them, crying out pettishly, "Here! take your old flower!" The Dandelion is to many the golden seal of spring, but it blooms the whole circle of the year in sly garden corners and in the grass. Of it might have been written the lines:-- "It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on its way, And twines December's arms." I have picked both Ladies' Delights and Dandelions every month in the year. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Garden of Hon. William H. Seward, Auburn, New York.] I suppose the common Crocus would not be deemed a very great garden ornament in midsummer, in its lowly growth; but in its spring blossoming it is--to use another's words--"most gladsome of the early flowers." A bed of Crocuses is certainly a keen pleasure, glowing in the sun, almost as grateful to the human eye as to the honey-gathering bees that come unerringly, from somewhere, to hover over the golden cups. How welcome after winter is the sound of that humming. In the garden's story, there are ever a few pictures which stand out with startling distinctness. When the year is gone you do not recall many days nor many flowers with precision; often a single flower seems of more importance than a whole garden. In the day book of 1900 I have but few pictures; the most vivid was the very first of the season. It could have been no later than April, for one or two Snowdrops still showed white in the grass, when a splendid ribbon of Chionodoxa--Glory of the Snow--opened like blue fire burning from plant to plant, the bluest thing I ever saw in any garden. It was backed with solid masses of equally vivid yellow Alyssum and chalk-white Candy-tuft, both of which had had a good start under glass in a temporary forcing bed. These three solid masses of color surrounded by bare earth and showing little green leafage made my eyes ache, but a picture was burnt in which will never leave my brain. I always have a sense of importance, of actual ownership of a plant, when I can recall its introduction--as I do of the Chionodoxa, about 1871. It is said to come up and bloom in the snow, but I have never seen it in blossom earlier than March, and never then unless the snow has vanished. It has much of the charm of its relative, the Scilla. We all have flower favorites, and some of us have flower antipathies, or at least we are indifferent to certain flowers; but I never knew any one but loved the Daffodil. Not only have poets and dramatists sung it, but it is a common favorite, as shown by its homely names in our everyday speech. I am always touched in _Endymion_ that the only flowers named as "a thing of beauty that is a joy forever" are Daffodils "with the green world they live in." In Daffodils I like the "old fat-headed sort with nutmeg and cinnamon smell and old common English names--Butter-and-eggs, Codlins-and-cream, Bacon and eggs." The newer ones are more slender in bud and bloom, more trumpet-shaped, and are commonplace of name instead of common. In Virginia the name of a variety has become applied to a family, and all Daffodils are called Butter-and-eggs by the people. On spring mornings the Tulips fairly burn with a warmth, which makes them doubly welcome after winter. Emerson--ever able to draw a picture in two lines--to show the heart of everything in a single sentence--thus paints them:-- "The gardens fire with a joyful blaze Of Tulips in the morning's rays." "Tulipase do carry so stately and delightful a form, and do abide so long in their bravery, that there is no Lady or Gentleman of any worth that is not caught with this delight,"--wrote the old herbalist Parkinson. Bravery is an ideal expression for Tulips. [Illustration: Lilacs in Midsummer in Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York.] It is with something of a shock that we read the words of Philip Hamerton in _The Sylvan Year_, that nature is not harmonious in the spring, but is only in the way of becoming so. He calls it the time of crudities, like the adolescence of the mind. He says, "The green is good for us, and we welcome it with uncritical gladness; but when we think of painting, it may be doubted whether any season of the year is less propitious to the broad and noble harmonies which are the secrets of all grand effects in art." And he compares the season to the uncomfortable hour in a household when the early risers are walking about, not knowing what to do with themselves, while others have not yet come down to breakfast. I must confess that an undiversified country landscape in spring has upon me the effect asserted by Hamerton. I recall one early spring week in the Catskills, when I fairly complained, "Everything is so green here." I longed for rocks, water, burnt fields, bare trees, anything to break that glimmering green of new grass and new Birches. But in the spring garden there is variety of shape and color; the Peony leaf buds are red, some sprouting leaves are pink, and there are vast varieties of brown and gray and gold in leaf. Let me give the procession of spring in the garden in the words of a lover of old New England flowers, Dr. Holmes. It is a vivid word picture of the distinctive forms and colors of budding flowers and leaves. "At first the snowdrop's bells are seen, Then close against the sheltering wall The tulip's horn of dusky green, The peony's dark unfolding ball. "The golden-chaliced crocus burns; The long narcissus blades appear; The cone-beaked hyacinth returns To light her blue-flamed chandelier. "The willow's whistling lashes, wrung By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung, Are swaying by the tufted larch. "See the proud tulip's flaunting cup, That flames in glory for an hour,-- Behold it withering, then look up-- How meek the forest-monarchs flower! "When wake the violets, Winter dies; When sprout the elm buds, Spring is near; When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, 'Bud, little roses, Spring is here.'" The universal flower in the old-time garden was the Lilac; it was the most beloved bloom of spring, and gave a name to Spring--Lilac tide. The Lilac does not promise "spring is coming"; it is the emblem of the _presence_ of spring. Dr. Holmes says, "When Lilacs blossom, Summer cries, '_Spring is here_'" in every cheerful and lavish bloom. Lilacs shade the front yard; Lilacs grow by the kitchen doorstep; Lilacs spring up beside the barn; Lilacs shade the well; Lilacs hang over the spring house; Lilacs crowd by the fence side and down the country road. In many colonial dooryards it was the only shrub--known both to lettered and unlettered folk as Laylock, and spelt Laylock too. Walter Savage Landor, when Laylock had become antiquated, still clung to the word, and used it with a stubborn persistence such as he alone could compass, and which seems strange in the most finished classical scholar of his day. [Illustration: Lilacs at Craigie House, the Home of Longfellow.] "I shall not go to town while the Lilacs bloom," wrote Longfellow; and what Lilac lover could have left a home so Lilac-embowered as Craigie House! A view of its charms in Lilac tide is given in outline on this page; the great Lilac trees seem wondrously suited to the fine old Revolutionary mansion. [Illustration: Box-edged Garden at the Home of Longfellow.] There is in Albany, New York, a lovely garden endeared to those who know it through the memory of a presence that lighted all places associated with it with the beauty of a noble life. It is the garden of the home of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, and was planted by her father and mother, General and Mrs. Peter Gansevoort, in 1846, having been laid out with taste and an art that has borne the test of over half a century's growth. In the garden are scores of old-time favorites: Flower de Luce, Peonies, Daffodils, and snowy Phlox; but instead of bending over the flower borders, let us linger awhile in the wonderful old Lilac walk. It is a glory of tender green and shaded amethyst and grateful hum of bees, the very voice of Spring. Every sense is gratified, even that of touch, when the delicate plumes of the fragrant Lilac blossoms brush your cheek as you walk through its path; there is no spot of fairer loveliness than this Lilac walk in May. It is a wonderful study of flickering light and grateful shade in midsummer. Look at its full-leaf charms opposite page 138; was there ever anything lovelier in any garden, at any time, than the green vista of this Lilac walk in July? But for the thoughtful garden-lover it has another beauty still, the delicacy and refinement of outline when the Lilac walk is bare of foliage, as is shown on page 220 and facing page 154. The very spirit of the Lilacs seems visible, etched with a purity of touch that makes them sentient, speaking beings, instead of silent plants. See the outlines of stem and branch against the tender sky of this April noon. Do you care for color when you have such beauty of outline? Surely this Lilac walk is loveliest in April, with a sensitive etherealization beyond compare. How wonderfully these pictures have caught the look of tentative spring--spring waiting for a single day to burst into living green. There is an ancient Saxon name for springtime--Opyn-tide--thus defined by an old writer, "Whenne that flowres think on blowen"--when the flowers begin to think of budding and blowing; and so I name this picture Opyn-tide, the Thought of Spring. For many years Lilacs were planted for hedges; they were seldom satisfactory if clipped, for the broad-spreading leaves were always gray with dust, and they often had a "rust" which wholly destroyed their beauty. The finest clipped Lilac hedge I ever saw is at Indian Hill, Newburyport. It was set out about 1850, and is compact and green as Privet; the leaves are healthy, and the growth perfect down to the ground; it is an unusual example of Lilac growth--a perfect hedge. An unclipped Lilac hedge is lovely in its blooming; a beautiful one grows by the side of the old family home of Mr. Mortimer Howell at West Hampton Beach, Long Island. To this hedge in May come a-begging dusky city flower venders, who break off and carry away wagon loads of blooms. As the fare from and to New York is four dollars, and a wagon has to be hired to convey the flowers from the hedge two miles to the railroad station, there must be a high price charged for these Lilacs to afford any profit; but the Italian flower sellers appear year after year. [Illustration: Joepye-weed and Queen Anne's Lace.] Lilacs bloom not in our ancient literature; they are not named by Shakespeare, nor do I recall any earlier mention of them than in the essay of Lord Bacon on "Gardens," published about 1610, where he spelled it Lelacke. Blue-pipe tree was the ancient name of the Lilac, a reminder of the time when pipes were made of its wood; I heard it used in modern speech once. An old Narragansett coach driver called out to me, "Ye set such store on flowers, don't ye want to pick that Blue-pipe in Pender Zeke's garden?"--a deserted garden and home at Pender Zeke's Corner. This man had some of the traits of Mrs. Wright's delightful "Time-o'-Day," and he knew well my love of flowers; for he had been my charioteer to the woods where Rhododendron and Rhodora bloom, and he had revealed to me the pond where grew the pink Water Lilies. And from a chance remark of mine he had conveyed to me a wagon load of Joepye-weed and Boneset, to the dismay of my younger children, who had apprehensions of unlimited gallons of herb tea therefrom. Let me steal a few lines from my spring Lilacs to write of these two "Sisters of Healing," which were often planted in the household herb garden. From July to September in the low lying meadows of every state from the Bay of Fundy to the Gulf of Mexico, can be found Joepye-weed and Boneset. The dull pink clusters of soft fringy blooms of Joepye-weed stand up three to eight feet in height above the moist earth, catching our eye and the visit of every passing butterfly, and commanding attention for their fragrance, and a certain dignity of carriage notable even among the more striking hues of the brilliant Goldenrod and vivid Sunflowers. Joe Pye was an Indian medicine-man of old New England, famed among his white neighbors for his skill in curing the devastating typhoid fevers which, in those days of no drainage and ignorance of sanitation, vied with so-called "hereditary" consumption in exterminating New England families. His cure-all was a bitter tea decocted from leaves and stalks of this _Eupatorium purpureum_, and in token of his success the plant bears everywhere his name, but it is now wholly neglected by the simpler and herb-doctor. The sister plant, the _Eupatorium perfoliatum_, known as Thoroughwort, Boneset, Ague-weed, or Indian Sage, grows everywhere by its side, and is also used in fevers. It was as efficacious in "break bone fever" in the South a century ago as it is now for the grippe, for it still is used, North and South, in many a country home. Neltje Blanchan and Mrs. Dana Parsons call Thoroughwort or Boneset tea a "nauseous draught," and I thereby suspect that neither has tasted it. I have many a time, and it has a clear, clean bitter taste, no stronger than any bitter beer or ale. Every year is Boneset gathered in old Narragansett; but swamp edges and meadows that are easy of access have been depleted of the stately growth of saw-edged wrinkled leaves, and the Boneset gatherer must turn to remote brooksides and inaccessible meadows for his harvest. The flat-topped terminal cymes of leaden white blooms are not distinctive as seen from afar, and many flowers of similar appearance lure the weary simpler here and there, until at last the welcome sight of the connate perfoliate leaves, surrounding the strong stalk, distinctive of the Boneset, show that his search is rewarded. [Illustration: Boneset.] After these bitter draughts of herb tea, we will turn, as do children, to sweets, to our beloved Lilac blooms. The Lilac has ever been a flower welcomed by English-speaking folk since it first came to England by the hand of some mariner. It is said that a German traveller named Busbeck brought it from the Orient to the continent in the sixteenth century. I know not when it journeyed to the new world, but long enough ago so that it now grows cheerfully and plentifully in all our states of temperate clime and indeed far south. It even grows wild in some localities, though it never looks wild, but plainly shows its escape or exile from some garden. It is specially beloved in New England, and it seems so much more suited in spirit to New England than to Persia that it ought really to be a native plant. Its very color seems typical of New England; some parts of celestial blue, with more of warm pink, blended and softened by that shading of sombre gray ever present in New England life into a distinctive color known everywhere as lilac--a color grateful, quiet, pleasing, what Thoreau called a "tender, civil, cheerful color." Its blossoming at the time of Election Day, that all-important New England holiday, gave it another New England significance. There is no more emblematic flower to me than the Lilac; it has an association of old homes, of home-making and home interests. On the country farm, in the village garden, and in the city yard, the lilac was planted wherever the home was made, and it attached itself with deepest roots, lingering sometimes most sadly but sturdily, to show where the home once stood. [Illustration: Magnolias.] Let me tell of two Lilacs of sentiment. One of them is shown on page 149; a glorious Lilac tree which is one of a group of many full-flowered, pale-tinted ones still growing and blossoming each spring on a deserted homestead in old Narragansett. They bloom over the grave of a fine old house, and the great chimney stands sadly in their midst as a gravestone. "Hopewell," ill-suited of name, was the home of a Narragansett Robinson famed for good cheer, for refinement and luxury, and for a lovely garden, laid out with cost and care and filled with rare shrubs and flowers. Perhaps these Lilacs were a rare variety in their day, being pale of tint; now they are as wild as their companions, the Cedar hedges. [Illustration: Lilacs at Hopewell.] Gathering in the front dooryard of a fallen farm-house some splendid branches of flowering Lilac, I found a few feet of cellar wall and wooden house side standing, and the sills of two windows. These window sills, exposed for years to the bleaching and fading of rain and sun and frost, still bore the circular marks of the flower pots which, filled with houseplants, had graced the kitchen windows for many a winter under the care of a flower-loving house mistress. A few days later I learned from a woman over ninety years of age--an inmate of the "Poor House"--the story of the home thus touchingly indicated by the Lilac bushes and the stains of the flower pots. Over eighty years ago she had brought the tiny Lilac-slip to her childhood's home, then standing in a clearing in the forest. She carried it carefully in her hands as she rode behind her father on a pillion after a visit to her grandmother. She and her little brothers and sisters planted the tiny thing "of two eyes only," as she said, in the shadow of the house, in the little front yard. And these children watered it and watched it, as it rooted and grew, till the house was surrounded each spring with its vivacious blooms, its sweet fragrance. The puny slip has outlived the house and all its inmates save herself, outlived the brothers and sisters, their children and grandchildren, outlived orchard and garden and field. And it will live to tell a story to every thoughtful passer-by till a second growth of forest has arisen in pasture and garden and even in the cellar-hole, when even then the cheerful Lilac will not be wholly obliterated. A bunch of early Lilacs was ever a favorite gift to "teacher," to be placed in a broken-nosed pitcher on her desk. And Lilac petals made such lovely necklaces, thrust within each other or strung with needle and thread. And there was a love divination by Lilacs which we children solemnly observed. There will occasionally appear a tiny Lilac flower, usually a white Lilac, with five divisions of the petal instead of four--this is a Luck Lilac. This must be solemnly swallowed. If it goes down smoothly, the dabbler in magic cries out, "He loves me;" if she chokes at her floral food, she must say sadly, "He loves me not." I remember once calling out, with gratification and pride, "He loves me!" "Who is he?" said my older companions. "Oh, I didn't know he had to be somebody," I answered in surprise, to be met by derisive laughter at my satisfaction with a lover in general and not in particular. It was a matter of Lilac-luck-etiquette that the lover's name should be pronounced mentally before the petal was swallowed. [Illustration: Persian Lilacs and Peonies in Garden of the Kimball Homestead, Portsmouth, New Hampshire.] In the West Indies the Lilac is a flower of mysterious power; its perfume keeps away evil spirits, ghosts, banshees. If it grows not in the dooryard, its protecting branches are hung over the doorway. I think of this when I see it shading the door of happy homes in New England. In our old front yards we had only the common Lilacs, and occasionally a white one; and as a rarity the graceful, but sometimes rather spindling, Persian Lilacs, known since 1650 in gardens, and shown on page 151. How the old gardens would have stared at the new double Lilacs, which have luxuriant plumes of bloom twenty inches long. The "pensile Lilac" has been sung by many poets; but the spirit of the flower has been best portrayed in verse by Elizabeth Akers. I can quote but a single stanza from so many beautiful ones. "How fair it stood, with purple tassels hung, Their hue more tender than the tint of Tyre; How musical amid their fragrance rung The bee's bassoon, keynote of spring's glad choir! O languorous Lilac! still in time's despite I see thy plumy branches all alight With new-born butterflies which loved to stay And bask and banquet in the temperate ray Of springtime, ere the torrid heats should be: For these dear memories, though the world grow gray, I sing thy sweetness, lovely Lilac tree!" Another poet of the Lilac is Walt Whitman. He tells his delight in "the Lilac tall and its blossoms of mastering odor." He sings: "with the birds a warble of joy for Lilac-time." That noble, heroic dirge, the _Burial Hymn of Lincoln_, begins:-- "When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd." The poet stood under the blossoming Lilacs when he learned of the death of Lincoln, and the scent and sight of the flowers ever bore the sad association. In this poem is a vivid description of-- "The Lilac bush, tall growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom, rising delicate with the perfume strong I love. With every leaf a miracle." Thomas William Parsons could turn from his profound researches and loving translations of Dante to write with deep sympathy of the Lilac. His verses have to me an additional interest, since I believe they were written in the house built by my ancestor in 1740, and occupied still by his descendants. In its front dooryard are Lilacs still standing under the windows of Dr. Parsons' room, in which he loved so to write. Hawthorne felt a sort of "ludicrous unfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly Lilac bush." He was dissatisfied with aged Lilacs, though he knew not whether his heart, judgment, or rural sense put him in that condition. He felt the flower should either flourish in immortal youth or die. Apple trees could grow old and feeble without his reproach, but an aged Lilac was improper. I fancy no one ever took any care of Lilacs in an old garden. As soon water or enrich the Sumach and Elder growing by the roadside! But care for your Lilacs nowadays, and see how they respond. Make them a _garden_ flower, and you will never regret it. There be those who prefer grafted Lilacs--the stock being usually a Syringa; they prefer the single trunk, and thus get rid of the Lilac suckers. But compare a row of grafted Lilacs to a row of natural fastigate growth, as shown on page 220, and I think nature must be preferred. "Methinks I see my contemplative girl now in the garden watching the gradual approach of Spring," wrote Sterne. My contemplative girl lives in the city, how can she know that spring is here? Even on those few square feet of mother earth, dedicated to clotheslines and posts, spring sets her mark. Our Lilacs seldom bloom, but they put forth lovely fresh green leaves; and even the unrolling of the leaves of our Japanese ivies are a pleasure. Our poor little strips of back yard in city homes are apt to be too densely shaded for flower blooms, but some things will grow, even there. Some wild flowers will live, and what a delight they are in spring. We have a Jack-in-the-pulpit who comes up just as jauntily there as in the wild woods; Dog-tooth Violet and our common wild Violet also bloom. A city neighbor has Trillium which blossoms each year; our Trillium shows leaves, but no blossoms, and does not increase in spread of roots. Bloodroot, a flower so shy when gathered in the woods, and ever loving damp sites, flourishes in the dryest flower bed, grows coarser in leaf and bloom, and blossoms earlier, and holds faster its snowy petals. Corydalis in the garden seems so garden-bred that you almost forget the flower was ever wild. [Illustration: Opyn-tide, the Thought of Spring.] The approach of spring in our city parks is marked by the appearance of the Dandelion gatherers. It is always interesting to see, in May, on the closely guarded lawns and field expanses of our city parks, the hundreds of bareheaded, gayly-dressed Italian and Portuguese women and children eagerly gathering the young Dandelion plants to add to their meagre fare as a greatly-loved delicacy. They collect these "greens" in highly-colored kerchiefs, in baskets, in squares of sheeting; I have seen the women bearing off a half-bushel of plants; even their stumpy little children are impressed to increase the welcome harvest, and with a broken knife dig eagerly in the greensward. The thrifty park commissioners, in Dandelion-time, relax their rigid rules, "Keep Off the Grass," and turn the salad-loving Italians loose to improve the public lawns by freeing them from weeds. The earliest sign of spring in the fields and woods in my childhood was the appearance of the Willow catkins, and was heralded by the cry of one child to another,--"Pussy-willows are out." How eagerly did those who loved the woods and fields turn, after the storm, whiteness, and chill of a New England winter, to Pussy-willows as a promise of summer and sunshine. Some of their charm ever lingers to us as we see them in the baskets of swarthy street venders in New York. Magnolia blossoms are sold in our city streets to remind city dwellers of spring. "Every flower its own bow-kwet," is the call of the vender. Bunches of Locust blossoms follow, awkwardly tied together. Though the Magnolia is earlier, I do not find it much more splendid as a flowering tree for the garden than our northern Dogwood; and the Dogwood when in bloom seems just as tropical. It is then the glory of the landscape; and its radiant starry blossoms turn into ideal beauty even our sombre cemeteries. The Magnolia has been planted in northern gardens for over a century. Gardens on Long Island have many beautiful old specimens, doubtless furnished by the Prince Nurseries. These seem thoroughly at home; just as does the Locust brought from Virginia, a century ago, by one Captain Sands of Sands Point, to please his Virginia bride with the presence of the trees of her girlhood's home. These Locusts have spread over every rood of Long Island earth, and seem as much at home as Birch or Willow. The three Magnolia trees on Mr. Brown's lawn in Flatbush are as large as any I know in the North, and were exceptionally full of bloom this year, this photograph (shown facing page 148) being taken when they were past their prime. I saw children eagerly gathering the waxy petals which had fallen, and which show so plainly in the picture. But the flower is not common enough here for northern children to learn the varied attractions of the Magnolia. The flower lore of American children is nearly all of English derivation; but children invent as well as copy. In the South the lavish growth of the Magnolia affords multiform playthings. The beautiful broad white petals give a snowy surface for the inditing of messages or valentines, which are written with a pin, when the letters turn dark brown. The stamens of the flower--waxlike with red tips--make mock illuminating matches. The leaves shape into wonderful drinking cups, and the scarlet seeds give a glowing necklace. [Illustration: A Thought of Winter's Snows.] The glories of a spring garden are not in the rows of flowering bulbs, beautiful as they are; but in the flowering shrubs and trees. The old garden had few shrubs, but it had unsurpassed beauty in its rows of fruit trees which in their blossoming give the spring garden, as here shown, that lovely whiteness which seems a blending of the seasons--a thought of winter's snows. The perfection of Apple blossoms I have told in another chapter. Earlier to appear was the pure white, rather chilly, blooms of the Plum tree, to the Japanese "the eldest brother of an hundred flowers." They are faintly sweet-scented with the delicacy found in many spring blossoms. A good example of the short verses of the Japanese poets tells of the Plum blossom and its perfume. "In springtime, on a cloudless night, When moonbeams throw their silver pall O'er wooded landscapes, veiling all In one soft cloud of misty white, 'Twere vain almost to hope to trace The Plum trees in their lovely bloom Of argent; 'tis their sweet perfume Alone which leads me to their place." The lovely family of double white Plum blossoms which now graces our gardens is varied by tinted ones; there are sixty in all which the nineteenth century owes to Japan. The Peach tree has a flower which has given name to one of the loveliest colors in the world. The Peach has varieties with wonderful double flowers of glorious color. Cherry trees bear a more cheerful white flower than Plum trees. "The Cherry boughs above us spread The whitest shade was ever seen; And flicker, flicker came and fled Sun-spots between." I do not recall the Judas tree in my childhood. I am told there were many in Worcester; but there were none in our garden, nor in our neighborhood, and that was my world. Orchids might have hung from the trees a mile from my home, and would have been no nearer me than the tropics. I had a small world, but it was large enough, since it was bounded by garden walls. Almond trees are seldom seen in northern gardens; but the Flowering Almond flourishes as one of the purest and loveliest familiar shrubs. Silvery pink in bloom when it opens, the pink darkens till when in full flower it is deeply rosy. It was, next to the Lilac, the favorite shrub of my childhood. I used to call the exquisite little blooms "fairy roses," and there were many fairy tales relating to the Almond bush. This made the flower enhaloed with sentiment and mystery, which charmed as much as its beauty. The Flowering Almond seemed to have a special place under a window in country yards and gardens, as it is shown on page 39. A fitting spot it was, since it never grew tall enough to shade the little window panes. With Pussy-willows and Almond blossoms and Ladies' Delights, with blossoming playhouse Apple trees and sweet-scented Lilac walks, spring was certainly Paradise in our childhood. Would it were an equally happy season in mature years; but who, garden-bred, can walk in the springtime through the garden of her childhood without thought of those who cared for the garden in its youth, and shared the care of their children with the care of their flowers, but now are seen no more. "Oh, far away in some serener air, The eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn: How can they bloom without her tender care? Why should they live when her sweet life is gone?" I have written of the gladness of spring, but I know nothing more overwhelming than the heartache of spring, the sadness of a fresh-growing spring garden. Where is the dear one who planted it and loved it, and he who helped her in the care, and the loving child who played in it and left it in the springtime? All that is good and beautiful has come again to us with the sunlight and warmth, save those whom we still love but can see no more. By that very measure of happiness poured for us in childhood in Lilac tide, is our cup of sadness now filled. CHAPTER VII OLD FLOWER FAVORITES "God does not send us strange flowers every year. When the spring winds blow o'er the pleasant places The same dear things lift up the same fair faces; The Violet is here. "It all comes back; the odor, grace, and hue Each sweet relation of its life repeated; No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated; It is the thing we knew." --ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY, 1861. Not only do I love to see the same dear things year after year, and to welcome the same odor, grace, and hue; but I love to find them in the same places. I like a garden in which plants have been growing in one spot for a long time, where they have a fixed home and surroundings. In our garden the same flowers shoulder each other comfortably and crowd each other a little, year after year. They look, my sister says, like long-established neighbors, like old family friends, not as if they had just "moved in," and didn't know each other's names and faces. Plants grow better when they are among flower friends. I suppose we have to transplant some plants, sometimes; but I would try to keep old friends together even in those removals. They would be lonely when they opened their eyes after the winter's sleep, and saw strange flower forms and unknown faces around them. [Illustration: Larkspur and Phlox.] For flowers have friendships, and antipathies as well. How Canterbury Bells and Foxgloves love to grow side by side! And Sweet Williams, with Foxgloves, as here shown. And in my sister's garden Larkspur always starts up by white Phlox--see a bit of the border on this page. Whatever may influence these docile alliances, it isn't a proper sense of fitness of color; for Tiger Lilies dearly love to grow by crimson-purple Phlox, a most inharmonious association, and you can hardly separate them. If a flower dislikes her neighbor in the garden, she moves quietly away, I don't know where or how. Sometimes she dies, but at any rate she is gone. It is so queer; I have tried every year to make Feverfew grow in this bed, and it won't do it, though it grows across the path. There is some flower here that the pompous Feverfew doesn't care to associate with. Not the Larkspur, for they are famous friends--perhaps it is the Sweet William, who is rather a plain fellow. In general flowers are very sociable with each other, but they have some preferences, and these are powerful ones. [Illustration: Sweet William and Foxglove.] It is amusing to read in no less than five recent English "garden-books," by flower-loving souls, the solemn advice that if you wish a beautiful garden effect you "must plant the great Oriental Poppy by the side of the White Lupine." "Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way." The truth is, you have very little to do with it. That Poppy chooses to keep company with the White Lupine, and to that impulse you owe your fine garden effect. The Poppy is the slyest magician of the whole garden. He comes and goes at will. This year a few blooms, nearly all in one corner; next year a blaze of color banded across the middle of the garden like the broad sash of a court chamberlain. Then a single grand blossom quite alone in the pansy bed, while another pushes up between the tight close leaves of the box edging:--the Poppy is _queer_. [Illustration: Plume Poppy.] Some flowers have such a hatred of man they cannot breathe and live in his presence, others have an equal love of human companionship. The white Clover clings here to our pathway as does the English Daisy across seas. And in our garden Ladies' Delights and Ambrosia tell us, without words, of their love for us and longing to be by our side; just as plainly as a child silently tells us his love and dependence on us by taking our hand as we walk side by side. There is not another gesture of childhood, not an affectionate word which ever touched my heart as did that trustful holding of the hand. One of my children throughout his brief life never walked by my side without clinging closely--I think without conscious intent--with his little hand to mine. I can never forget the affection, the trust of that vanished hand. I find that my dearest flower loves are the old flowers,--not only old to me because I knew them in childhood, but old in cultivation. "Give me the good old weekday blossoms I used to see so long ago, With hearty sweetness in their bosoms, Ready and glad to bud and blow." Even were they newcomers, we should speedily care for them, they are so lovable, so winning, so endearing. If I had seen to-day for the first time a Fritillaria, a Violet, a Lilac, a Bluebell, or a Rose, I know it would be a case of love at first sight. But with intimacy they have grown dearer still. The sense of long-continued acquaintance and friendship which we feel for many garden flowers extends to a few blossoms of field and forest. It is felt to an inexplicable degree by all New Englanders for the Trailing Arbutus, our Mayflower; and it is this unformulated sentiment which makes us like to go to the same spot year after year to gather these beloved flowers. I am sensible of this friendship for Buttercups, they seem the same flowers I knew last year; and I have a distinct sympathy with Owen Meredith's poem:-- "I pluck the flowers I plucked of old About my feet--yet fresh and cold The Buttercups do bend; The selfsame Buttercups they seem, Thick in the bright-eyed green, and such As when to me their blissful gleam Was all earth's gold--how much!" We have little of the intense sentiment, the inspiration which filled flower-lovers of olden times. We admire flowers certainly as beautiful works of nature, as objects of wonder in mechanism and in the profusion of growth, and we are occasionally roused to feelings of gratitude to the Maker and Giver of such beauty; but it is not precisely the same regard that the old gardeners and "flowerists" had, which is expressed in this quotation from Gerarde of "the gallant grace of violets":-- "They admonish and stir up a man to that which is comelie and honest; for flowers through their beautie, varietie of colour and exquisite forme doe bring to a liberall and gentlemanly mind, the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse and all kinds of virtues." It was a virtue to be comely in those days; as it is indeed a virtue now; and to the pious old herbalists it seemed an impossible thing that any creation which was beautiful should not also be good. [Illustration: Meadow Rue.] All flowers cannot be loved with equal warmth; it is possible to have a wholesome liking for a flower, a wish to see it around you, which would make you plant it in your borders and treat it well, but which would not be at all akin to love. For others you have a placid tolerance; others you esteem--good, virtuous, worthy creatures, but you cannot warm toward them. Sometimes they have been sung with passion by poets (Swinburne is always glowing over very unresponsive flower souls) and they have been painted with fervor by artists--and still you do not love them. I do not love Tulips, but I welcome them very cordially in my garden. Others have loved them; the Tulip has had her head turned by attention. Some flowers we like at first sight, but they do not wear well. This is a hard truth; and I shall not shame the garden-creatures who have done their best to please by betraying them to the world, save in a single case to furnish an example. In late August the Bergamot blossoms in luxuriant heads of white and purplish pink bloom, similar in tint to the abundant Phlox. Both grow freely in the garden of Sylvester Manor. When the Bergamot has romped in your borders for two or three years, you may wish to exile it to a vegetable garden, near the blackberry vines. Is this because it is an herb instead of a purely decorative flower? You never thus thrust out Phlox. A friend confesses to me that she exiled even the splendid scarlet Bergamot after she had grown it for three years in her flower-beds; such subtle influences control our flower-loves. Beautiful and noble as are the grand contributions of the nineteenth century to us from the garden and fields of Japan and China, we seldom speak of loving them. Thus the Chinese White Wistaria is similar in shape of blossom to the Scotch Laburnum, though a far more elegant, more lavish flower; but the Laburnum is the loved one. I used to read longingly of the Laburnum in volumes of English poetry, especially in Hood's verses, beginning:-- "I remember, I remember, The house where I was born," Ella Partridge had a tall Laburnum tree at her front door; it peeped in the second-story windows. It was so cherished, that I doubt whether its blooms were ever gathered. She told us with conscious pride and rectitude that it was a "yellow Wistaria tree which came from China"; I saw no reason to doubt her words, and as I never chanced to speak to my parents about it, I ever thought of it as a yellow Wistaria tree until I went out into the world and found it was a Scotch Laburnum. Few garden owners plant now the Snowberry, _Symphoricarpus racemosus_, once seen in every front yard, and even used for hedges. It wasn't a very satisfactory shrub in its habit; the oval leaves were not a cheerful green, and were usually pallid with mildew. The flowers were insignificant, but the clusters of berries were as pure as pearls. In country homes, before the days of cheap winter flowers and omnipresent greenhouses, these snowy clusters were cherished to gather in winter to place on coffins and in hands as white and cold as the berries. Its special offence in our garden was partly on account of this funereal association, but chiefly because we were never permitted to gather its berries to string into necklaces. They were rigidly preserved on the stem as a garden decoration in winter; though they were too closely akin in color to the encircling snowdrifts to be of any value. In country homes in olden times were found several universal winter posies. On the narrow mantel shelves of farm and village parlors, both in England and America, still is seen a winter posy made of dried stalks of the seed valves of a certain flower; they are shown on the opposite page. Let us see how our old friend, Gerarde, describes this plant:-- "The stalkes are loden with many flowers like the stocke-gilliflower, of a purple colour, which, being fallen, the seede cometh foorthe conteined in a flat thinne cod, with a sharp point or pricke at one end, in fashion of the moone, and somewhat blackish. This cod is composed of three filmes or skins whereof the two outermost are of an overworne ashe colour, and the innermost, or that in the middle whereon the seed doth hang or cleave, is thin and cleere shining, like a piece of white satten newly cut from the peece." In the latter clause of this striking description is given the reason for the popular name of the flower, Satin-flower or White Satin, for the inner septum is a shining membrane resembling white satin. Another interesting name is Pricksong-flower. All who have seen sheets of music of Elizabethan days, when the notes of music were called pricks, and the whole sheet a pricksong, will readily trace the resemblance to the seeds of this plant. Gerarde says it was named "Penny-floure, Money-floure, Silver-plate, Sattin, and among our women called Honestie." The last name was commonly applied at the close of the eighteenth century. It is thus named in writings of Rev. William Hanbury, 1771, and a Boston seedsman then advertised seeds of Honestie "in small quantities, that all might have some." In 1665, Josselyn found White Satin planted and growing plentifully in New England gardens, where I am sure it formed, in garden and house, a happy reminder of their English homes to the wives of the colonists. Since that time it has spread so freely in some localities, especially in southern Connecticut, that it grows wild by the wayside. It is seldom seen now in well-kept gardens, though it should be, for it is really a lovely flower, showing from white to varied and rich light purples. I was charmed with its fresh beauty this spring in the garden of Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright; a photograph of one of her borders containing Honesty is shown opposite page 174. [Illustration: Money-in-both-pockets.] At Belvoir Castle in England, in the "Duchess's Garden," the Satin-flower can be seen in full variety of tint, and fills an important place. It is carefully cultivated by seed and division, all inferior plants being promptly destroyed, while the superior blossoms are cherished. The flower was much used in charms and spells, as was everything connected with the moon. Drayton's Clarinax sings of Lunaria:-- "Enchanting lunarie here lies In sorceries excelling." As a child this Lunaria was a favorite flower, for it afforded to us juvenile money. Indeed, it was generally known among us as Money-flower or Money-seed, or sometimes as Money-in-both-pockets. The seed valves formed our medium of exchange and trade, passing as silver dollars. Through the streets of a New England village there strolled, harmless and happy, one who was known in village parlance as a "softy," one of "God's fools," a poor addle-pated, simple-minded creature, witless--but neither homeless nor friendless; for children cared for him, and feeble-minded though he was, he managed to earn, by rush-seating chairs and weaving coarse baskets, and gathering berries, scant pennies enough to keep him alive; and he slept in a deserted barn, in a field full of rocks and Daisies and Blueberry bushes,--a barn which had been built by one but little more gifted with wits than himself. Poor Elmer never was able to understand that the money which he and the children saved so carefully each autumn from the money plants was not equal in value to the great copper cents of the village store; and when he asked gleefully for a loaf of bread or a quart of molasses, was just as apt to offer the shining seed valves in payment as he was to give the coin of the land; and it must be added that his belief received apparent confirmation in the fact that he usually got the bread whether he gave seeds or cents. [Illustration: Box Walk in Garden of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq. Waterbury, Connecticut.] He lost his life through his poor simple notion. In the village he was kindly treated by all, clothed, fed, and warmed; but one day there came skulking along the edge of the village what were then rare visitors, two tramps, who by ill-chance met poor Elmer as he was gathering chestnuts. And as the children lingered on their way home from school to take toll of Elmer's store of nuts, they heard him boasting gleefully of his wealth, "hundreds and hundreds of dollars all safe for winter." The children knew what his dollars were, but the tramps did not. Three days of heavy rain passed by, and Elmer did not appear at the store or any house. Then kindly neighbors went to his barn in the distant field, and found him cruelly beaten, with broken ribs and in a high fever, while scattered around him were hundreds of the seeds of his autumnal store of the money plant; these were all the silver dollars his assailants found. He was carried to the almshouse and died in a few weeks, partly from the beating, partly from exposure, but chiefly, I ever believed, from homesickness in his enforced home. His old house has fallen down, but his well still is open, and around it grows a vast expanse of Lunaria, which has spread and grown from the seeds poor Elmer saved, and every year shoots of the tender lilac blooms mingle so charmingly with the white Daisies that the sterile field is one of the show-places of the village, and people drive from afar to see it. [Illustration: Lunaria in Garden at Waldstein.] There grow in profusion in our home garden what I always called the Mullein Pink, the Rose Campion (_Lychnis coronaria_). I never heard any one speak of this plant with special affection or admiration; but as a child I loved its crimson flower more than any other flower in the garden. Perhaps I should say I loved the royal color rather than the flower. I gathered tight bunches without foliage into a glowing mass of color unequalled in richness of tint by anything in nature. I have seen only in a stained glass window flooded with high sunlight a crimson approaching that of the Mullein Pink. Gerarde calls the flower the "Gardener's Delight or Gardner's Eie." It was known in French as the Eye of God; and the Rose of Heaven. We used to rub our cheeks with the woolly leaves to give a beautiful rosy blush, and thereby I once skinned one cheek. Snapdragons were a beloved flower--companions of my childhood in our home garden, but they have been neglected a bit by nearly every one of late years. Plant a clump of the clear yellow and one of pure white Snapdragons, and see how beautiful they are in the garden, and how fresh they keep when cut. We had such a satisfying bunch of them on the dinner table to-day, in a milk-white glazed Chinese jar; yellow Snapdragons, with "borrowed leaves" of Virgin's-bower (_Adlumia_) and a haze of Gypsophila over all. A flower much admired in gardens during the early years of the nineteenth century was the Plume Poppy (_Bocconia_). It has a pretty pinkish bloom in general shape somewhat like Meadow Rue (see page 164 and page 167). A friend fancied a light feathery look over certain of her garden borders, and she planted plentifully Plume Poppy and Meadow Rue; this was in 1895. In 1896 the effect was exquisite; in 1897 the garden feathered out with far too much fulness; in 1901 all the combined forces of all the weeds of the garden could not equal these two flowers in utter usurpment and close occupation of every inch of that garden. The Plume Poppy has a strong tap-root which would be a good symbol of the root of the tree Ygdrassyl--the Tree of Life, that never dies. You can go over the borders with scythe and spade and hoe, and even with manicure-scissors, but roots of the Plume Poppy will still hide and send up vigorous growth the succeeding year. We have grown so familiar with some old doubled blossoms that we think little of their being double. One such, symmetrical of growth, beautiful of foliage, and gratifying of bloom, is the Double Buttercup. It is to me distinctly one of our most old-fashioned flowers in aspect. A hardy great clump of many years' growth is one of the ancient treasures of our garden; its golden globes are known in England as Bachelor's Buttons, and are believed by many to be the Bachelor's Buttons of Shakespeare's day. [Illustration: Dahlia Walk at Ravensworth.] Dahlias afford a striking example of the beauty of single flowers when compared to their doubled descendants. Single Dahlias are fine flowers, the yellow and scarlet ones especially so. I never thought double Dahlias really worth the trouble spent on them in our Northern gardens; so much staking and tying, and fussing, and usually an autumn storm wrenches them round and breaks the stem or a frost nips them just as they are in bloom. A Dahlia hedge or a walk such as this one at Ravensworth, Virginia, is most stately and satisfying. I like, in moderation, many of the smaller single and double Sunflowers. Under the reign of _Patience_, the Sunflower had a fleeting day of popularity, and flaunted in garden and parlor. Its place was false. It was never a garden flower in olden times, in the sense of being a flower of ornament or beauty; its place was in the kitchen garden, where it belongs. Peas have ever been favorites in English gardens since they were brought to England. We have all seen the print, if not the portrait, of Queen Elizabeth garbed in a white satin robe magnificently embroidered with open pea-pods and butterflies. A "City of London Madam" had a delightful head ornament of open pea-pods filled with peas of pearls; this was worn over a hood of gold-embroidered muslin, and with dyed red hair, must have been a most modish affair. Sweet Peas have had a unique history. They have been for a century a much-loved flower of the people both in England and America, and they were at home in cottage borders and fine gardens; were placed in vases, and carried in nosegays and posies; were loved of poets--Keats wrote an exquisite characterization of them. They had beauty of color, and a universally loved perfume--but florists have been blind to them till within a few years. A bicentenary exhibition of Sweet Peas was given in London in July, 1900; now there is formed a Sweet Pea Society. But no societies and no exhibitions ever will make them a "florist's flower"; they are of value only for cutting; their habit of growth renders them useless as a garden decoration. We all take notions in regard to flowers, just as we do in regard to people. I hear one friend say, "I love every flower that grows," but I answer with emphasis, "I don't!" I have ever disliked the Portulaca,--I hate its stems. It is my fate never to escape it. I planted it once to grow under Sweet Alyssum in the little enclosure of earth behind my city home; when I returned in the autumn, everything was covered, blanketed, overwhelmed with Portulaca. Since then it comes up even in the grass, and seems to thrive by being trampled upon. The Portulaca was not a flower of colonial days; I am glad to learn our great-grandmothers were not pestered with it; it was not described in the _Botanical Magazine_ till 1829. I do not care for the Petunia close at hand on account of its sickish odor. But in the dusky border the flowers shine like white stars (page 180), and make you almost forgive their poor colors in the daylight. I never liked the Calceolaria. Every child in our town used to have a Calceolaria in her own small garden plot, but I never wanted one. I care little for Chrysanthemums; they fill in the border in autumn, and they look pretty well growing, but I like few of the flowers close at hand. By some curious twist of a brain which, alas! is apt not to deal as it is expected and ought to, with sensations furnished to it, I have felt this distaste for Chrysanthemums since I attended a Chrysanthemum Show. Of course, I ought to love them far more, and have more eager interest in them--but I do not. Their sister, the China Aster, I care little for. The Germans call Asters "death-flowers." The Empress of Austria at the Swiss hotel where she lodged just before she was murdered, found the rooms decorated with China Asters. She said to her attendant that the flowers were in Austria termed death-flowers--and so they proved. The Aster is among the flowers prohibited in Japan for felicitous occasions, as are the Balsam, Rhododendron, and Azalea. [Illustration: Petunias.] Those who read these pages may note perhaps that I say little of Lilies. I do not care as much for them as most garden lovers do. I like all our wild Lilies, especially the yellow Nodding Lily of our fields; and the Lemon Lily of our gardens is ever a delight; but the stately Lilies which are such general favorites, Madonna Lilies, Japan Lilies, the Gold-banded Lilies, are not especially dear to me. I love climbing vines, whether of delicate leaf or beautiful flower. In a room I place all the decoration that I can on the walls, out of the way, leaving thus space to move around without fear of displacement or injury of fragile things; so in a limited garden space, grass room under our feet, with flowering vines on the surrounding walls are better than many crowded flower borders. A tiny space can quickly be made delightful with climbing plants. The common Morning-glory, called in England the Bell-bind, is frequently advertised by florists of more encouragement than judgment, as suitable to plant freely in order to cover fences and poor sandy patches of ground with speedy and abundant leafage and bloom. There is no doubt that the Morning-glory will do all this and far more than is promised. It will also spread above and below ground from the poor strip of earth to every other corner of garden and farm. This it has done till, in our Eastern states, it is now classed as a wild flower. It will never look wild, however, meet it where you will. It is as domestic and tame as a barnyard fowl, which, wandering in the wildest woodland, could never be mistaken as game. The garden at Claymont, the Virginia home of Mr. Frank R. Stockton, afforded a striking example of the spreading and strangling properties of the Morning-glory, not under encouragement, but simply under toleration. Mr. Stockton tells me that the entire expanse of his yards and garden, when he first saw them, was a solid mass of Morning-glory blooms. Every stick, every stem, every stalk, every shrub and blade of grass, every vegetable growth, whether dead or alive, had its encircling and overwhelming Morning-glory companion, set full of tiny undersized blossoms of varied tints. It was a beautiful sight at break of day,--a vast expanse of acres jewelled with Morning-glories--but it wasn't the new owner's notion of a flower garden. In my childhood flower agents used to canvass country towns from house to house. Sometimes they had a general catalogue, and sold many plants, trees, and shrubs. Oftener they had but a single plant which they were "booming." I suspect that their trade came through the sudden introduction of so many and varied flowers and shrubs from China and Japan. I am told that the first Chinese Wistarias and a certain Fringe tree were sold in this manner; and I know the white Hydrangea was, for I recall it, though I do not know that this was its first sale. I remember too that suddenly half the houses in town, on piazza or trellis, had the rich purple blooms of the _Clematis Jackmanni_; for a very persuasive agent had gone through the town the previous year. Of course people of means bought then, as now, at nurseries; but at many humble homes, whose owners would never have thought of buying from a greenhouse, he sold his plants. It gave an agreeable rivalry, when all started plants together, to see whose flourished best and had the amplest bloom. Thoreau recalled the pleasant emulation of many owners in Concord of a certain Rhododendron, sold thus sweepingly by an agent. The purple Clematis displaced an old climbing favorite, the Trumpet Honeysuckle, once seen by every door. It was so beloved of humming-birds and so beautiful, I wonder we could ever destroy it. Its downfall was hastened by its being infested by a myriad of tiny green aphides, which proceeded from it to our Roses. I recall well these little plant insects, for I was very fond of picking the tubes of the Honeysuckle for the drop of pure honey within, and I had to abandon reluctantly the sweet morsels. We have in our garden, and it is shown on the succeeding page, a vine which we carefully cherished in seedlings from year to year, and took much pride in. It came to us with the Ambrosia from the Walpole garden. It was not common in gardens in our neighborhood, and I always looked upon it as something very choice, and even rare, as it certainly was something very dainty and pretty. We called it Virgin's-bower. When I went out into the world I found that it was not rare, that it grew wild from Connecticut to the far West; that it was Climbing Fumitory, or Mountain Fringe, _Adlumia_. When Mrs. Margaret Deland asked if we had Alleghany Vine in our garden, I told her I had never seen it, when all the while it was our own dear Virgin's-bower. It doesn't seem hardy enough to be a wild thing; how could it make its way against the fierce vines and thorns of the forest when it hasn't a bit of woodiness in its stems and its leaves and flowers are so tender! I cannot think any garden perfect without it, no matter what else is there, for its delicate green Rue-like leaves lie so gracefully on stone or brick walls, or on fences, and it trails its slender tendrils so lightly over dull shrubs that are out of flower, beautifying them afresh with an alien bloom of delicate little pinkish blossoms like tiny Bleeding-hearts. [Illustration: Virgin's-bower.] Another old favorite was the Balloon-vine, sometimes called Heartseed or Heart-pea, with its seeds like fat black hearts, with three lobes which made them globose instead of flat. This, too, had pretty compound leaves, and the whole vine, like our Virgin's-bower, lay lightly on what it covered; but the Dutchman's-pipe had a leafage too heavy save to make a thick screen or arch quickly and solidly. It did well enough in gardens which had not had a long cultivated past, or made little preparation for a cherished future; but it certainly was not suited to our garden, where things were not planted for a day. These three are native vines of rich woods in our Central and Western states. The Matrimony-vine was an old favorite; one from the porch of the Van Cortlandt manor-house, over a hundred years old, is shown on the next page. Often you see a straggling, sprawling growth; but this one is as fine as any vine could be. Patient folk--as were certainly those of the old-time gardens, tried to keep the Rose Acacia as a favorite. It was hardy enough, but so hopelessly brittle in wood that it was constantly broken by the wind and snow of our Northern winters, even though it was sheltered under some stronger shrub. At the end of a lovely Salem garden, I beheld this June a long row of Rose Acacias in full bloom. I am glad I possess in my memory the exquisite harmony of their shimmering green foliage and rosy flower clusters. Miss Jekyll, ever resourceful, trains the Rose Acacia on a wall; and fastens it down by planting sturdy Crimson Ramblers by its side; her skilful example may well be followed in America and thus restore to our gardens this beautiful flower. [Illustration: Matrimony-vine at Van Cortlandt Manor.] One flower, termed old-fashioned by nearly every one, is really a recent settler of our gardens. A popular historical novel of American life at the time of the Revolution makes the hero and heroine play a very pretty love scene over a spray of the Bleeding-heart, the Dielytra, or Dicentra. Unfortunately for the truth of the novelist's picture, the Dielytra was not introduced to the gardens of English-speaking folk till 1846, when the London Horticultural Society received a single plant from the north of China. How quickly it became cheap and abundant; soon it bloomed in every cottage garden; how quickly it became beloved! The graceful racemes of pendant rosy flowers were eagerly welcomed by children; they have some inexplicable, witching charm; even young children in arms will stretch out their little hands and attempt to grasp the Dielytra, when showier blossoms are passed unheeded. Many tiny playthings can be formed of the blossoms: only deft fingers can shape the delicate lyre in the "frame." One of its folk names is "Lyre flower"; the two wings can be bent back to form a gondola. We speak of modern flowers, meaning those which have recently found their way to our gardens. Some of these clash with the older occupants, but one has promptly been given an honored place, and appears so allied to the older flowers in form and spirit that it seems to belong by their side--the _Anemone Japonica_. Its purity and beauty make it one of the delights of the autumn garden; our grandmothers would have rejoiced in it, and have divided the plants with each other till all had a row of it in the garden borders. In its red form it was first pictured in the _Botanical Magazine_, in 1847, but it has been commonly seen in our gardens for only twenty or thirty years. [Illustration: White Wistaria.] These two flowers, the _Dielytra spectabilis_ and _Anemone Japonica_, are among the valuable gifts which our gardens received through the visits to China of that adventurous collector, Robert Fortune. He went there first in 1842, and for some years constantly sent home fresh treasures. Among the best-known garden flowers of his introducing are the two named above, and _Kerria Japonica_, _Forsythia viridissima_, _Weigela rosea_, _Gardenia Fortuniana_, _Daphne Fortunei_, _Berberis Fortunei_, _Jasminum nudiflorum_, and many varieties of Prunus, Viburnum, Spiræa, Azalea, and Chrysanthemum. The fine yellow Rose known as Fortune's Yellow was acquired by him during a venturesome trip which he took, disguised as a Chinaman. The white Chinese Wistaria is regarded as the most important of his collections. It is deemed by some flower-lovers the most exquisite flower in the entire world. The Chinese variety is distinguished by the length of its racemes, sometimes three feet long. The lower part of a vine of unusual luxuriance and beauty is shown above. This special vine flowers in full richness of bloom every alternate year, and this photograph was taken during its "poor year"; for in its finest inflorescence its photograph would show simply a mass of indistinguishable whiteness. Mr. Howell has named it The Fountain, and above the pouring of white blossoms shown in this picture is an upper cascade of bloom. This Wistaria is not growing in an over-favorable locality, for winter winds are bleak on the southern shores of Long Island; but I know no rival of its beauty in far warmer and more sheltered sites. Many of the Deutzias and Spiræas which beautify our spring gardens were introduced from Japan before Fortune's day by Thunberg, the great exploiter of Japanese shrubs, who died in 1828. The Spiræa Van Houtteii (facing page 190) is perhaps the most beautiful of all. Dean Hole names the Spiræas, Deutzias, Weigelas, and Forsythias as having been brought into his ken in English gardens within his own lifetime, that is within fourscore years. In New England gardens the Forsythia is called 'Sunshine Bush'--and never was folk name better bestowed, or rather evolved. For in the eager longing for spring which comes in the bitterness of March, when we cry out with the poet, "O God, for one clear day, a Snowdrop and sweet air," in our welcome to fresh life, whether shown in starting leaf or frail blossom, the Forsythia shines out a grateful delight to the eyes and heart, concentrating for a week all the golden radiance of sunlight, which later will be shared by sister shrubs and flowers. _Forsythia suspensa_, falling in long sweeps of yellow bells, is in some favorable places a cascade of liquid light. No shrub in our gardens is more frequently ruined by gardeners than these Forsythias. It takes an artist to prune the _Forsythia suspensa_. You can steal the sunshine for your homes ere winter is gone by breaking long sprays of the Sunshine Bush and placing them in tall deep jars of water. Split up the ends of the stems that they may absorb plentiful water, and the golden plumes will soon open to fullest glory within doors. There is another yellow flowered shrub, the Corchorus, which seems as old as the Lilac, for it is ever found in old gardens; but it proves to be a Japanese shrub which we have had only a hundred years. The little, deep yellow, globular blossoms appear in early spring and sparsely throughout the whole summer. The plant isn't very adorning in its usual ragged growth, but it was universally planted. It may be seen from the shrubs of popular growth which I have named that the present glory of our shrubberies is from the Japanese and Chinese shrubs, which came to us in the nineteenth century through Thunberg, Fortune, and other bold collectors. We had no shrub-sellers of importance in the eighteenth century; the garden lover turned wholly to the seedsman and bulb-grower for garden supplies, just as we do to-day to fill our old-fashioned gardens. The new shrubs and plants from China and Japan did not clash with the old garden flowers, they seemed like kinsfolk who had long been separated and rejoiced in being reunited; they were indeed fellow-countrymen. We owed scores of our older flowers to the Orient, among them such important ones as the Lilac, Rose, Lily, Tulip, Crown Imperial. [Illustration: Spiræa Van Houtteii.] We can fancy how delighted all these Oriental shrubs and flowers were to meet after so many years of separation. What pleasant greetings all the cousins must have given each other; I am sure the Wistaria was glad to see the Lilac, and the Fortune's Yellow Rose was duly respectful to his old cousin, the thorny yellow Scotch Rose. And I seem to hear a bit of scandal passing from plant to plant! Listen! it is the Bleeding-heart gossiping with the Japanese Anemone: "Well! I never thought that Lilac girl would grow to be such a beauty. So much color! Do you suppose it can be natural? Mrs. Tulip hinted to me yesterday that the girl used fertilizers, and it certainly looks so. But she can't say much herself--I never saw such a change in any creatures as in those Tulips. You remember how commonplace their clothes were? Now such extravagance! Scores of gowns, and all made abroad, and at _her_ age! Here are you and I, my dear, both young, and we really ought to have more clothes. I haven't a thing but this pink gown to put on. It's lucky you had a white gown, for no one liked your pink one. Here comes Mrs. Rose! How those Rose children have grown! I never should have known them." CHAPTER VIII COMFORT ME WITH APPLES "What can your eye desire to see, your eares to heare, your mouth to taste, or your nose to smell, that is not to be had in an Orchard? with Abundance and Variety? What shall I say? 1000 of Delights are in an Orchard; and sooner shall I be weary than I can reckon the least part of that pleasure which one, that hath and loves an Orchard, may find therein." --_A New Orchard_, WILLIAM LAWSON, 1618. In every old-time garden, save the revered front yard, the borders stretched into the domain of the Currant and Gooseberry bushes, and into the orchard. Often a row of Crabapple trees pressed up into the garden's precincts and shaded the Sweet Peas. Orchard and garden could scarcely be separated, so closely did they grow up together. Every old garden book had long chapters on orchards, written _con amore_, with a zest sometimes lacking on other pages. How they loved in the days of Queen Elizabeth and of Queen Anne to sit in an orchard, planted, as Sir Philip Sidney said, "cunningly with trees of taste-pleasing fruits." How charming were their orchard seats, "fachoned for meditacon!" Sometimes these orchard seats were banks of the strongly scented Camomile, a favorite plant of Lord Bacon's day. Wordsworth wrote in jingling rhyme:-- "Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat; And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together." The incomparable beauty of the Apple tree in full bloom has ever been sung by the poets, but even their words cannot fitly nor fully tell the delight to the senses of the close view of those exquisite pink and white domes, with their lovely opalescent tints, their ethereal fragrance; their beauty infinitely surpasses that of the vaunted Cherry plantations of Japan. In the hand the flowers show a distinct ruddiness, a promise of future red cheeks; but a long vista of trees in bloom displays no tint of pink, the flowers seem purest white. Looking last May across the orchard at Hillside, adown the valley of the Hudson with its succession of blossoming orchards, we could paraphrase the words of Longfellow's _Golden Legend_:-- "The valley stretching below Is white with blossoming Apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow." In the darkest night flowering Apple trees shine with clear radiance, and an orchard of eight hundred acres, such as may be seen in Niagara County, New York, shows a white expanse like a lake of quicksilver. This county, and its neighbor, Orleans County, form an Apple paradise--with their orchards of fifty and even a hundred thousand trees. [Illustration: Apple Trees at White Hall, the Home of Bishop Berkeley.] The largest Apple tree in New England is in Cheshire, Connecticut. Its trunk measures, one foot above all root enlargements, thirteen feet eight inches in circumference. Its age is traced back a hundred and fifty years. At White Hall, the old home of Bishop Berkeley in the island of Rhode Island, still stand the Apple trees of his day. A picture of them is shown on page 194. The sedate and comfortable motherliness of old Apple trees is felt by all Apple lovers. John Burroughs speaks of "maternal old Apple trees, regular old grandmothers, who have seen trouble." James Lane Allen, amid his apostrophes to the Hemp plant, has given us some beautiful glimpses of Apple trees and his love for them. He tells of "provident old tree mothers on the orchard slope, whose red-cheeked children are autumn Apples." It is this motherliness, this domesticity, this homeliness that makes the Apple tree so cherished, so beloved. No scene of life in the country ever seems to me homelike if it lacks an Apple orchard--this doubtless, because in my birthplace in New England they form a part of every farm scene, of every country home. Apple trees soften and humanize the wildest country scene. Even in a remote pasture, or on a mountain side, they convey a sentiment of home; and after being lost in the mazes of close-grown wood-roads Apple trees are inexpressibly welcome as giving promise of a sheltering roof-tree. Thoreau wrote of wild Apples, but to me no Apples ever look wild. They may be the veriest Crabs, growing in wild spots, unbidden, and savage and bitter in their tang, but even these seedling Pippins are domestic in aspect. On the southern shores of Long Island, where meadow, pasture, and farm are in soil and crops like New England, the frequent absence of Apple orchards makes these farm scenes unsatisfying, not homelike. No other fruit trees can take their place. An Orange tree, with its rich glossy foliage, its perfumed ivory flowers and buds, and abundant golden fruit, is an exquisite creation of nature; but an Orange grove has no ideality. All fruit trees have a beautiful inflorescence--few have sentiment. The tint of a blossoming Peach tree is perfect; but I care not for a Peach orchard. Plantations of healthy Cherry trees are lovely in flower and fruit time, whether in Japan or Massachusetts, and a Cherry tree is full of happy child memories; but their tree forms in America are often disfigured with that ugly fungous blight which is all the more disagreeable to us since we hear now of its close kinship to disease germs in the animal world. I cannot see how they avoid having Apple trees on these Long Island farms, for the Apple is fully determined to stand beside every home and in every garden in the land. It does not have to be invited; it will plant and maintain itself. Nearly all fruits and vegetables which we prize, depend on our planting and care, but the Apple is as independent as the New England farmer. In truth Apple trees would grow on these farms if they were loved or even tolerated, for I find them forced into Long Island hedge-rows as relentlessly as are forest trees. The Indians called the Plantain the "white man's foot," for it sprung up wherever he trod; the Apple tree might be called the white man's shadow. It is the Vine and Fig tree of the temperate zone, and might be chosen as the totem of the white settlers. Our love for the Apple is natural, for it was the characteristic fruit of Britain; the clergy were its chief cultivators; they grew Apples in their monastery gardens, prayed for them in special religious ceremonies, sheltered the fruit by laws, and even named the Apple when pronouncing the blessings of God upon their princes and rulers. [Illustration: "The valley stretching below Is white with blossoming Apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow."] Thoreau described an era of luxury as one in which men cultivate the Apple and the amenities of the garden. He thought it indicated relaxed nerves to read gardening books, and he regarded gardening as a civil and social function, not a love of nature. He tells of his own love for freedom and savagery--and he found what he so deemed at Walden Pond. I am told his haunts are little changed since the years when he lived there; and I had expected to find Walden Pond a scene of much wild beauty, but it was the mildest of wild woods; it seemed to me as thoroughly civilized and social as an Apple orchard. [Illustration: Old Hand-power Cider Mill.] Thoreau christened the Apple trees of his acquaintance with appropriate names in the _lingua vernacula_: the Truant's Apple, the Saunterer's Apple, December Eating, Wine of New England, the Apple of the Dell in the Wood, the Apple of the Hollow in the Pasture, the Railroad Apple, the Cellar-hole Apple, the Frozen-thawed, and many more; these he loved for their fruit; to them let me add the Playhouse Apple trees, loved solely for their ingeniously twisted branches, an Apple tree of the garden, often overhanging the flower borders. I recall their glorious whiteness in the spring, but I cannot remember that they bore any fruit save a group of serious little girls. I know there were no Apples on the Playhouse Apple trees in my garden, nor on the one in Nelly Gilbert's or Ella Partridge's garden. There is no play place for girls like an old Apple tree. The main limbs leave the trunk at exactly the right height for children to reach, and every branch and twig seems to grow and turn only to form delightful perches for children to climb among and cling to. Some Apple trees in our town had a copy of an Elizabethan garden furnishing; their branches enclosed tree platforms about twelve feet from the ground, reached by a narrow ladder or flight of steps. These were built by generous parents for their children's playhouses, but their approach of ladder was too unhazardous, their railings too safety-assuring, to prove anything but conventional and uninteresting. The natural Apple tree offered infinite variety, and a slight sense of daring to the climber. Its possibility of accident was fulfilled; untold number of broken arms and ribs--juvenile--were resultant from falls from Apple trees. [Illustration: Pressing out Cider in Old Hand Mill.] One of Thoreau's Apples was the Green Apple (_Malus viridis_, or _Cholera morbifera puerelis delectissima_). I know not for how many centuries boys (and girls too) have eaten and suffered from green apples. A description was written in 1684 which might have happened any summer since; I quote it with reminiscent delight, for I have the same love for the spirited relation that I had in my early youth when I never, for a moment, in spite of the significant names, deemed the entire book anything but a real story; the notion that _Pilgrim's Progress_ was an allegory never entered my mind. "Now there was on the other side of the wall a _Garden_. And some of the Fruit-Trees that grew in the Garden shot their Branches over the Wall, and being mellow, they that found them did gather them up and oft eat of them to their hurt. So _Christiana's_ Boys, _as Boys are apt to do_, being _pleas'd_ with the Trees did _Plash_ them and began to eat. Their Mother did also chide them for so doing, but still the Boys went on. Now _Matthew_ the Eldest Son of _Christiana_ fell sick.... There dwelt not far from thence one Mr. _Skill_ an Ancient and well approved Physician. So Christiana desired it and they sent for him and he came. And when he was entered the Room and a little observed the Boy he concluded that he was sick of the Gripes. Then he said to his Mother, _What Diet has Matthew of late fed upon_? _Diet_, said Christiana, _nothing but which is wholesome_. The Physician answered, _This Boy has been tampering with something that lies in his Maw undigested_.... Then said Samuel, _Mother, Mother, what was that which my brother did gather up and eat. You know there was an Orchard and my Brother did plash and eat. True, my child_, said Christiana, _naughty boy as he was. I did chide him and yet he would eat thereof._" The realistic treatment of Mr. Skill and Matthew's recovery thereby need not be quoted. An historic Apple much esteemed in Connecticut and Rhode Island, and often planted at the edge of the flower garden, is called the Sapson, or Early Sapson, Sapson Sweet, Sapsyvine, and in Pennsylvania, Wine-sap. The name is a corruption of the old English Apple name, Sops-o'-wine. It is a charming little red-cheeked Apple of early autumn, slightly larger than a healthy Crab-apple. The clear red of its skin perfuses in coral-colored veins and beautiful shadings to its very core. It has a condensed, spicy, aromatic flavor, not sharp like a Crab-apple, but it makes a better jelly even than the Crab-apple--jelly of a ruby color with an almost wine-like flavor, a true Sops-of-wine. This fruit is deemed so choice that I have known the sale of a farm to halt for some weeks until it could be proved that certain Apple trees in the orchard bore the esteemed Sapsyvines. Under New England and New York farm-houses was a cellar filled with bins for vegetables and apples. As the winter passed on there rose from these cellars a curious, earthy, appley smell, which always seemed most powerful in the best parlor, the room least used. How Schiller, who loved the scent of rotten apples, would have rejoiced! The cellar also contained many barrels of cider; for the beauty of the Apple trees, and the use of their fruit as food, were not the only factors which influenced the planting of the many Apple orchards of the new world; they afforded a universal drink--cider. I have written at length, in my books, _Home Life in Colonial Days_ and _Stage-Coach and Tavern Days_, the history of the vogue and manufacture of cider in the new world. The cherished Apple orchards of Endicott, Blackstone, Wolcott, and Winthrop were so speedily multiplied that by 1670 cider was plentiful and cheap everywhere. By the opening of the eighteenth century it had wholly crowded out beer and metheglin; and was the drink of old and young on all occasions. [Illustration: Old Horse-lever Cider Mill.] At first, cider was made by pounding the Apples by hand in wooden mortars; then simple mills were formed of a hollowed log and a spring board. Rude hand presses, such as are shown on pages 198 and 200, were known in 1660, and lingered to our own day. Kalm, the Swedish naturalist, saw ancient horse presses (like the one depicted on this page) in use in the Hudson River Valley in 1749. In autumn the whole country-side was scented with the sour, fruity smell from these cider mills; and the gift of a draught of sweet cider to any passer-by was as ample and free as of water from the brookside. The cider when barrelled and stored for winter was equally free to all comers, as well it might be, when many families stored a hundred barrels for winter use. [Illustration: "Straining off" the Cider.] The Washingtonian or Temperance reform which swept over this country like a purifying wind in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, found many temporizers who tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating drinks which converts pledged themselves to abandon. Some farmers who adopted this much-needed movement against the all-prevailing vice of drunkenness received it with fanatic zeal. It makes the heart of the Apple lover ache to read that in this spirit they cut down whole orchards of flourishing Apple trees, since they could conceive no adequate use for their apples save for cider. That any should have tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating beverages seems barefaced indeed to those who have tasted that most potent of all spirits--frozen cider. I once drank a small modicum of Jericho cider, as smooth as Benedictine and more persuasive, which made a raw day in April seem like sunny midsummer. I afterward learned from the ingenuous Long Island farmer whose hospitality gave me this liqueur that it had been frozen seven times. Each time he had thrust a red-hot poker into the bung-hole of the barrel, melted all the watery ice and poured it out; therefore the very essence of the cider was all that remained. It is interesting to note the folk customs of Old England which have lingered here, such as domestic love divinations. The poet Gay wrote:-- "I pare this Pippin round and round again, My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain. I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head, Upon the grass a perfect L. is read." I have seen New England schoolgirls, scores of times, thus toss an "unbroken paring." An ancient trial of my youth was done with Apple seeds; these were named for various swains, then slightly wetted and stuck on the cheek or forehead, while we chanted:-- "Pippin! Pippin! Paradise! Tell me where my true love lies!" The seed that remained longest in place indicated the favored and favoring lover. With the neglect in this country of Saints' Days and the Puritanical frowning down of all folk customs connected with them, we lost the delightful wassailing of the Apple trees. This, like many another religious observance, was a relic of heathen sacrifice, in this case to Pomona. It was celebrated with slight variations in various parts of England; and was called an Apple howling, a wassailing, a youling, and other terms. The farmer and his workmen carried to the orchard great jugs of cider or milk pans filled with cider and roasted apples. Encircling in turn the best bearing trees, they drank from "clayen-cups," and poured part of the contents on the ground under the trees. And while they wassailed the trees they sang:-- "Here's to thee, old Apple tree! Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow! Hats full! caps full, Bushel--Bushel--sacks full, And my pockets full too." Another Devonshire rhyme ran:-- "Health to thee, good Apple tree! Well to bear pocket-fulls, hat-fulls, Peck-fulls, bushel bag-fulls." The wassailing of the trees gave place in America to a jovial autumnal gathering known as an Apple cut, an Apple paring, or an Apple bee. The cheerful kitchen of the farm-house was set out with its entire array of empty pans, pails, tubs, and baskets. Heaped-up barrels of apples stood in the centre of the room. The many skilful hands of willing neighbors emptied the barrels, and with sharp knives or an occasional Apple parer, filled the empty vessels with cleanly pared and quartered apples. When the work was finished, divinations with Apple parings and Apple seeds were tried, simple country games were played; occasionally there was a fiddler and a dance. An autumnal supper was served from the three zones of the farm-house: nuts from the attic, Apples from the pantry, and cider from the cellar. The apple-quarters intended for drying were strung on homespun linen thread and hung out of doors on clear drying days. A humble hillside home in New Hampshire thus quaintly festooned is shown in the illustration opposite page 208--a characteristic New Hampshire landscape. When thoroughly dried in sun and wind, these sliced apples were stored for the winter by being hung from rafter to rafter of various living rooms, and remained thus for months (gathering vast accumulations of dust and germs for our blissfully ignorant and unsqueamish grandparents) until the early days of spring, when Apple sauce, Apple butter, and the stores of Apple bin and Apple pit were exhausted, and they then afforded, after proper baths and soakings, the wherewithal for that domestic comestible--dried Apple pie. The Swedish parson, Dr. Acrelius, writing home to Sweden in 1758 an account of the settlement of Delaware, said:-- "Apple pie is used throughout the whole year, and when fresh Apples are no longer to be had, dried ones are used. It is the evening meal of children. House pie, in country places, is made of Apples neither peeled nor freed from their cores, and its crust is not broken if a wagon wheel goes over it." I always had an undue estimation of Apple pie in my childhood, from an accidental cause: we were requested by the conscientious teacher in our Sunday-school to "take out" each week without fail from the "Select Library" of the school a "Sabbath-school Library Book." The colorless, albeit pious, contents of the books classed under that title are well known to those of my generation; even such a child of the Puritans as I was could not read them. There were two anchors in that sea of despair,--but feeble holds would they seem to-day,--the first volumes of _Queechy_ and _The Wide, Wide World_. With the disingenuousness of childhood I satisfied the rules of the school and my own conscience by carrying home these two books, and no others, on alternate Sundays for certainly two years. The only wonder in the matter was that the transaction escaped my Mother's eye for so long a time. I read only isolated scenes; of these the favorite was the one wherein Fleda carries to the woods for the hungry visitor, who was of the English nobility, several large and toothsome sections of green Apple pie and cheese. The prominence given to that Apple pie in that book and in my two years of reading idealized it. On a glorious day last October I drove to New Canaan, the town which was the prototype of Queechy. Hungry as ever in childhood from the clear autumnal air and the long drive from Lenox, we asked for luncheon at what was reported to be a village hostelry. The exact counterpart of Miss Cynthia Gall responded rather sourly that she wasn't "boarding or baiting" that year. Humble entreaties for provender of any kind elicited from her for each of us a slice of cheese and a large and truly noble section of Apple pie, the very pie of Fleda's tale, which we ate with a bewildered sense as of a previous existence. This was intensified as we strolled to the brook under the Queechy Sugar Maples, and gathered there the great-grandchildren of Fleda's Watercresses, and heard the sound of Hugh's sawmills. [Illustration: Drying Apples.] Six hundred years ago English gentlewomen and goodwives were cooking Apples just as we cook them now--they even had Apple pie. A delightful recipe of the fourteenth century was for "Appeluns for a Lorde, in opyntide." Opyntide was springtime; this was, therefore, a spring dish fit for a lord. Apple-moy and Apple-mos, Apple Tansy, and Pommys-morle were delightful dishes and very rich food as well. The word pomatum has now no association with _pomum_, but originally pomatum was made partly of Apples. In an old "Dialog between Soarness and Chirurgi," written by one Dr. Bulleyne in the days of Queen Elizabeth, is found this question and its answer:-- "_Soarness._ How make you pomatum? "_Chirurgi._ Take the fat of a yearly kyd one pound, temper it with the water of musk-roses by the space of foure dayes, then take five apples, and dresse them, and cut them in pieces, and lard them with cloves, then boyl them altogeather in the same water of roses in one vessel of glasse set within another vessel, let it boyl on the fyre so long tyll it all be white, then wash them with the same water of muske-roses, this done kepe it in a glasse and if you will have it to smell better, then you must put in a little civet or musk, or both, or ambergrice. Gentil women doe use this to make theyr faces fayr and smooth, for it healeth cliftes in the lippes, or in any places of the hands and face." With the omission of the civet or musk I am sure this would make to-day a delightful cream; but there is one condition which the "gentil woman" of to-day could scarcely furnish--the infinite patience and leisure which accompanied and perfected all such domestic work three centuries ago. A pomander was made of "the maste of a sweet Apple tree being gathered betwixt two Lady days," mixed with various sweet-scented drugs and gums and Rose leaves, and shaped into a ball or bracelet. The successor of the pomander was the Clove Apple, or "Comfort Apple," an Apple stuck solidly with cloves. In country communities, one was given as an expression of sympathy in trouble or sorrow. Visiting a country "poorhouse" recently, we were shown a "Comfort-apple" which had been sent to one of the inmates by a friend; for even paupers have friends. "Taffaty tarts" were of paste filled with Apples sweetened and seasoned with Lemon, Rose-water, and Fennel seed. Apple-sticklin', Apple-stucklin, Apple-twelin, Apple-hoglin, are old English provincial names of Apple pie; Apple-betty is a New England term. The Apple Slump of New England homes was not the "slump-pye" of old England, which was a rich mutton pie flavored with wine and jelly, and covered with a rich confection of nuts and fruit. [Illustration: Ancient Apple Picker, Apple Racks, Apple Parers, Apple-butter Kettle, Apple-butter Paddle, Apple-butter Stirrer, Apple-butter Crocks.] In Pennsylvania, among the people known as the Pennsylvania Dutch, the Apple frolic was universal. Each neighbor brought his or her own Apple parer. This people make great use of Apples and cider in their food, and have many curious modes of cooking them. Dr. Heilman in his paper on "The Old Cider Mill" tells of their delicacy of "cider time" called cider soup, made of equal parts of cider and water, boiled and thickened with sweet cream and flour; when ready to serve, bits of bread or toast are placed in it. "Mole cider" is made of boiling cider thickened to a syrup with beaten eggs and milk. But of greatest importance, both for home consumption and for the market, is the staple known as Apple butter. This is made from sweet cider boiled down to about one-third its original quantity. To this is added an equal weight of sliced Apples, about a third as much of molasses, and various spices, such as cloves, ginger, mace, cinnamon or even pepper, all boiled together for twelve or fifteen hours. Often the great kettle is filled with cider in the morning, and boiled and stirred constantly all day, then the sliced Apples are added at night, and the monotonous stirring continues till morning, when the butter can be packed in jars and kegs for winter use. This Apple butter is not at all like Apple sauce; it has no granulated appearance, but is smooth and solid like cheese and dark red in color. Apple butter is stirred by a pole having upon one end a perforated blade or paddle set at right angles. Sometimes a bar was laid from rim to rim of the caldron, and worked by a crank that turned a similar paddle. A collection of ancient utensils used in making Apple butter is shown on page 211; these are from the collections of the Bucks County Historical Society. Opposite page 214 is shown an ancient open-air fireplace and an old couple making Apple butter just as they have done for over half a century. In New England what the "hired man" on the farm called "biled cider Apple sass," took the place of Apple butter. Preferably this was made in the "summer kitchen," where three kettles, usually of graduated sizes, could be set over the fire; the three kettles could be hung from a crane, or trammels. All were filled with cider, and as the liquid boiled away in the largest kettle it was filled from the second and that from the third. The fresh cider was always poured into the third kettle, thus the large kettle was never checked in its boiling. This continued till the cider was as thick as molasses. Apples (preferably Pound Sweets or Pumpkin Sweets) had been chosen with care, pared, cored, and quartered, and heated in a small kettle. These were slowly added to the thickened cider, in small quantities, in order not to check the boiling. The rule was to cook them till so softened that a rye straw could be run into them, and yet they must retain their shape. This was truly a critical time; the slightest scorched flavor would ruin the whole kettleful. A great wooden, long-handled, shovel-like ladle was used to stir the sauce fiercely until it was finished in triumph. Often a barrel of this was made by our grandmothers, and frozen solid for winter use. The farmer and "hired men" ate it clear as a relish with meats; and it was suited to appetites and digestions which had been formed by a diet of salted meats, fried breads, many pickles, and the drinking of hot cider sprinkled with pepper. Emerson well named the Apple the social fruit of New England. It ever has been and is still the grateful promoter and unfailing aid to informal social intercourse in the country-side; but the Apple tree is something far nobler even than being the sign of cheerful and cordial acquaintance; it is the beautiful rural emblem of industrious and temperate home life. Hence, let us wassail with a will:-- "Here's to thee, old Apple tree! Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow!" [Illustration: Making Apple Butter.] CHAPTER IX GARDENS OF THE POETS "The chief use of flowers is to illustrate quotations from the poets." All English poets have ever been ready to sing English flowers until jesters have laughed, and to sing garden flowers as well as wild flowers. Few have really described a garden, though the orderly distribution of flowers might be held to be akin to the restraint of rhyme and rhythm in poetry. [Illustration: Shakespeare Border at Hillside.] It has been the affectionate tribute and happy diversion of those who love both poetry and flowers to note the flowers beloved of various poets, and gather them together, either in a book or a garden. The pages of Milton cannot be forced, even by his most ardent admirers, to indicate any intimate knowledge of flowers. He certainly makes some very elegant classical allusions to flowers and fruits, and some amusingly vague ones as well. "The Flowers of Spenser," and "A Posy from Chaucer," are the titles of most readable chapters in _A Garden of Simples_, but the allusions and quotations from both authors are pleasing and interesting, rather than informing as to the real variety and description of the flowers of their day. Nearly all the older English poets, though writing glibly of woods and vales, of shepherds and swains, of buds and blossoms, scarcely allude to a flower in a natural way. Herrick was truly a flower lover, and, as the critic said, "many flowers grow to illustrate quotations from his works." The flowers named of Shakespeare have been written about in varied books, _Shakespeare's Garden_, _Shakespeare's Bouquet_, _Flowers from Stratford-on-Avon_, etc. These are easily led in fulness of detail, exactness of information, and delightful literary quality by that truly perfect book, beloved of all garden lovers, _The Plant Lore and Garden Craft of Shakespeare_, by Canon Ellacombe. Of it I never weary, and for it I am ever grateful. Shakespeare Gardens, or Shakespeare Borders, too, are laid out and set with every tree, shrub, and flower named in Shakespeare, and these are over two hundred in number. A distinguishing mark of the Shakespeare Border of Lady Warwick is the peculiar label set alongside each plant. This label is of pottery, greenish-brown in tint, shaped like a butterfly, bearing on its wings a quotation of a few words and the play reference relating to each special plant. Of course these words have been fired in and are thus permanent. Pretty as they are in themselves they must be disfiguring to the borders--as all labels are in a garden. In the garden at Hillside, near Albany, New York, grows a green and flourishing Shakespeare Border, gathered ten years ago by the mistress of the garden. I use the terms green and flourishing with exactness in this connection, for a great impression made by this border is of its thriving health, and also of the predominance of green leafage of every variety, shape, manner of growth, and oddness of tint. In this latter respect it is infinitely more beautiful than the ordinary border, varying from silvery glaucous green through greens of yellow or brownish shade to the blue-black greens of some herbs; and among these green leaves are many of sweet or pungent scent, and of medicinal qualities, such as are seldom grown to-day save in some such choice and chosen spot. There is less bloom in this Shakespeare Border than in our modern flower beds, and the flowers are not so large or brilliant as our modern favorites; but, quiet as they are, they are said to excel the blossoms of the same plants of Shakespeare's own day, which we learn from the old herbalists were smaller and less varied in color and of simpler tints than those of their descendants. At the first glance this Shakespeare Border shines chiefly in the light of the imagination, as stirred by the poet's noble words; but do not dwell on this border as a whole, as something only to be looked at; read the pages of this garden, dwell on each leafy sentence, and you are entranced with its beautiful significance. It was not gathered with so much thought, and each plant and seed set out and watched and reared like a delicate child, to become a show place; it appeals for a more intimate regard; and we find that its detail makes its charm. Such a garden as this appeals warmly to anyone who is sensitive to the imaginative element of flower beauty. Many garden makers forget that a flower bed is a group of living beings--perhaps of sentient beings--as well as a mass of beautiful color. Modern gardens tend far too much toward the display of the united effect of growing plants, to a striving for universal brilliancy, rather than attention to and love for separate flowers. There was refreshment of spirit as well as of the senses in the old-time garden of flowers, such as these planted in this Shakespeare Border, and it stirred the heart of the poet as could no modern flower gardens. [Illustration: Long Border at Hillside.] The scattering inflorescence and the tiny size of the blossoms give to this Shakespeare Border an unusual aspect of demureness and delicacy, and the plants seem to cling with affection and trust to the path of their human protector; they look simple and confiding, and seem close both to nature and to man. This homelike and modest quality is shown, I think, even in the presentation in black and white given on page 216 and opposite page 218, though it shows still more in the garden when the wide range of tint of foliage is added. A most appropriate companion of the old flowers in this Shakespeare Border is the sun-dial, which is an exact copy of the one at Abbotsford, Scotland. It bears the motto [Greek: ERCHETAI GAR NYX] meaning, "For the night cometh." It was chosen by Sir Walter Scott, for his sun-dial, as a solemn monitor to himself of the hour "when no man can work." It was copied from a motto on the dial-plate of the watch of the great Dr. Samuel Johnson; and it is curious that in both cases the word [Greek: GAR] should be introduced, for it is not in the clause in the New Testament from which the motto was taken. It is a beautiful motto and one of singular appropriateness for a sun-dial. The pedestal of this sun-dial is of simple lines, but it is dignified and pleasing, aside from the great interest of association which surrounds it. [Illustration: The Beauty of Winter Lilacs.] I had a happy sense, when walking through this garden, that, besides my congenial living companionship, I had the company of some noble Elizabethan ghosts; and I know that if Shakespeare and Jonson and Herrick were to come to Hillside, they would find the garden so familiar to them; they would greet the plants like old friends, they would note how fine grew the Rosemary this year, how sweet were the Lady's-smocks, how fair the Gillyflowers. And Gerarde and Parkinson would ponder, too, over all the herbs and simples of their own Physick Gardens, and compare notes. Above all I seemed to see, walking soberly by my side, breathing in with delight the varied scents of leaf and blossom, that lover and writer of flowers and gardens, Lord Bacon--and not in the disguise of Shakespeare either. For no stronger proofs can be found of the existence of two individualities than are in the works of each of these men, in their sentences and pages which relate to gardens and flowers. This fair garden and Shakespeare Border are loveliest in the cool of the day, in the dawn or at early eve; and those who muse may then remember another Presence in a garden in the cool of the day. And then I recall that gem of English poesy which always makes me pitiful of its author; that he could write this, and yet, in his hundreds of pages of English verse, make not another memorable line:-- "A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot; Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot, The veriest school of Peace; And yet the fool Contends that God is not in gardens. Not in gardens! When the eve is cool! Nay, but I have a sign. 'Tis very sure God walks in mine." Shakespeare Borders grow very readily and freely in England, save in the case of the few tropical flowers and trees named in the pages of the great dramatist; but this Shakespeare Border at Hillside needs much cherishing. The plants of Heather and Broom and Gorse have to be specially coddled by transplanting under cold frames during the long winter months in frozen Albany; and thus they find vast contrast to their free, unsheltered life in Great Britain. [Illustration: Garden of Mrs. Frank Robinson, Wakefield, Rhode Island.] Persistent efforts have been made to acclimate both Heather and Gorse in America. We have seen how Broom came uninvited and spread unasked on the Massachusetts coast; but Gorse and Heather have proved shy creatures. On the beautiful island of Naushon the carefully planted Gorse may be found spread in widely scattered spots and also on the near-by mainland, but it cannot be said to have thrived markedly. The Scotch Heather, too, has been frequently planted, and watched and pushed, but it is slow to become acclimated. It is not because the winters are too cold, for it is found in considerable amount in bitter Newfoundland; perhaps it prefers to live under a crown. Modern authors have seldom given their names to gardens, not even Tennyson with his intimate and extended knowledge of garden flowers. A Mary Howitt Garden was planned, full of homely old blooms, such as she loves to name in her verse; but it would have slight significance save to its maker, since no one cares to read Mary Howitt nowadays. In that charming book, _Sylvana's Letters to an Unknown Friend_ (which I know were written to me), the author, E. V. B., says, "The very ideal of a garden, and the only one I know, is found in Shelley's _Sensitive Plant_." With quick championing of a beloved poet, I at once thought of the radiant garden of flowers in Keats's heart and poems. Then I reread the _Sensitive Plant_ in a spirit of utmost fairness and critical friendliness, and I am willing to yield the Shelley Garden to Sylvana, while I keep, for my own delight, my Keats garden of sunshine, color, and warmth. That Keats had a profound knowledge and love of flowers is shown in his letters as well as his poems. Only a few months before his death, when stricken with and fighting a fatal disease, he wrote:-- "How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon me! Like poor Falstaff, though I do not babble, I think of green fields. I muse with greatest affection on every flower I have known from my infancy--their shapes and colors are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of my life." Near the close of his _Endymion_ he wrote:-- "Nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it." In the summer of 1816, under the influence of a happy day at Hampstead, he wrote that lovely poem, "I stood tiptoe upon a little hill." After a description of the general scene, a special corner of beauty is thus told:-- "A bush of May flowers with the bees about them-- Ah, sure no bashful nook could be without them-- And let a lush Laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the Violets That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A Filbert hedge with Wild-brier over trim'd, And clumps of Woodbine taking the soft wind, Upon their summer thrones...." Then come these wonderful lines, which belittle all other descriptions of Sweet Peas:-- "Here are Sweet Peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things To bind them all about with tiny wings." Keats states in his letters that his love of flowers was wholly for those of the "common garden sort," not for flowers of the greenhouse or difficult cultivation, nor do I find in his lines any evidence of extended familiarity with English wild flowers. He certainly does not know the flowers of woods and fields as does Matthew Arnold. [Illustration: The Parson's Walk.] The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table says: "Did you ever hear a poet who did not talk flowers? Don't you think a poem which for the sake of being original should leave them out, would be like those verses where the letter _a_ or _e_, or some other, is omitted? No; they will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new." The Autocrat himself knew well a poet who never talked flowers in his poems, a poet beloved of all other poets,--Arthur Hugh Clough,--though he loved and knew all flowers. From Matthew Arnold's beautiful tribute to him, are a few of his wonderful flower lines, cut out from their fellows:-- "Through the thick Corn the scarlet Poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue Convolvulus in tendrils creep, And air-swept Lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom..., * * * * * "Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the Musk Carnations break and swell. Soon shall we have gold-dusted Snapdragon, Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell, And Stocks in fragrant blow." Oh, what a master hand! Where in all English verse are fairer flower hues? And where is a more beautiful description of a midsummer evening, than Arnold's exquisite lines beginning:-- "The evening comes; the fields are still; The tinkle of the thirsty rill." Dr. Holmes was also a master in the description of garden flowers. I should know, had I never been told save from his verses, just the kind of a Cambridge garden he was reared in, and what flowers grew in it. Lowell, too, gives ample evidence of a New England childhood in a garden. The gardens of Shenstone's _Schoolmistress_ and of Thomson's poems come to our minds without great warmth of welcome from us; while Clare's lines are full of charm:-- "And where the Marjoram once, and Sage and Rue, And Balm, and Mint, with curl'd leaf Parsley grew, And double Marigolds, and silver Thyme, And Pumpkins 'neath the window climb. And where I often, when a child, for hours Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers, As Lady's Laces, everlasting Peas, True-love-lies-bleeding, with the Hearts-at-ease And Goldenrods, and Tansy running high, That o'er the pale tops smiled on passers by." A curious old seventeenth-century poet was the Jesuit, René Rapin. The copy of his poem entitled _Gardens_ which I have seen, is the one in my daughter's collection of garden books; it was "English'd by the Ingenious Mr. Gardiner," and published in 1728. Hallam in his _Introduction to the Literature of Europe_ gives a capital estimate of this long poem of over three thousand lines. I find them pretty dull reading, with much monotony of adjectives, and very affected notions for plant names. I fancy he manufactured all his tedious plant traditions himself. [Illustration: Garden of Mary Washington.] A pleasing little book entitled _Dante's Garden_ has collected evidence, from his writings, of Dante's love of green, growing things. The title is rather strained, since he rarely names individual flowers, and only refers vaguely to their emblematic significance. I would have entitled the book _Dante's Forest_, since he chiefly refers to trees; and the Italian gardens of his days were of trees rather than flowers. There are passages in his writings which have led some of his worshippers to believe that his childhood was passed in a garden; but these references are very indeterminate. The picture of a deserted garden, with its sad sentiment has charmed the fancy of many a poet. Hood, a true flower-lover, wrote this jingle in his _Haunted House_:-- "The Marigold amidst the nettles blew, The Gourd embrac'd the Rose bush in its ramble. The Thistle and the Stock together grew, The Hollyhock and Bramble. "The Bearbine with the Lilac interlaced, The sturdy Burdock choked its tender neighbor, The spicy Pink. All tokens were effaced Of human care and labor." These lines are a great contrast to the dignified versification of The Old Garden, by Margaret Deland, a garden around which a great city has grown. "Around it is the street, a restless arm That clasps the country to the city's heart." No one could read this poem without knowing that the author is a true garden lover, and knowing as well that she spent her childhood in a garden. Another American poet, Edith Thomas, writes exquisitely of old gardens and garden flowers. "The pensile Lilacs still their favors throw. The Star of Lilies, plenteous long ago, Waits on the summer dusk, and faileth not. The legions of the grass in vain would blot The spicy Box that marks the garden row. Let but the ground some human tendance know, It long remaineth an engentled spot." Let me for a moment, through the suggestion of her last two lines, write of the impress left on nature through flower planting. "The garden long remaineth an engentled spot." You cannot for years stamp out the mark of a garden; intentional destruction may obliterate the garden borders, but neglect never. The delicate flowers die, but some sturdy things spring up happily and seem gifted with everlasting life. Fifteen years ago a friend bought an old country seat on Long Island; near the site of the new house, an old garden was ploughed deep and levelled to a lawn. Every year since then the patient gardeners pull up, on this lawn, in considerable numbers, Mallows, Campanulas, Star of Bethlehem, Bouncing-bets and innumerable Asparagus shoots, and occasionally the seedlings of other flowers which have bided their time in the dark earth. Traces of the residence of Sir Walter Raleigh in Ireland may still be seen in the growth of richly perfumed wall-flowers which he brought from the Azores. The Affane Cherry is found where he planted it, and some of his Cedars are living. The summer-house of Yew trees sheltered him when he smoked in the garden, and in this garden he planted Tobacco. Near by is the famous spot where he planted what were then called Virginian Potatoes. By that planting they acquired the name of Irish Potatoes. I have spoken of the Prince Nurseries in Flushing; the old nurserymen left a more lasting mark than their Nurseries, in the rare trees and plants now found on the roads, and in the fields and gardens for many miles around Flushing. With the Parsons family, who have been, since 1838, distributors of unusual plants, especially the splendid garden treasures from China and Japan, they have made Flushing a delightful nature-study. In the humblest dooryard, and by the wayside in outlying parts of the town, may be seen rare and beautiful old trees: a giant purple Beech is in a laborer's yard; fine Cedars, Salisburias, red-flowered Horse-chestnuts, Japanese flowering Quinces and Cherries, and even rare Japanese Maples are to be found; a few survivors of the Chinese Mulberry have a romantic interest as mementoes of a giant bubble of ruin. The largest Scotch Laburnum I ever saw, glorious in golden bloom, is behind an unkempt house. On the Parsons estate is a weeping Beech of unusual size. Its branches trail on the ground in a vast circumference of 222 feet, forming a great natural arbor. The beautiful vernal light in this tree bower may be described in Andrew Marvell's words:-- "Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade." [Illustration: Box and Phlox.] The photograph of it, shown opposite page 232, gives some scant idea of its leafy walls; it has been for years the fit trysting-place of lovers, as is shown by the initials carved on the great trunk. Great Judas trees, sadly broken yet bravely blooming; decayed hedges of several kinds of Lilacs, Syringas, Snowballs, and Yuccas of princely size and bearing still linger. Everywhere are remnants of Box hedges. One unkempt dooryard of an old Dutch farm-house was glorified with a broad double row of yellow Lily at least sixty feet in length. Everywhere is Wistaria, on porches, fences, houses, and trees; the abundant Dogwood trees are often overgrown with Wistaria. The most exquisite sight of the floral year was the largest Dogwood tree I have ever seen, radiant with starry white bloom, and hung to the tip of every white-flowered branch with the drooping amethystine racemes of Wistaria of equal luxuriance. Golden-yellow Laburnum blooms were in one case mingled with both purple and white Wistaria. These yellow, purple, and white blooms of similar shape were a curious sight, as if a single plant had been grafted. As I rode past so many glimpses of loveliness mingled with so much present squalor, I could but think of words of the old hymn:-- "Where every prospect pleases And only man is vile." Could the hedges, trees, and vines which came from the Prince and Parsons Nurseries have been cared for, northeastern Long Island, which is part of the city of Greater New York, would still be what it was named by the early explorers, "The Pearl of New Netherland." [Illustration: Within the Weeping Beech.] CHAPTER X THE CHARM OF COLOR "How strange are the freaks of memory, The lessons of life we forget. While a trifle, a trick of color, In the wonderful web is set." --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The quality of charm in color is most subtle; it is like the human attribute known as fascination, "whereof," says old Cotton Mather, "men have more Experience than Comprehension." Certainly some alliance of color with a form suited or wonted to it is necessary to produce a gratification of the senses. Thus in the leaves of plants every shade of green is pleasing; then why is there no charm in a green flower? The green of Mignonette bloom would scarcely be deemed beautiful were it not for our association of it with the delicious fragrance. White is the absence of color. In flowers a pure chalk-white, and a snow-white (which is bluish) is often found; but more frequently the white flower blushes a little, or is warmed with yellow, or has green veins. Where green runs into the petals of a white flower, its beauty hangs by a slender thread. If the green lines have any significance, as have the faint green checkerings of the Fritillary, which I have described elsewhere in this book, they add to its interest; but ordinarily they make the petals seem undeveloped. The Snowdrop bears the mark of one of the few tints of green which we like in white flowers; its "heart-shaped seal of green," sung by Rossetti, has been noted by many other poets. Tennyson wrote:-- "Pure as lines of green that streak the white Of the first Snowdrop's inner leaves." [Illustration: Spring Snowflake.] A cousin of the Snowdrop, is the "Spring Snowflake" or Leucojum, called also by New England country folk "High Snowdrop." It bears at the end of each snowy petal a tiny exact spot of green; and I think it must have been the flower sung by Leigh Hunt:-- "The nice-leaved lesser Lilies, Shading like detected light Their little green-tipt lamps of white." The illustration on page 234 shows the graceful growth of the flower and its exquisitely precise little green-dotted petals, but it has not caught its luminous whiteness, which seems almost of phosphorescent brightness in each little flower. The Star of Bethlehem is a plant in which the white and green of the leaf is curiously repeated in the flower. Gardeners seldom admit this flower now to their gardens, it so quickly crowds out everything else; it has become on Long Island nothing but a weed. The high-growing Star of Bethlehem is a pretty thing. A bed of it in my sister's garden is shown on page 237. It is curious that when all agree that green flowers have no beauty and scant charm, that a green flower should have been one of the best-loved flowers of my home garden. But this love does not come from any thought of the color or beauty of the flower, but from association. It was my mother's favorite, hence it is mine. It was her favorite because she loved its clear, pure, spicy fragrance. This ever present and ever welcome scent which pervades the entire garden if leaf or flower of the loved Ambrosia be crushed, is curious and characteristic, a true "ambrosiack odor," to use Ben Jonson's words. A vivid description of Ambrosia is that of Gerarde in his delightful _Herball_. "Oke of Jerusalem, or Botrys, hath sundry small stems a foote and a halfe high dividing themselves into many small branches. The leafe very much resembling the leafe of an Oke, which hath caused our English women to call it Oke of Jerusalem. The upper side of the leafe is a deepe greene and somewhat rough and hairy, but underneath it is of a darke reddish or purple colour. The seedie floures grow clustering about the branches like the yong clusters or blowings of the Vine. The roote is small and thriddy. The whole herbe is of a pleasant smell and savour, and the whole plant dieth when the seed is ripe. Oke of Jerusalem is of divers called Ambrosia." Ambrosia has been loved for many centuries by Englishwomen; it is in the first English list of names of plants, which was made in 1548 by one Dr. Turner; and in this list it is called "Ambrose." He says of it:-- "Botrys is called in englishe, Oke of Hierusalem, in duche, trauben kraute, in french pijmen. It groweth in gardines muche in England." Ambrosia has now died out "in gardines muche in England." I have had many letters from English flower lovers telling me they know it not; and I have had the pleasure of sending the seeds to several old English and Scotch gardens, where I hope it will once more grow and flourish, for I am sure it must feel at home. [Illustration: Star of Bethlehem.] The seeds of this beloved Ambrosia, which filled my mother's garden in every spot in which it could spring, and which overflowed with cheerful welcome into the gardens of our neighbors, was given her from the garden of a great-aunt in Walpole, New Hampshire. This Walpole garden was a famous gathering of old-time favorites, and it had the delightful companionship of a wild garden. On a series of terraces with shelving banks, which reached down to a stream, the boys of the family planted, seventy years ago, a myriad of wild flowers, shrubs, and trees, from the neighboring woods. By the side of the garden great Elm trees sheltered scores of beautiful gray squirrels; and behind the house and garden an orchard led to the wheat fields, which stretched down to the broad Connecticut River. All flowers thrived there, both in the Box-bordered beds and in the wild garden, perhaps because the morning mists from the river helped out the heavy buckets of water from the well during the hot summer weeks. Even in winter the wild garden was beautiful from the brilliant Bittersweet which hung from every tree. [Illustration: "The Pearl."] Here Ambrosia was plentiful, but is plentiful no longer; and Walpole garden lovers seek seeds of it from the Worcester garden. I think it dies out generally when all the weeding and garden care is done by gardeners; they assume that the little plants of such modest bearing are weeds, and pull them up, with many other precious seedlings of the old garden, in their desire to have ample expanse of naked dirt. One of the charms which was permitted to the old garden was its fulness. Nature there certainly abhorred a vacant space. The garden soil was full of resources; it had a seed for every square inch; it seemed to have a reserve store ready to crowd into any space offered by the removal or dying down of a plant at any time. Let me tell of a curious thing I found in an old book, anent our subject--green flowers. It shows that we must not accuse our modern sensation lovers, either in botany or any other science, of being the only ones to add artifice to nature. The green Carnation has been chosen to typify the decadence and monstrosity of the end of the nineteenth century; but nearly two hundred years ago a London fruit and flower grower, named Richard Bradley, wrote a treatise upon field husbandry and garden culture, and in it he tells of a green Carnation which "a certayn fryar" produced by grafting a Carnation upon a Fennel stalk. The flowers were green for several years, then nature overcame decadent art. There be those who are so enamoured of the color green and of foliage, that they care little for flowers of varied tint; even in a garden, like the old poet Marvell, they deem,-- "No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green." Such folk could scarce find content in an American garden; for our American gardeners must confess, with Shakespeare's clown: "I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir, I have not much skill in grass." Our lawns are not old enough. A charming greenery of old English gardens was the bowling-green. We once had them in our colonies, as the name of a street in our greatest city now proves; and I deem them a garden fashion well-to-be-revived. The laws of color preference differ with the size of expanses. Our broad fields often have pleasing expanses of leafage other than green, and flowers that are as all-pervading as foliage. Many flowers of the field have their day, when each seems to be queen, a short day, but its rights none dispute. Snow of Daisies, yellow of Dandelions, gold of Buttercups, purple pinkness of Clover, Innocence, Blue-eyed Grass, Milkweed, none reign more absolutely in every inch of the fields than that poverty stricken creature, the Sorrel. William Morris warns us that "flowers in masses are mighty strong color," and must be used with much caution in a garden. But there need be no fear of massed color in a field, as being ever gaudy or cloying. An approach to the beauty and satisfaction of nature's plentiful field may be artificially obtained as an adjunct to the garden in a flower-close sown or set with a solid expanse of bloom of some native or widely adopted plant. I have seen a flower-close of Daisies, another of Buttercups, one of Larkspur, one of Coreopsis. A new field tint, and a splendid one, has been given to us within a few years, by the introduction of the vivid red of Italian clover. It is eagerly welcomed to our fields, so scant of scarlet. This clover was brought to America in the years 1824 _et seq._, and is described in contemporary publications in alluring sentences. I have noted the introduction of several vegetables, grains, fruits, berries, shrubs, and flowers in those years, and attribute this to the influence of the visit of Lafayette in 1824. Adored by all, his lightest word was heeded; and he was a devoted agriculturist and horticulturist, ever exchanging ideas, seeds, and plants with his American fellow-patriots and fellow-farmers. I doubt if Italian clover then became widely known; but our modern farmers now think well of it, and the flower lover revels in it. The exigencies of rhyme and rhythm force us to endure some very curious notions of color in the poets. I think no saying of poet ever gave greater check to her lovers than these lines of Emily Dickinson:-- "Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, Prodigal of blue. Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover's words." I read them first with a sense of misapprehension that I had not seen aright; but there the words stood out, "Nature rarer uses yellow than another hue." The writer was such a jester, such a tricky elf that I fancy she wrote them in pure "contrariness," just to see what folks would say, how they would dispute over her words. For I never can doubt that, with all her recluse life, she knew intuitively that some time her lines would be read by folks who would love them. [Illustration: Pyrethrum.] The scarcity of red wild flowers is either a cause or an effect; at any rate it is said to be connected with the small number of humming-birds, who play an important part in the fertilization of many of the red flowers. There are no humming-birds in Europe; and the Aquilegia, red and yellow here, is blue there, and is then fertilized by the assistance of the bumblebee. Without humming-birds the English successfully accomplish one glorious sweep of red in the Poppies of the field; Parkinson called them "a beautiful and gallant red"--a very happy phrase. Ruskin, that master of color and of its description, and above all master of the description of Poppies, says:-- "The Poppy is the most transparent and delicate of all the blossoms of the field. The rest, nearly all of them, depend on the texture of their surface for color. But the Poppy is painted glass; it never glows so brightly as when the sun shines through it. Whenever it is seen, against the light or with the light, it is a flame, and warms the wind like a blown ruby." There is one quality of the Oriental Poppies which is very palpable to me. They have often been called insolent--Browning writes of the "Poppy's red affrontery"; to me the Poppy has an angry look. It is wonderfully haughty too, and its seed-pod seems like an emblem of its rank. This great green seed-pod stands one inch high in the centre of the silken scarlet robe, and has an antique crown of purple bands with filling of lilac, just like the crown in some ancient kingly portraits, when the bands of gold and gems radiating from a great jewel in the centre are filled with crimson or purple velvet. Around this splendid crowned seed-vessel are rows of stamens and purple anthers of richest hue. We must not let any scarlet flower be dropped from the garden, certainly not the Geranium, which just at present does not shine so bravely as a few years ago. The general revulsion of feeling against "bedding out" has extended to the poor plants thus misused, which is unjust. I find I have spoken somewhat despitefully of the Coleus, Lobelia, and Calceolaria, so I hasten to say that I do not include the Geranium with them. I love its clean color, in leaf and blossom; its clean fragrance; its clean beauty, its healthy growth; it is a plant I like to have near me. It has been the custom of late to sneer at crimson in the garden, especially if its vivid color gets a dash of purple and becomes what Miss Jekyll calls "malignant magenta." It is really more vulgar than malignant, and has come to be in textile products a stamp and symbol of vulgarity, through the forceful brilliancy of our modern aniline dyes. But this purple crimson, this amarant, this magenta, especially in the lighter shades, is a favorite color in nature. The garden is never weary of wearing it. See how it stands out in midsummer! It is rank in Ragged Robin, tall Phlox, and Petunias; you find it in the bed of Drummond Phlox, among the Zinnias; the Portulacas, Balsams, and China Asters prolong it. Earlier in the summer the Rhododendrons fill the garden with color that on some of the bushes is termed sultana and crimson, but it is in fact plain magenta. One of the good points of the Peony is that you never saw a magenta one. This color shows that time as well as place affects our color notions, for magenta is believed to be the honored royal purple of the ancients. Fifty years ago no one complained of magenta. It was deemed a cheerful color, and was set out boldly and complacently by the side of pink or scarlet, or wall flower colors. Now I dislike it so that really the printed word, seen often as I glance back through this page, makes the black and white look cheap. If I could turn all magenta flowers pink or purple, I should never think further about garden harmony, all other colors would adjust themselves. It has been the fortune of some communities to be the home of men in nature like Thoreau of Concord and Gilbert White of Selborne, men who live solely in love of out-door things, birds, flowers, rocks, and trees. To all these nature lovers is not given the power of writing down readily what they see and know, usually the gift of composition is denied them; but often they are just as close and accurate observers as the men whose names are known to the world by their writings. Sometimes these naturalists boldly turn to nature, their loved mother, and earn their living in the woods and fields. Sometimes they have a touch of the hermit in them, they prefer nature to man; others are genial, kindly men, albeit possessed of a certain reserve. I deem the community blest that has such a citizen, for his influence in promoting a love and study of nature is ever great. I have known one such ardent naturalist, Arba Peirce, ever since my childhood. He lives the greater part of his waking hours in the woods and fields, and these waking hours are from sunrise. From the earliest bloom of spring to the gay berry of autumn, he knows all beautiful things that grow, and where they grow, for hundreds of miles around his home. [Illustration: Terraced Garden of Misses Nichols, Salem, Massachusetts.] I speak of him in this connection because he has acquired through his woodland life a wonderful power of distinguishing flowers at great distance with absolute accuracy. Especially do his eyes have the power of detecting those rose-lilac tints which are characteristic of our rarest, our most delicate wild flowers, and which I always designate to myself as Arethusa color. He brought me this June a royal gift--a great bunch of wild fringed Orchids, another of Calopogon, and one of Arethusa. What a color study these three made! At the time their lilac-rose tints seemed to me far lovelier than any pure rose colors. In those wild princesses were found every tone of that lilac-rose from the faint blush like the clouds of a warm sunset, to a glow on the lip of the Arethusa, like the crimson glow of Mullein Pink. My friend of the meadow and wildwood had gathered that morning a glorious harvest, over two thousand stems of Pogonia, from his own hidden spot, which he has known for forty years and from whence no other hand ever gathers. For a little handful of these flower heads he easily obtains a dollar. He has acquired gradually a regular round of customers, for whom he gathers a successive harvest of wild flowers from Pussy Willows and Hepatica to winter berries. It is not easily earned money to stand in heavy rubber boots in marsh mud and water reaching nearly to the waist, but after all it is happy work. Jeered at in his early life by fools for his wood-roving tastes, he has now the pleasure and honor of supplying wild flowers to our public schools, and being the authority to whom scholars and teachers refer in vexed questions of botany. I think the various tints allied to purple are the most difficult to define and describe of any in the garden. To begin with, all these pinky-purple, these arethusa tints are nameless; perhaps orchid color is as good a name as any. Many deem purple and violet precisely the same. Lavender has much gray in its tint. Miss Jekyll deems mauve and lilac the same; to me lilac is much pinker, much more delicate. Is heliotrope a pale bluish purple? Some call it a blue faintly tinged with red. Then there are the orchid tints, which have more pink than blue. It is a curious fact that, with all these allied tints which come from the union of blue with red, the color name comes from a flower name. Violet, lavender, lilac, heliotrope, orchid, are examples; each is an exact tint. Rose and pink are color names from flowers, and flowers of much variety of colors, but the tint name is unvarying. Edward de Goncourt, of all writers on flowers and gardens, seems to have been most frankly pleased with the artificial side of the gardener's art. He viewed the garden with the eye of a colorist, setting a palette of varied greens from the deep tones of the evergreens, the Junipers and Cryptomerias through the variegated Hollies, Privets and Spindle trees; and he said that an "elegantly branched coquettishly variegated bush" seemed to him like a piece of bric-a-brac which should be hunted out and praised like some curio hidden on the shelf of a collector. A lack of color perception seems to have been prevalent of ancient days, as it is now in some Oriental countries. The Bible offers evidence of this, and it has also been observed that the fragrance of flowers is nowhere noted until we reach the Song of Solomon. It is believed that in earliest time archaic men had no sense of color; that they knew only light and darkness. Mr. Gladstone wrote a most interesting paper on the lack of color sense in Homer, whose perception of brilliant light was good, especially in the glowing reflections of metals, but who never names blue or green even in speaking of the sky, or trees, while his reds and purples are hopelessly mixed. Some German scientists have maintained that as recently as Homer's day, our ancestors were (to use Sir John Lubbock's word) blue-blind, which fills me, as it must all blue lovers, with profound pity. [Illustration: Arbor in a Salem Garden.] The influence of color has ever been felt by other senses than that of sight. In the _Cotton Manuscripts_, written six hundred years ago, the relations and effects of color on music and coat-armor were laboriously explained: and many later writers have striven to show the effect of color on the health, imagination, or fortune. I see no reason for sneering at these notions of sense-relation; I am grateful for borrowed terms of definition for these beautiful things which are so hard to define. When an artist says to me, "There is a color that sings," I know what he means; as I do when my friend says of the funeral music in _Tristan_ that "it always hurts her eyes." Musicians compose symphonies in color, and artists paint pictures in symphonies. Musicians and authors acknowledge the domination of color and color terms; a glance at a modern book catalogue will prove it. Stephen Crane and other modern extremists depend upon color to define and describe sounds, smells, tastes, feelings, ideas, vices, virtues, traits, as well as sights. Sulphur-yellow is deemed an inspiring color, and light green a clean color; every one knows the influence of bright red upon many animals and birds; it is said all barnyard fowl are affected by it. If any one can see a sunny bed of blue Larkspur in full bloom without being moved thereby, he must be color blind and sound deaf as well, for that indeed is a sight full of music and noble inspiration, a realization of Keats' beautiful thought:-- "Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers Budded, and swell'd, and full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft unseen leaves of sound divine." CHAPTER XI THE BLUE FLOWER BORDER "Blue thou art, intensely blue! Flower! whence came thy dazzling hue? When I opened first mine eye, Upward glancing to the sky, Straightway from the firmament Was the sapphire brilliance sent." --JAMES MONTGOMERY. Questions of color relations in a garden are most opinion-making and controversy-provoking. Shall we plant by chance, or by a flower-loving instinct for sheltered and suited locations, as was done in all old-time gardens, and with most happy and most unaffected results? or shall we plant severely by colors--all yellow flowers in a border together? all red flowers side by side? all pink flowers near each other? This might be satisfactory in small gardens, but I am uncertain whether any profound gratification or full flower succession would come from such rigid planting in long flower borders. William Morris warns us that flowers in masses are "mighty strong color," and must be used with caution. A still greater cause for hesitation would be the ugly jarring of juxtaposing tints of the same color. Yellows do little injury to each other; but I cannot believe that a mixed border of red flowers would ever be satisfactory or scarcely endurable; and few persons would care for beds of all white flowers. But when I reach the Blue Border, then I can speak with decision; I know whereof I write, I know the variety and beauty of a garden bed of blue flowers. In blue you may have much difference in tint and quality without losing color effect. The Persian art workers have accomplished the combining of varying blues most wonderfully and successfully: purplish blues next to green-blues, and sapphire-blues alongside; and blues seldom clash in the flower beds. Blue is my best beloved color; I love it as the bees love it. Every blue flower is mine; and I am as pleased as with a tribute of praise to a friend to learn that scientists have proved that blue flowers represent the most highly developed lines of descent. These learned men believe that all flowers were at first yellow, being perhaps only developed stamens; then some became white, others red; while the purple and blue were the latest and highest forms. The simplest shaped flowers, open to be visited by every insect, are still yellow or white, running into red or pink. Thus the Rose family have simple open symmetrical flowers; and there are no blue Roses--the flower has never risen to the blue stage. In the Pea family the simpler flowers are yellow or red; while the highly evolved members, such as Lupines, Wistaria, Everlasting Pea, are purple or blue, varying to white. Bees are among the highest forms of insect life, and the labiate flowers are adapted to their visits; these nearly all have purple or blue petals--Thyme, Sage, Mint, Marjoram, Basil, Prunella, etc. Of course the Blue Border runs into tints of pale lilac and purple and is thereby the gainer; but I would remove from it the purple Clematis, Wistaria, and Passion-flower, all of which a friend has planted to cover the wall behind her blue flower bed. Sometimes the line between blue and purple is hard to define. Keats invented a word, _purplue_, which he used for this indeterminate color. I would not, in my Blue Border, exclude an occasional group of flowers of other colors; I love a border of all colors far too well to do that. Here, as everywhere in my garden, should be white flowers, especially tall white flowers: white Foxgloves, white Delphinium, white Lupine, white Hollyhock, white Bell-flower, nor should I object to a few spires at one end of the bed of sulphur-yellow Lupines, or yellow Hollyhocks, or a group of Paris Daisies. I have seen a great Oriental Poppy growing in wonderful beauty near a mass of pale blue Larkspur, and Shirley Poppies are a delight with blues; and any one could arrange the pompadour tints of pink and blue in a garden who could in a gown. [Illustration: Scilla.] Let me name some of the favorites of the Blue Border. The earliest but not the eldest is the pretty spicy Scilla in several varieties, and most satisfactory it is in perfection of tint, length of bloom, and great hardiness. It would be welcomed as we eagerly greet all the early spring blooms, even if it were not the perfect little blossom that is pictured on page 254, the very little Scilla that grew in my mother's garden. The early spring blooming of the beloved Grape Hyacinth gives us an overflowing bowl of "blue principle"; the whole plant is imbued and fairly exudes blue. Ruskin gave the beautiful and appropriate term "blue-flushing" to this plant and others, which at the time of their blossoming send out through their veins their blue color into the surrounding leaves and the stem; he says they "breathe out" their color, and tells of a "saturated purple" tint. [Illustration: Sweet Alyssum Edging.] Not content with the confines of the garden border, the Grape Hyacinth has "escaped the garden," and become a field flower. The "seeing eye," ever quick to feel a difference in shade or color, which often proves very slight upon close examination, viewed on Long Island a splendid sea of blue; and it seemed neither the time nor tint for the expected Violet. We found it a field of Grape Hyacinth, blue of leaf, of stem, of flower. While all flowers are in a sense perfect, some certainly do not appear so in shape, among the latter those of irregular sepals. Some flowers seem imperfect without any cause save the fancy of the one who is regarding them; thus to me the Balsam is an imperfect flower. Other flowers impress me delightfully with a sense of perfection. Such is the Grape Hyacinth, doubly grateful in this perfection in the time it comes in early spring. The Grape Hyacinth is the favorite spring flower of my garden--but no! I thought a minute ago the Scilla was! and what place has the Violet? the Flower de Luce? I cannot decide, but this I know--it is some blue flower. Ruskin says of the Grape Hyacinth, as he saw it growing in southern France, its native home, "It was as if a cluster of grapes and a hive of honey had been distilled and pressed together into one small boss of celled and beaded blue." I always think of his term "beaded blue" when I look at it. There are several varieties, from a deep blue or purple to sky-blue, and one is fringed with the most delicate feathery petals. Some varieties have a faint perfume, and country folk call the flower "Baby's Breath" therefrom. [Illustration: Bachelor's Buttons in a Salem Garden.] Purely blue, too, are some of our garden Hyacinths, especially a rather meagre single Hyacinth which looks a little chilly; and Gavin Douglas wrote in the springtime of 1500, "The Flower de Luce forth spread his heavenly blue." It always jars upon my sense of appropriateness to hear this old garden favorite called Fleur de Lis. The accepted derivation of the word is that given by Grandmaison in his _Heraldic Dictionary_. Louis VII. of France, whose name was then written Loys, first gave the name to the flower, "Fleur de Loys"; then it became Fleur de Louis, and finally, Fleur de Lis. Our flower caught its name from Louis. Tusser in his list of flowers for windows and pots gave plainly Flower de Luce; and finally Gerarde called the plant Flower de Luce, and he advised its use as a domestic remedy in a manner which is in vogue in country homes in New England to-day. He said that the root "stamped plaister-wise, doth take away the blewnesse or blacknesse of any stroke" that is, a black and blue bruise. Another use advised of him is as obsolete as the form in which it was rendered. He said it was "good in a loch or licking medicine for shortness of breath." Our apothecaries no longer make, nor do our physicians prescribe, "licking medicines." The powdered root was urged as a complexion beautifier, especially to remove morphew, and as orris-root may be found in many of our modern skin lotions. Ruskin most beautifully describes the Flower de Luce as the flower of chivalry--"with a sword for its leaf, and a Lily for its heart." These grand clumps of erect old soldiers, with leafy swords of green and splendid cuirasses and plumes of gold and bronze and blue, were planted a century ago in our grandmothers' garden, and were then Flower de Luce. A hundred years those sturdy sentinels have stood guard on either side of the garden gates--still Flower de Luce. There are the same clean-cut leaf swords, the same exquisite blossoms, far more beautiful than our tropical Orchids, though similar in shape; let us not change now their historic name, they still are Flower de Luce--the Flower de Louis. The Violet family, with its Pansies and Ladies' Delights, has honored place in our Blue Border, though the rigid color list of a prosaic practical dyer finds these Violet allies a debased purple instead of blue. Our wild Violets, the blue ones, have for me a sad lack for a Violet, that of perfume. They are not as lovely in the woodlands as their earlier coming neighbor, the shy, pure Hepatica. Bryant, calling the Hepatica Squirrelcups (a name I never heard given them elsewhere), says they form "a graceful company hiding in their bells a soft aerial blue." Of course, they vary through blue and pinky purple, but the blue is well hidden, and I never think of them save as an almost white flower. Nor are the Violets as lovely on the meadow and field slopes, as the mild Innocence, the Houstonia, called also Bluets, which is scarcely a distinctly blue expanse, but rather "a milky way of minute stars." An English botanist denies that it is blue at all. A field covered with Innocence always looks to me as if little clouds and puffs of blue-white smoke had descended and rested on the grass. [Illustration: A "Sweet Garden-side" in Salem, Massachusetts.] I well recall when the Aquilegia, under the name of California Columbine, entered my mother's garden, to which its sister, the red and yellow Columbine, had been brought from a rocky New England pasture when the garden was new. This Aquilegia came to us about the year 1870. I presume old catalogues of American florists would give details and dates of the journey of the plant from the Pacific to the Atlantic. It chanced that this first Aquilegia of my acquaintance was of a distinct light blue tint; and it grew apace and thrived and was vastly admired, and filled the border with blueness of that singular tint seen of late years in its fullest extent and most prominent position in the great masses of bloom of the blue Hydrangea, the show plant of such splendid summer homes as may be found at Newport. These blue Hydrangeas are ever to me a color blot. They accord with no other flower and no foliage. I am ever reminded of blue mould, of stale damp. I looked with inexpressible aversion on a photograph of Cecil Rhodes' garden at Cape Town--several solid acres set with this blue Hydrangea and nothing else, unbroken by tree or shrub, and scarce a path, growing as thick as a field sown with ensilage corn, and then I thought what would be the color of that mass! that crop of Hydrangeas! Yet I am told that Rhodes is a flower-lover and flower-thinker. Now this Aquilegia was of similar tint; it was blue, but it was not a pleasing blue, and additional plants of pink, lilac, and purple tints had to be added before the Aquilegia was really included in our list of well-beloveds. [Illustration: Salpiglossis.] There are other flowers for the blue border. It is pleasant to plant common Flax, if you have ample room; it is a superb blue; to many persons the blossom is unfamiliar, and is always of interest. Its lovely flowers have been much sung in English verse. The Salpiglossis, shown on the opposite page, is in its azure tint a lovely flower, though it is a kinsman of the despised Petunia. How the Campanulaceæ enriched the beauty and the blueness of the garden. We had our splendid clusters of Canterbury Bells, both blue and white. I have told elsewhere of our love for them in childhood. Equally dear to us was a hardy old Campanula whose full name I know not, perhaps it is the Pyramidalis; it is shown on page 263, the very plant my mother set out, still growing and blooming; nothing in the garden is more gladly welcomed from year to year. It partakes of the charm shared by every bell-shaped flower, a simple form, but an ever pleasing one. We had also the _Campanula persicifolia_ and _trachelium_, and one we called Bluebells of Scotland, which was not the correct name. It now has died out, and no one recalls enough of its exact detail to learn its real name. The showiest bell-flower was the _Platycodon grandiflorum_, the Chinese or Japanese Bell-flower, shown on page 264. Another name is the Balloon-flower, this on account of the characteristic buds shaped like an inflated balloon. It is a lovely blue in tint, though this photograph was taken from a white-flowered plant in the white border at Indian Hill. The Giant Bell-flower is a _fin de siècle_ blossom named _Ostrowskia_, with flowers four inches deep and six inches in diameter; it has not yet become common in our gardens, where the _Platycodon_ rules in size among its bell-shaped fellows. [Illustration: The Old Campanula.] There are several pretty low-growing blue flowers suitable for edgings, among them the tiny stars of the Swan River Daisy (_Brachycome iberidifolia_) sold as purple, but as brightly blue as Scilla. The dwarf Ageratum is also a long-blossoming soft-tinted blue flower; it made a charming edging in my sister's garden last summer; but I should never put either of them on the edge of the blue border. [Illustration: Chinese Bell-flower.] The dull blue, sparsely set flowers of the various members of the Mint family have no beauty in color, nor any noticeable elegance; the Blue Sage is the only vivid-hued one, and it is a true ornament to the border. Prunella was ever found in old gardens, now it is a wayside weed. Thoreau loved the Prunella for its blueness, its various lights, and noted that its color deepened toward night. This flower, regarded with indifference by nearly every one, and distaste by many, always to him suggested coolness and freshness by its presence. The Prunella was beloved also by Ruskin, who called it the soft warm-scented Brunelle, and told of the fine purple gleam of its hooded blossom: "the two uppermost petals joined like an old-fashioned enormous hood or bonnet; the lower petal torn deep at the edges into a kind of fringe,"--and he said it was a "Brownie flower," a little eerie and elusive in its meaning. I do not like it because it has such a disorderly, unkempt look, it always seems bedraggled. The pretty ladder-like leaf of Jacob's Ladder is most delicate and pleasing in the garden, and its blue bell-flowers are equally refined. This is truly an old-fashioned plant, but well worth universal cultivation. In answer to the question, What is the bluest flower in the garden or field? one answered Fringed Gentian; another the Forget-me-not, which has much pink in its buds and yellow in its blossoms; another Bee Larkspur; and the others _Centaurea cyanus_ or Bachelor's Buttons, a local American name for them, which is not even a standard folk name, since there are twenty-one English plants called Bachelor's Buttons. Ragged Sailor is another American name. Corn-flower, Blue-tops, Blue Bonnets, Bluebottles, Loggerheads are old English names. Queerer still is the title Break-your-spectacles. Hawdods is the oldest name of all. Fitzherbert, in his _Boke of Husbandry_, 1586, thus describes briefly the plant:-- "Hawdod hath a blewe floure, and a few lytle leaves, and hath fyve or syxe branches floured at the top." In varied shades of blue, purple, lilac, pink, and white, Bachelor's Buttons are found in every old garden, growing in a confused tangle of "lytle leaves" and vari-colored flowers, very happily and with very good effect. The illustration on page 258 shows their growth and value in the garden. In _The Promise of May_ Dora's eyes are said to be as blue as the Bluebell, Harebell, Speedwell, Bluebottle, Succory, Forget-me-not, and Violets; so we know what flowers Tennyson deemed blue. Another poet named as the bluest flower, the Monk's-hood, so wonderful of color, one of the very rarest of garden tints; graceful of growth, blooming till frost, and one of the garden's delights. In a list of garden flowers published in Boston, in 1828, it is called Cupid's Car. Southey says in _The Doctor_, of Miss Allison's garden: "The Monk's-hood of stately growth Betsey called 'Dumbledores Delight,' and was not aware that the plant, in whose helmet--rather than cowl-shaped flowers, that busy and best-natured of all insects appears to revel more than any other, is the deadly Aconite of which she read in poetry." The dumbledore was the bumblebee, and this folk name was given, as many others have been, from a close observance of plant habits; for the fertilization of the Monk's-hood is accomplished only by the aid of the bumblebee. [Illustration: Garden at Tudor Place.] Many call Chicory or Succory our bluest flower. Thoreau happily termed it "a cool blue." It is not often the fortune of a flower to be brought to notice and affection because of a poem; we expect the poem to celebrate the virtues of flowers already loved. The Succory is an example of a plant, known certainly to flower students, yet little thought of by careless observers until the beautiful poem of Margaret Deland touched all who read it. I think this a gem of modern poesy, having in full that great element of a true poem, the most essential element indeed of a short poem--the power of suggestion. Who can read it without being stirred by its tenderness and sentiment, yet how few are the words. "Oh, not in ladies' gardens, My peasant posy, Shine thy dear blue eyes; Nor only--nearer to the skies In upland pastures, dim and sweet, But by the dusty road, Where tired feet Toil to and fro, Where flaunting Sin May see thy heavenly hue, Or weary Sorrow look from thee Toward a tenderer blue." I recall perfectly every flower I saw in pasture, swamp, forest, or lane when I was a child; and I know I never saw Chicory save in old gardens. It has increased and spread wonderfully along the roadside within twenty years. By tradition it was first brought to us from England by Governor Bowdoin more than a century ago, to plant as forage. In our common Larkspur, the old-fashioned garden found its most constant and reliable blue banner, its most valuable color giver. Self-sown, this Larkspur sprung up freely every year; needing no special cherishing or nourishing, it grew apace, and bloomed with a luxuriance and length of flowering that cheerfully blued the garden for the whole summer. It was a favorite of children in their floral games, and pretty in the housewife's vases, but its chief hold on favor was in its democracy and endurance. Other flowers drew admirers and lost them; some grew very ugly in their decay; certain choice seedlings often had stunted development, garden scourges attacked tender beauties; fierce July suns dried up the whole border, all save the Larkspur, which neither withered nor decayed; and often, unaided, saved the midsummer garden from scanty unkemptness and dire disrepute. The graceful line of Dr. Holmes, "light as a loop of Larkspur," always comes to my mind as I look at a bed of Larkspur; and I am glad to show here a "loop of Larkspur," growing by the great boulder which he loved in the grounds of his country home at Beverly Farms. I liked to fancy that Dr. Holmes's expression was written by him from his memory of the little wreaths and garlands of pressed Larkspur that have been made so universally for over a century by New England children. But that careful flower observer, Mrs. Wright, notes that in a profuse growth of the Bee Larkspur, the strong flower spikes often are in complete loops before full expansion into a straight spire; some are looped thrice. Dr. Holmes was a minute observer of floral characteristics, as is shown in his poem on the _Coming of Spring_, and doubtless saw this curious growth of the Larkspur. [Illustration: "Light as a Loop of Larkspur."] Common annual Larkspurs now are planted in every one's garden, and deservedly grow in favor yearly. The season of their flowering can be prolonged, renewed in fact, by cutting away the withered flower stems. They respond well to all caretaking, to liberal fertilizing and watering, just as they dwindle miserably with neglect. There are a hundred varieties in all; among them the "Rocket-flowered" and "Ranunculus flowered" Larkspurs or Delphiniums are ever favorites. A friend burst forth in railing at being asked to admire a bed of Delphinium. "Why can't she call them the good old-time name of Larkspur, and not a stiff name cooked up by the botanists." I answered naught, but I remembered that Parkinson in his _Garden of Pleasant Flowers_ gives a chapter to Delphinium, with Lark's-heel as a second thought. "Their most usual name with us," he states, "is Delphinium." There is meaning in the name: the flower is dolphin-like in shape. Of the perennial varieties the _Delphinium brunonianum_ has lovely clear blue, musk-scented flowers; the Chinese or Branching Larkspur is of varied blue tints and tall growth, and blooms from midsummer until frost. And loveliest of all, an old garden favorite, the purely blue Bee Larkspur, with a bee in the heart of each blossom. In an ancient garden in Deerfield I saw this year a splendid group of plants of the old _Delphinium Belladonna_: it is a weak-kneed, weak-backed thing; but give it unobtrusive crutches and busks and backboards (in their garden equivalents), and its incomparable blue will reward your care. There is something singular in the blue of Larkspur. Even on a dark night you can see it showing a distinct blue in the garden like a blue lambent flame. "Larkspur lifting turquoise spires Bluer than the sorcerer's fires." Mrs. Milne-Home says her old Scotch gardener called the white Delphinium Elijah's Chariot--a resounding, stately title. Helmet-flower is another name. I think the Larkspur Border, and the Blue Border both gain if a few plants of the pure white Delphinium, especially the variety called the Emperor, bloom by the blue flowers. In our garden the common blue Larkspur loves to blossom by the side of the white Phlox. A bit of the border is shown on page 162. In another corner of the garden the pink and lilac Larkspur should be grown; for their tints, running into blue, are as varied as those of an opal. I have never seen the wild Larkspur which grows so plentifully in our middle Southern states; but I have seen expanses of our common garden Larkspur which has run wild. Nor have I seen the glorious fields of Wyoming Larkspur, so poisonous to cattle; nor the magnificent Larkspur, eight feet high, described so radiantly to us by John Muir, which blues those wonders of nature, the hanging meadow gardens of California. I am inclined to believe that Lobelia is the least pleasing blue flower that blossoms. I never see it in any place or juxtaposition that it satisfies me. When you take a single flower of it in your hand, its single little delicate bloom is really just as pretty as Blue-eyed Grass, or Innocence, or Scilla, and the whole plant regarded closely by itself isn't at all bad; but whenever and wherever you find it growing in a garden, you never want it in _that_ place, and you shift it here and there. I am convinced that the Lobelia is simply impossible; it is an alien, wrong in some subtle way in tint, in habit of growth, in time of blooming. The last time I noted it in any large garden planting, it was set around the roots of some standard Rose bushes; and the gardener had displayed some thought about it; it was only at the base of white or cream-yellow Roses; but it still was objectionable. I think I would exterminate Lobelia if I could, banish it and forget it. In the minds of many would linger a memory of certain ornate garden vases, each crowded with a Pandanus-y plant, a pink Begonia, a scarlet double Geranium, a purple Verbena or a crimson Petunia, all gracefully entwined with Nasturtiums and Lobelia--while these folks lived, the Lobelia would not be forgotten. You will have some curious experiences with your Blue Border; kindly friends, pleased with its beauty or novelty, will send to you plants and seeds to add to its variety of form "another bright blue flower." You will usually find you have added variety of tint as well, ranging into crimson and deep purple, for color blindness is far more general than is thought. The loveliest blue flowers are the wild ones of fields and meadows; therefore the poor, says Alphonse Karr, with these and the blue of the sky have the best and the most of all blueness. Yet we are constantly hearing folks speak of the lack of the color blue among wild flowers, which always surprises me; I suppose I see blue because I love blue. In pure cobalt tint it is rare; in compensation, when it does abound, it makes a permanent imprint on our vision, which never vanishes. Recalling in midwinter the expanses of color in summer waysides, I do not see them white with Daisies, or yellow with Goldenrod, but they are in my mind's vision brightly, beautifully blue. One special scene is the blue of Fringed Gentians, on a sunny October day, on a rocky hill road in Royalston, Massachusetts, where they sprung up, wide open, a solid mass of blue, from stone wall to stone wall, with scarcely a wheel rut showing among them. Even thus, growing in as lavish abundance as any weed, the Fringed Gentian still preserved in collective expanse, its delicate, its distinctly aristocratic bearing. Bryant asserts of this flower:-- "Thou waitest late, and com'st alone When woods are bare, and birds are flown." But by this roadside the woods were far from bare. Many Asters, especially the variety I call Michaelmas Daisies, Goldenrod, Butter-and-eggs, Turtle Head, and other flowers, were in ample bloom. And the same conditions of varied flower companionship existed when I saw the Fringed Gentian blooming near Bryant's own home at Cummington. [Illustration: Viper's Bugloss.] Another vast field of blue, ever living in my memory, was that of the Viper's Bugloss, which I viewed with surprise and delight from the platform of a train, returning from the Columbian Exposition; when I asked a friendly brakeman what the flower was called, he answered "Vilets," as nearly all workingmen confidently name every blue flower; and he sprang from the train while the locomotive was swallowing water, and brought to me a great armful of blueness. I am not wont to like new flowers as well as my childhood's friends, but I found this new friend, the Viper's Bugloss, a very welcome and pleasing acquaintance. Curious, too, it is, with the red anthers exserted beyond the bright blue corolla, giving the field, when the wind blew across it, a new aspect and tint, something like a red and blue changeable silk. The Viper's Bugloss seems to have the pervasive power of many another blue and purple flower, Lupine, Iris, Innocence, Grape Hyacinth, Vervain, Aster, Spiked Loosestrife; it has become in many states a tiresome weed. On the Esopus Creek (which runs into the Hudson River) and adown the Hudson, acre after acre of meadow and field by the waterside are vivid with its changeable hues, and the New York farmers' fields are overrun by the newcomer. I have seen the Viper's Bugloss often since that day on the railroad train, now that I know it, and think of it. Thoreau noted the fact that in a large sense we find only what we look for. And he defined well our powers of perception when he said that many an object will not be seen, even when it comes within the range of our visual ray, because it does not come within the range of our intellectual ray. Last spring, having to spend a tiresome day riding the length of Long Island, I beguiled the hours by taking with me Thoreau's _Summer_ to compare his notes of blossomings with those we passed. It was June 5, and I read:-- "The Lupine is now in its glory. It is the more important because it occurs in such extensive patches, even an acre or more together.... It paints a whole hillside with its blue, making such a field, if not a meadow, as Proserpine might have wandered in. Its leaf was made to be covered with dewdrops. I am quite excited by this prospect of blue flowers in clumps, with narrow intervals; such a profusion of the heavenly, the Elysian color, as if these were the Elysian Fields. That is the value of the Lupine. The earth is blued with it.... You may have passed here a fortnight ago and the field was comparatively barren. Now you come, and these glorious redeemers appear to have flashed out here all at once. Who plants the seeds of Lupines in the barren soil? Who watereth the Lupines in the field?" [Illustration: The Precision of Leaf and Flower of Lupine.] I looked from a car window, and lo! the Long Island Railroad ran also through an Elysian Field of Lupines, nay, we sailed a swift course through a summer sea of blueness, and I seem to see it still, with its prim precision of outline and growth of both leaf and flower. The Lupine is beautiful in the garden border as it is in the landscape, whether the blossom be blue, yellow, or white. Thoreau was the slave of color, but he was the master of its description. He was as sensitive as Keats to the charm of blue, and left many records of his love, such as the paragraphs above quoted. He noted with delight the abundance of "that principle which gives the air its azure color, which makes the distant hills and meadows appear blue," the "great blue presence" of Monadnock and Wachusett with its "far blue eye." He loved Lowell's "Sweet atmosphere of hazy blue, So leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving, That sometimes makes New England fit for living." He revelled in the blue tints of water, of snow, of ice; in "the blueness and softness of a mild winter day." The constant blueness of the sky at night thrilled him with "an everlasting surprise," as did the blue shadows within the woods and the blueness of distant woods. How he would have rejoiced in Monet's paintings, how true he would have found their tones. He even idealized blueberries, "a very innocent ambrosial taste, as if made of ether itself, as they are colored with it." Thoreau was ever ready in thought of Proserpina gathering flowers. He offers to her the Lupine, the Blue-eyed Grass, and the Tufted Vetch, "blue, inclining in spots to purple"; it affected him deeply to see such an abundance of blueness in the grass. "Celestial color, I see it afar in masses on the hillside near the meadow--so much blue." I usually join with Thoreau in his flower loves; but I cannot understand his feeling toward the blue Flag; that, after noting the rich fringed recurved parasols over its anthers, and its exquisite petals, that he could say it is "a little too showy and gaudy, like some women's bonnets." I note that whenever he compares flowers to women it is in no flattering humor to either; which is, perhaps, what we expect from a man who chose to be a bachelor and a hermit. His love of obscure and small flowers might explain his sentiment toward the radiant and dominant blue Flag. The most valued flower of my childhood, outside the garden, was a little sister of the Iris--the Blue-eyed Grass. To find it blooming was a triumph, for it was not very profuse of growth near my home; to gather it a delight; why, I know not, since the tiny blooms promptly closed and withered as soon as we held them in our warm little hands. Colonel Higginson writes wittily of the Blue-eyed Grass, "It has such an annoying way of shutting up its azure orbs the moment you gather it; and you reach home with a bare stiff blade which deserves no better name than _Sisyrinchium anceps_." The only time I ever played truant was to run off one June morning to find "the starlike gleam amid the grass and dew"; to pick Blue-eyed Grass in a field to which I was conducted by another naughty girl. I was simple enough to come home at mid-day with my hands full of the stiff blades and tightly closed blooms; and at my mother's inquiry as to my acquisition of these treasures, I promptly burst into tears. I was then told, in impressive phraseology adapted to my youthful comprehension, and with the flowers as eloquent proof, that all stolen pleasures were ever like my coveted flowers, withered and unsightly as soon as gathered--which my mother believed was true. The blossoms of this little Iris seem to lie on the surface of the grass like a froth of blueness; they gaze up at the sky with a sort of intimacy as if they were a part of it. Thoreau called it an "air of easy sympathy." The slightest clouding or grayness of atmosphere makes them turn away and close. The naming of Proserpina leads me to say this: that to grow in love and knowledge of flowers, and above all of blue flowers, you must read Ruskin's _Proserpina_. It is a book of botany, of studies of plants, but begemmed with beautiful sentences and thoughts and expressions, with lessons of pleasantness which you can never forget, of pictures which you never cease to see, such sentences and pictures as this:-- "Rome. My father's Birthday. I found the loveliest blue Asphodel I ever saw in my life in the fields beyond Monte Mario--a spire two feet high, of more than two hundred stars, the stalks of them all deep blue as well as the flowers. Heaven send all honest people the gathering of the like, in the Elysian Fields, some day!" Oh, the power of written words! when by these few lines I can carry forever in my inner vision this spire of starry blueness. To that writer, now in the Elysian Fields, an honest teacher if ever one lived, I send my thanks for this beautiful vision of blueness. CHAPTER XII PLANT NAMES "The fascination of plant names is founded on two instincts,--love of Nature and curiosity about Language." --_English Plant Names_, REV. JOHN EARLE, 1880. Verbal magic is the subtle mysterious power of certain words. This power may come from association with the senses; thus I have distinct sense of stimulation in the word scarlet, and pleasure in the words lucid and liquid. The word garden is a never ceasing delight; it seems to me Oriental; perhaps I have a transmitted sense from my grandmother Eve of the Garden of Eden. I like the words, a Garden of Olives, a Garden of Herbs, the Garden of the Gods, a Garden enclosed, Philosophers of the Garden, the Garden of the Lord. As I have written on gardens, and thought on gardens, and walked in gardens, "the very music of the name has gone into my being." How beautiful are Cardinal Newman's words:-- "By a garden is meant mystically a place of spiritual repose, stillness, peace, refreshment, delight." There was, in Gerarde's day, no fixed botanical nomenclature of any of the parts or attributes of a plant. Without using botanical terms, try to describe a plant so as to give an exact notion of it to a person who has never seen it, then try to find common words to describe hundreds of plants; you will then admire the vocabulary of the old herbalist, his "fresh English words," for you will find that it needs the most dextrous use of words to convey accurately the figure of a flower. That felicity and facility Gerarde had; "a bleak white color"--how clearly you see it! The Water Lily had "great round leaves like a buckler." The Cat-tail Flags "flower and bear their mace or torch in July and August." One plant had "deeply gashed leaves." The Marigold had "fat thick crumpled leaves set upon a gross and spongious stalke." Here is the Wake-robin, "a long hood in proportion like the ear of a hare, in middle of which hood cometh forth a pestle or clapper of a dark murry or pale purple color." The leaves of the Corn-marigold are "much hackt and cut into divers sections and placed confusedly." Another plant had leaves of "an overworne green," and Pansy leaves were "a bleak green." The leaves of Tansy are also vividly described as "infinitely jagged and nicked and curled with all like unto a plume of feathers." [Illustration: The Garden's Friend.] The classification and naming of flowers was much thought and written upon from Gerarde's day, until the great work of Linnæus was finished. Some very original schemes were devised. _The Curious and Profitable Gardner_, printed in 1730, suggested this plan: That all plants should be named to indicate their color, and that the initials of their names should be the initials of their respective colors; thus if a plant were named William the Conqueror it would indicate that the name was of a white flower with crimson lines or shades. "Virtuous Oreada would indicate a violet and orange flower; Charming Phyllis or Curious Plotinus a crimson and purple blossom." S. was to indicate Black or Sable, and what letter was Scarlet to have? The "curious ingenious Gentleman" who published this plan urged also the giving of "pompous names" as more dignified; and he made the assertion that French and Flemish "Flowerists" had adopted his system. [Illustration: Edging of Striped Lilies in a Salem Garden.] These were all forerunners of Ruskin, with his poetical notions of plant nomenclature, such as this; that feminine forms of names ending in _a_ (as Prunella, Campanula, Salvia, Kalmia) and _is_ (Iris, Amarylis) should be given only to plants "that are pretty and good"; and that real names, Lucia, Clarissa, etc., be also given. Masculine names in _us_ should be given to plants of masculine qualities,--strength, force, stubbornness; neuter endings in _um_, given to plants indicative of evil or death. I have a fancy anent many old-time flower names that they are also the names of persons. I think of them as persons bearing various traits and characteristics. On the other hand, many old English Christian names seem so suited for flowers, that they might as well stand for flowers as for persons. Here are a few of these quaint old names, Collet, Colin, Emmot, Issot, Doucet, Dobinet, Cicely, Audrey, Amice, Hilary, Bryde, Morrice, Tyffany, Amery, Nowell, Ellice, Digory, Avery, Audley, Jacomin, Gillian, Petronille, Gresel, Joyce, Lettice, Cibell, Avice, Cesselot, Parnell, Renelsha. Do they not "smell sweet to the ear"? The names of flowers are often given as Christian names. Children have been christened by the names Dahlia, Clover, Hyacinth, Asphodel, Verbena, Mignonette, Pansy, Heartsease, Daisy, Zinnia, Fraxinella, Poppy, Daffodil, Hawthorn. What power have the old English names of garden flowers, to unlock old memories, as have the flowers themselves! Dr. Earle writes, "The fascination of plant names is founded on two instincts; love of Nature, and curiosity about Language." To these I should add an equally strong instinct in many persons--their sensitiveness to associations. I am never more filled with a sense of the delight of old English plant-names than when I read the liquid verse of Spenser:-- "Bring hether the pincke and purple Cullembine ... with Gellifloures, Bring hether Coronations and Sops-in-wine Worne of paramours. Sow me the ground with Daffadowndillies And Cowslips and Kingcups and loved Lilies, The pretty Pawnce The Chevisaunce Shall match with the fayre Flour Delice." Why, the names are a pleasure, though you know not what the Sops-in-wine or the Chevisaunce were. Gilliflowers were in the verses of every poet. One of scant fame, named Plat, thus sings:-- "Here spring the goodly Gelofors, Some white, some red in showe; Here pretie Pinks with jagged leaves On rugged rootes do growe; The Johns so sweete in showe and smell, Distinct by colours twaine, About the borders of their beds In seemlie sight remaine." If there ever existed any difference between Sweet-johns and Sweet-williams, it is forgotten now. They have not shared a revival of popularity with other old-time favorites. They were one of the "garland flowers" of Gerarde's day, and were "esteemed for beauty, to deck up the bosoms of the beautiful, and for garlands and crowns of pleasure." In the gardens of Hampton Court in the days of King Henry VIII., were Sweet-williams, for the plants had been bought by the bushel. Sweet-williams are little sung by the poets, and I never knew any one to call the Sweet-william her favorite flower, save one person. Old residents of Worcester will recall the tiny cottage that stood on the corner of Chestnut and Pleasant streets, since the remote years when the latter-named street was a post-road. It was occupied during my childhood by friends of my mother--a century-old mother, and her ancient unmarried daughter. Behind the house stretched one of the most cheerful gardens I have ever seen; ever, in my memory, bathed in glowing sunlight and color. Of its glories I recall specially the long spires of vivid Bee Larkspur, the varied Poppies of wonderful growth, and the rioting Sweet-williams. The latter flowers had some sentimental association to the older lady, who always asserted with emphasis to all visitors that they were her favorite flower. They overran the entire garden, crowding the grass plot where the washed garments were hung out to dry, even growing in the chinks of the stone steps and between the flat stone flagging of the little back yard, where stood the old well with its moss-covered bucket. They spread under the high board fence and appeared outside on Chestnut Street; and they extended under the dense Lilac bushes and Cedars and down the steep grass bank and narrow steps to Pleasant Street. The seed was carefully gathered, especially of one glowing crimson beauty, the color of the Mullein Pink, and a gift of it was highly esteemed by other garden owners. Old herbals say the Sweet-williams are "worthy the Respect of the Greatest Ladies who are Lovers of Flowers." They certainly had the respect and love of these two old ladies, who were truly Lovers of Flowers. [Illustration: Garden Seat at Avonwood Court.] I recall an objection made to Sweet-williams, by some one years ago, that they were of no use or value save in the garden; that they could never be combined in bouquets, nor did they arrange well in vases. It is a place of honor, some of us believe, to be a garden flower as well as a vase flower. This garden was the only one I knew when a child which contained plants of Love-lies-bleeding--it had even then been deemed old-fashioned and out of date. And it also held a few Sunflowers, which had not then had a revival of attention, and seemed as obsolete as the Love-lies-bleeding. The last-named flower I always disliked, a shapeless, gawky creature, described in florists' catalogues and like publications as "an effective plant easily attaining to a splendid form bearing many plume-tufts of rich lustrous crimson." It is the "immortal amarant" chosen by Milton to crown the celestial beings in _Paradise Lost_. Poor angels! they have had many trying vagaries of attire assigned to them. I can contribute to plant lore one fantastic notion in regard to Love-lies-bleeding--though I can find no one who can confirm this memory of my childhood. I recall distinctly expressions of surprise and regret that these two old people in Worcester should retain the Love-lies-bleeding in their garden, because "the house would surely be struck with lightning." Perhaps this fancy contributed to the exile of the flower from gardens. [Illustration: Terraced Garden of the Misses Nichols, Salem, Massachusetts.] There be those who write, and I suppose they believe, that a love of Nature and perception of her beauties and a knowledge of flowers, are the dower of those who are country born and bred; by which is meant reared upon a farm. I have not found this true. Farm children have little love for Nature and are surprisingly ignorant about wild flowers, save a very few varieties. The child who is garden bred has a happier start in life, a greater love and knowledge of Nature. It is a principle of Froebel that one must limit a child's view in order to coördinate his perceptions. That is precisely what is done in a child's regard of Nature by his life in a garden; his view is limited and he learns to know garden flowers and birds and insects thoroughly, when the vast and bewildering variety of field and forest would have remained unappreciated by him. It is a distressing condition of the education of farmers, that they know so little about the country. The man knows about his crops and his wife about the flowers, herbs, and vegetables of her garden; but no countrymen know the names of wild flowers--and few countrywomen, save of medicinal herbs. I asked one farmer the name of a brilliant autumnal flower whose intense purple was then unfamiliar to me--the Devil's-bit. He answered, "Them's Woilets." Violet is the only word in which the initial V is ever changed to W by native New Englanders. Every pink or crimson flower is a Pink. Spring blossoms are "Mayflowers." A frequent answer is, "Those ain't flowers, they're weeds." They are more knowing as to trees, though shaky about the evergreen trees, having little idea of varieties and inclined to call many Spruce. They know little about the reasons for names of localities, or of any historical traditions save those of the Revolution. One exclaims in despair, "No one in the country knows anything about the country." This is no recent indifference and ignorance; Susan Cooper wrote in her _Rural Hours_ in 1848:-- "When we first made acquaintance with the flowers of the neighborhood we asked grown persons--learned perhaps in many matters--the common names of plants they must have seen all their lives, and we found they were no wiser than the children or ourselves. It is really surprising how little country people know on such subjects. Farmers and their wives can tell you nothing on these matters. The men are at fault even among the trees on their own farms, if they are at all out of the common way; and as for smaller native plants, they know less about them than Buck or Brindle, their own oxen." [Illustration: Kitchen Dooryard at Wilbour Farm, Kingston, Rhode Island.] In that delightful book, _The Rescue of an Old Place_, the author has a chapter on the love of flowers in America. It was written anent the everpresent statements seen in metropolitan print that Americans do not love flowers because they are used among the rich and fashionable in large cities for extravagant display rather than for enjoyment; and that we accept botanical names for our indigenous plants instead of calling them by homely ones such as familiar flowers are known by in older lands. Two more foolish claims could scarcely be made. In the first place, the doings of fashionable folk in large cities are fortunately far from being a national index or habit. Secondly, in ancient lands the people named the flowers long before there were botanists, here the botanists found the flowers and named them for the people. Moreover, country folk in New England and even in the far West call flowers by pretty folk-names, if they call them at all, just as in Old England. The fussing over the use of the scientific Latin names for plants apparently will never cease; many of these Latin names are very pleasant, have become so from constant usage, and scarcely seem Latin; thus Clematis, Tiarella, Rhodora, Arethusa, Campanula, Potentilla, Hepatica. When I know the folk-names of flowers I always speak thus of them--and _to them_; but I am grateful too for the scientific classification and naming, as a means of accurate distinction. For any flower student quickly learns that the same English folk-name is given in different localities to very different plants. For instance, the name Whiteweed is applied to ten different plants; there are in England ten or twelve Cuckoo-flowers, and twenty-one Bachelor's Buttons. Such names as Mayflower, Wild Pink, Wild Lily, Eyebright, Toad-flax, Ragged Robin, None-so-pretty, Lady's-fingers, Four-o'clocks, Redweed, Buttercups, Butterflower, Cat's-tail, Rocket, Blue-Caps, Creeping-jenny, Bird's-eye, Bluebells, apply to half a dozen plants. The old folk-names are not definite, but they are delightful; they tell of mythology and medicine, of superstitions and traditions; they show trains of relationship, and associations; in fact, they appeal more to the philologist and antiquarian than to the botanist. Among all the languages which contribute to the variety and picturesqueness of English plant names, Dr. Prior deems Maple the only one surviving from the Celtic language. Gromwell and Wormwood may possibly be added. [Illustration: "A running ribbon of perfumed snow which the sun is melting rapidly."] There are some Anglo-Saxon words; among them Hawthorn and Groundsel. French, Dutch, and Danish names are many, Arabic and Persian are more. Many plant names are dedicatory; they embody the names of the saints and a few the names of the Deity. Our Lady's Flowers are many and interesting; my daughter wrote a series of articles for the _New York Evening Post_ on Our Lady's Flowers, and the list swelled to a surprising number. The devil and witches have their shares of flowers, as have the fairies. I have always regretted deeply that our botanists neglected an opportunity of great enrichment in plant nomenclature when they ignored the Indian names of our native plants, shrubs, and trees. The first names given these plants were not always planned by botanists; they were more often invented in loving memory of English plants, or sometimes from a fancied resemblance to those plants. They did give the wonderfully descriptive name of Moccasin-flower to that creature of the wild-woods; and a far more appropriate title it is than Lady's-slipper, but it is not as well known. I have never found the Lady's-slipper as beautiful a flower as do nearly all my friends, as did my father and mother, and I was pleased at Ruskin's sharp comment that such a slipper was only fit for very gouty old toes. Pappoose-root utilizes another Indian word. Very few Indian plant names were adopted by the white men, fewer still have been adopted by the scientists. The _Catalpa speciosa_ (Catalpa); the _Zea mays_ (Maize); and _Yucca filamentosa_ (Yucca), are the only ones I know. Chinkapin, Cohosh, Hackmatack, Kinnikinnik, Tamarack, Persimmon, Tupelo, Squash, Puccoon, Pipsissewa, Musquash, Pecan, the Scuppernong and Catawba grapes, are our only well-known Indian plant names that survive. Of these Maize, the distinctive product of the United States, will ever link us with the vanishing Indian. It will be noticed that only Puccoon, Cohosh, Pipsissewa, Hackmatack, and Yucca are names of flowering plants; of these Yucca is the only one generally known. I am glad our stately native trees, Tupelo, Hickory, Catalpa, bear Indian names. A curious example of persistence, when so much else has perished, is found in the word "Kiskatomas," the shellbark nut. This Algonquin word was heard everywhere in the state of New York sixty years ago, and is not yet obsolete in families of Dutch descent who still care for the nut itself. We could very well have preserved many Indian names, among them Hiawatha's "Beauty of the springtime, The Miskodeed in blossom," I think Miskodeed a better name than Claytonia or Spring Beauty. The Onondaga Indians had a suggestive name for the Marsh Marigold, "It-opens-the-swamps," which seems to show you the yellow stars "shining in swamps and hollows gray." The name Cowslip has been transferred to it in some localities in New England, which is not strange when we find that the flower has fifty-six English folk-names; among them are Drunkards, Crazy Bet, Meadow-bright, Publicans and Sinners, Soldiers' Buttons, Gowans, Kingcups, and Buttercups. Our Italian street venders call them Buttercups. In erudite Boston, in sight of Boston Common, the beautiful Fringed Gentian is not only called, but labelled, French Gentian. To hear a lovely bunch of the Arethusa called Swamp Pink is not so strange. The Sabbatia grows in its greatest profusion in the vicinity of Plymouth, Massachusetts, and is called locally, "The Rose of Plymouth." It is sold during its season of bloom in the streets of that town and is used to dress the churches. Its name was given to honor an early botanist, Tiberatus Sabbatia, but in Plymouth there is an almost universal belief that it was named because the Pilgrims of 1620 first saw the flower on the Sabbath day. It thus is regarded as a religious emblem, and strong objection is made to mingling other flowers with it in church decoration. This legend was invented about thirty years ago by a man whose name is still remembered as well as his work. [Illustration: Fountain Garden at Sylvester Manor.] CHAPTER XIII TUSSY-MUSSIES "There be some flowers make a delicious Tussie-Mussie or Nosegay both for Sight and Smell." --JOHN PARKINSON, _A Garden of all Sorts of Pleasant Flowers_, 1629. No following can be more productive of a study and love of word derivations and allied word meanings than gardening. An interest in flowers and in our English tongue go hand in hand. The old mediæval word at the head of this chapter has a full explanation by Nares as "A nosegay, a tuzzie-muzzie, a sweet posie." The old English form, _tussy-mose_ was allied with _tosty_, a bouquet, _tuss_ and _tusk_, a wisp, as of hay, _tussock_, and _tutty_, a nosegay. Thomas Campion wrote:-- "Joan can call by name her cows, And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreathes and tuttyes make, And trim with plums a bridal cake." Tussy-mussy was not a colloquial word; it was found in serious, even in religious, text. A tussy-mussy was the most beloved of nosegays, and was often made of flowers mingled with sweet-scented leaves. My favorite tussy-mussy, if made of flowers, would be of Wood Violet, Cabbage Rose, and Clove Pink. These are all beautiful flowers, but many of our most delightful fragrances do not come from flowers of gay dress; even these three are not showy flowers; flowers of bold color and growth are not apt to be sweet-scented; and all flower perfumes of great distinction, all that are unique, are from blossoms of modest color and bearing. The Calycanthus, called Virginia Allspice, Sweet Shrub, or Strawberry bush, has what I term a perfume of distinction, and its flowers are neither fine in shape, color, nor quality. I have often tried to define to myself the scent of the Calycanthus blooms; they have an aromatic fragrance somewhat like the ripest Pineapples of the tropics, but still richer; how I love to carry them in my hand, crushed and warm, occasionally holding them tight over my mouth and nose to fill myself with their perfume. The leaves have a similar, but somewhat varied and sharper, scent, and the woody stems another; the latter I like to nibble. This flower has an element of mystery in it--that indescribable quality felt by children, and remembered by prosaic grown folk. Perhaps its curious dark reddish brown tint may have added part of the queerness, since the "Mourning Bride," similar in color, has a like mysterious association. I cannot explain these qualities to any one not a garden-bred child; and as given in the chapter entitled The Mystery of Flowers, they will appear to many, fanciful and unreal--but I have a fraternity who will understand, and who will know that it was this same undefinable quality that made a branch of Strawberry bush, or a handful of its stemless blooms, a gift significant of interest and intimacy; we would not willingly give Calycanthus blossoms to a child we did not like, or to a stranger. [Illustration: Hawthorn Arch at Holly House, Peace Dale, Rhode Island. Home of Rowland G. Hazard, Esq.] A rare perfume floats from the modest yellow Flowering Currant. I do not see this sweet and sightly shrub in many modern gardens, and it is our loss. The crowding bees are goodly and cheerful, and the flowers are pleasant, but the perfume is of the sort you can truly say you love it; its aroma is like some of the liqueurs of the old monks. The greatest pleasure in flower perfumes comes to us through the first flowers of spring. How we breathe in their sweetness! Our native wild flowers give us the most delicate odors. The Mayflower is, I believe, the only wild flower for which all country folk of New England have a sincere affection; it is not only a beautiful, an enchanting flower, but it is so fresh, so balmy of bloom. It has the delicacy of texture and form characteristic of many of our native spring blooms, Hepatica, Anemone, Spring Beauty, Polygala. The Arethusa was one of the special favorites of my father and mother, who delighted in its exquisite fragrance. Hawthorne said of it: "One of the delicatest, gracefullest, and in every manner sweetest of the whole race of flowers. For a fortnight past I have found it in the swampy meadows, growing up to its chin in heaps of wet moss. Its hue is a delicate pink, of various depths of shade, and somewhat in the form of a Grecian helmet." It pleases me to fancy that Hawthorne was like the Arethusa, that it was a fit symbol of the nature of our greatest New England genius. Perfect in grace and beauty, full of sentiment, classic and elegant of shape, it has a shrinking heart; the sepals and petals rise over it and shield it, and the whole flower is shy and retiring, hiding in marshes and quaking bogs. It is one of our flowers which we ever regard singly, as an individual, a rare and fine spirit; we never think of it as growing in an expanse or even in groups. This lovely flower has, as Landor said of the flower of the vine, "a scent so delicate that it requires a sigh to inhale it." The faintest flower scents are the best. You find yourself longing for just a little more, and you bury your face in the flowers and try to draw out a stronger breath of balm. Apple blossoms, certain Violets, and Pansies have this pale perfume. In the front yard of my childhood's home grew a Larch, an exquisitely graceful tree, one now little planted in Northern climates. I recall with special delight the faint fragrance of its early shoots. The next tree was a splendid pink Hawthorn. What a day of mourning it was when it had to be cut down, for trees had been planted so closely that many must be sacrificed as years went on and all grew in stature. There are some smells that are strangely pleasing to the country lover which are neither from fragrant flower nor leaf; one is the scent of the upturned earth, most heartily appreciated in early spring. The smell of a ploughed field is perhaps the best of all earthy scents, though what Bliss Carman calls "the racy smell of the forest loam" is always good. Another is the burning of weeds of garden rakings, "The spicy smoke Of withered weeds that burn where gardens be." A garden "weed-smother" always makes me think of my home garden, and my father, who used to stand by this burning weed-heap, raking in the withered leaves. Many such scents are pleasing chiefly through the power of association. [Illustration: Thyme-covered Graves.] The sense of smell in its psychological relations is most subtle:-- "The subtle power in perfume found, Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned; On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound No censer idly burned. "And Nature holds in wood and field Her thousand sunlit censers still; To spells of flower and shrub we yield Against or with our will." Dr. Holmes notes that memory, imagination, sentiment, are most readily touched through the sense of smell. He tells of the associations borne to him by the scent of Marigold, of Life-everlasting, of an herb closet. Notwithstanding all these tributes to sweet scents and to the sense of smell, it is not deemed, save in poetry, wholly meet to dwell much on smells, even pleasant ones. To all who here sniff a little disdainfully at a whole chapter given to flower scents, let me repeat the Oriental proverb:-- "To raise Flowers is a Common Thing, God alone gives them Fragrance." Balmier far, and more stimulating and satisfying than the perfumes of most blossoms, is the scent of aromatic or balsamic leaves, of herbs, of green growing things. Sweetbrier, says Thoreau, is thus "thrice crowned: in fragrant leaf, tinted flower, and glossy fruit." Every spring we long, as Whittier wrote-- "To come to Bayberry scented slopes, And fragrant Fern and Groundmat vine, Breathe airs blown o'er holt and copse, Sweet with black Birch and Pine." All these scents of holt and copse are dear to New Englanders. I have tried to explain the reason for the charm to me of growing Thyme. It is not its beautiful perfume, its clear vivid green, its tiny fresh flowers, or the element of historic interest. Alphonse Karr gives another reason, a sentiment of gratitude. He says:-- "Thyme takes upon itself to embellish the parts of the earth which other plants disdain. If there is an arid, stony, dry soil, burnt up by the sun, it is there Thyme spreads its charming green beds, perfumed, close, thick, elastic, scattered over with little balls of blossom, pink in color, and of a delightful freshness." Thyme was, in older days, spelt Thime and Time. This made the poet call it "pun-provoking Thyme." I have an ancient recipe from an old herbal for "Water of Time to ease the Passions of the Heart." This remedy is efficacious to-day, whether you spell it time or thyme. There are shown on page 301 some lonely graves in the old Moravian burying-ground in Bethlehem, overgrown with the pleasant perfumed Thyme. And as we stand by their side we think with a half smile--a tender one--of the never-failing pun of the old herbalists. Spenser called Thyme "bee-alluring," "honey-laden." It was the symbol of sweetness; and the Thyme that grew on the sunny slopes of Mt. Hymettus gave to the bees the sweetest and most famed of all honey. The plant furnished physic as well as perfume and puns and honey. Pliny named eighteen sovereign remedies made from Thyme. These cured everything from the "bite of poysonful spidars" to "the Apoplex." There were so many recipes in the English _Compleat Chirurgeon_, and similar medical books, that you would fancy venomous spiders were as thick as gnats in England. These spider cure-alls are however simply a proof that the recipes were taken from dose-books of Pliny and various Roman physicians, with whom spider bites were more common and more painful than in England. _The Haven of Health_, written in 1366, with a special view to the curing of "Students," says that Wild Thyme has a great power to drive away heaviness of mind, "to purge melancholly and splenetick humours." And the author recommends to "sup the leaves with eggs." The leaves were used everywhere "to be put in puddings and such like meates, so that in divers places Thime was called Pudding-grass." Pudding in early days was the stuffing of meat and poultry, while concoctions of eggs, milk, flour, sugar, etc., like our modern puddings, were called whitpot. Many traditions hang around Thyme. It was used widely in incantations and charms. It was even one of the herbs through whose magic power you could see fairies. Here is a "Choice Proven Secret made Known" from the Ashmolean Mss. How to see Fayries "Rx. A pint of Sallet-Oyle and put it into a vial-glasse but first wash it with Rose-water and Marygolde-water the Flowers to be gathered toward the East. Wash it until teh Oyle come white. Then put it in the glasse, _ut supra_: Then put thereto the budds of Holyhocke, the flowers of Marygolde, the flowers or toppers of Wild Thyme, the budds of young Hazle: and the time must be gathered neare the side of a Hill where Fayries used to be: and take the grasse off a Fayrie throne. Then all these put into the Oyle into the Glasse, and sette it to dissolve three dayes in the Sunne and then keep for thy use _ut supra_." [Illustration: "White Umbrellas of Elder."] "I know a bank whereon the Wild Thyme blows"--it is not in old England, but on Long Island; the dense clusters of tiny aromatic flowers form a thick cushioned carpet under our feet. Lord Bacon says in his essay on Gardens:-- "Those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed are three: that is, Burnet, Wild Thyme, and Water-Mints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread." Here we have an alley of Thyme, set by nature, for us to tread upon and enjoy, though Thyme always seems to me so classic a plant, that it is far too fine to walk upon; one ought rather to sleep and dream upon it. Great bushes of Elder, another flower of witchcraft, grow and blossom near my Thyme bank. Old Thomas Browne, as long ago as 1685 called the Elder bloom "white umbrellas"--which has puzzled me much, since we are told to assign the use and knowledge of umbrellas in England to a much later date; perhaps he really wrote umbellas. Now it is a well-known fact--sworn to in scores of old herbals, that any one who stands on Wild Thyme, by the side of an Elder bush, on Midsummer Eve, will "see great experiences"; his eyes will be opened, his wits quickened, his vision clarified; and some have even seen fairies, pixies--Shakespeare's elves--sporting over the Thyme at their feet. I shall not tell whom I saw walking on my Wild Thyme bank last Midsummer Eve. I did not need the Elder bush to open my eyes. I watched the twain strolling back and forth in the half-light, and I heard snatches of talk as they walked toward me, and I lost the responses as they turned from me. At last, in a louder voice:-- HE. "What is this jolly smell all around here? Just like a mint-julep! Some kind of a flower?" SHE. "It's Thyme, Wild Thyme; it has run into the edge of the lawn from the field, and is just ruining the grass." HE (_stooping to pick it_). "Why, so it is. I thought it came from that big white flower over there by the hedge." SHE. "No, that is Elder." HE (_after a pause_). "I had to learn a lot of old Arnold's poetry at school once, or in college, and there was some just like to-night:-- "'The evening comes--the fields are still, The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again. Deserted is the half-mown plain, And from the Thyme upon the height, And from the Elder-blossom white, And pale Dog Roses in the hedge, And from the Mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night air blows The perfume which the day foregoes-- And on the pure horizon far See pulsing with the first-born star The liquid light above the hill. The evening comes--the fields are still.'" Then came the silence and half-stiffness which is ever apt to follow any long quotation, especially any rare recitation of verse by those who are notoriously indifferent to the charms of rhyme and rhythm, and are of another sex than the listener. It seems to indicate an unusual condition of emotion, to be a sort of barometer of sentiment, and the warning of threatening weather was not unheeded by her; hence her response was somewhat nervous in utterance, and instinctively perverse and contradictory. SHE. "That line, 'The liquid light above the hill,' is very lovely, but I can't see that it's any of it at all like to-night." HE (_stoutly and resentfully_). "Oh, no! not at all! There's the field, all still, and here's Thyme, and Elder, and there are wild Roses!--and see! the moon is coming up--so there's your liquid light." SHE. "Well! Yes, perhaps it is; at any rate it is a lovely night. You've read _Lavengro_? No? Certainly you must have heard of it. The gipsy in it says: 'Life is sweet, brother. There's day and night, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there is likewise a wind on the heath.'" HE (_dubiously_). "That's rather queer poetry, if it is poetry--and you must know I do not like to hear you call me brother." Whereupon I discreetly betrayed my near presence on the piazza, to prove that the field, though still, was not deserted. And soon the twain said they would walk to the club house to view the golf prizes; and they left the Wild Thyme and Elder blossoms white, and turned their backs on the moon, and fell to golf and other eminently unromantic topics, far safer for Midsummer Eve than poesy and other sweet things. [Illustration: Lower Garden at Sylvester Manor.] CHAPTER XIV JOAN SILVER-PIN "Being of many variable colours, and of great beautie, although of evill smell, our gentlewomen doe call them Jone Silver-pin." --JOHN GERARDE, _Herball_, 1596. Garden Poppies were the Joan Silver-pin of Gerarde, stigmatized also by Parkinson as "Jone Silver-pinne, _subauditur_; faire without and foule within." In Elizabeth's day Poppies met universal distrust and aversion, as being the source of the dreaded opium. Spenser called the flower "dead-sleeping" Poppy; Morris "the black heart, amorous Poppy"--which might refer to the black spots in the flower's heart. Clare, in his _Shepherd's Calendar_ also asperses them:-- "Corn-poppies, that in crimson dwell, Called Head-aches from their sickly smell." Forby adds this testimony: "Any one by smelling of it for a very short time may convince himself of the propriety of the name." Some fancied that the dazzle of color caused headaches--that vivid scarlet, so fine a word as well as color that it is annoying to hear the poets change it to crimson. [Illustration: "Black Heart, Amorous Poppies."] This regard of and aversion to the Poppy lingered among elderly folks till our own day; and I well recall the horror of a visitor of antique years in our mother's garden during our childhood, when we were found cheerfully eating Poppy seeds. She viewed us with openly expressed apprehension that we would fall into a stupor; and quite terrified us and our relatives, in spite of our assertions that we "always ate them," which indeed we always did and do to this day; and very pleasant of taste they are, and of absolutely no effect, and not at all of evil smell to our present fancy, either in blossom or seed, though distinctly medicinal in odor. Returned missionaries were frequent and honored visitors in our town and our house in those days; and one of these good men reassured us and reinstated in favor our uncanny feast by telling us that in the East, Poppy seeds were eaten everywhere, and were frequently baked with wheaten flour into cakes. A dislike of the scent of Field Poppies is often found among English folk. The author of _A World in a Garden_ speaks in disgust of "the pungent and sickly odor of the flaring Poppies--they positively nauseate me"; but then he disliked their color too. There is something very fine about a Poppy, in the extraordinary combination of boldness of color and great size with its slender delicacy of stem, the grace of the set of the beautiful buds, the fine turn of the flower as it opens, and the wonderful airiness of poise of so heavy a flower. The silkiness of tissue of the petals, and their semi-transparency in some colors, and the delicate fringes of some varieties, are great charms. "Each crumpled crêpe-like leaf is soft as silk; Long, long ago the children saw them there, Scarlet and rose, with fringes white as milk, And called them 'shawls for fairies' dainty wear'; They were not finer, those laid safe away In that low attic, neath the brown, warm eaves." And when the flowers have shed, oh, so lightly! their silken petals, there is still another beauty, a seed vessel of such classic shape that it wears a crown. I have always rejoiced in the tributes paid to the Poppy by Ruskin and Mrs. Thaxter. She deemed them the most satisfactory flower among the annuals "for wondrous variety, certain picturesque qualities, for color and form, and a subtle air of mystery." There is a line of Poppy colors which is most entrancing; the gray, smoke color, lavender, mauve, and lilac Poppies, edged often and freaked with tints of red, are rarely beautiful things. There are fine white Poppies, some fringed, some single, some double--the Bride is the appropriate name of the fairest. And the pinks of Poppies, that wonderful red-pink, and a shell-pink that is almost salmon, and the sunset pinks of our modern Shirley Poppies, with quality like finest silken gauze! The story of the Shirley Poppies is one of magic, that a flower-loving clergyman who in 1882 sowed the seed of one specially beautiful Poppy which had no black in it, and then sowed those of its fine successors, produced thus a variety which has supplied the world with beauty. Rev. Mr. Wilks, their raiser, gives these simply worded rules anent his Shirley Poppies:-- "1, They are single; 2, always have a white base; 3, with yellow or white stamens, anthers, or pollen; 4, and never have the smallest particle of black about them." The thought of these successful and beautiful Poppies is very stimulating to flower raisers of moderate means, with no profound knowledge of flowers; it shows what can be done by enthusiasm and application and patience. It gives something of the same comfort found in Keats's fine lines to the singing thrush:-- "Oh! fret not after knowledge. I have none, _and yet the evening listens_." Notwithstanding all this distinction and beauty, these fine things of the garden were dubbed Joan Silver-pin. I wonder who Joan Silver-pin was! I have searched faithfully for her, but have not been able to get on the right scent. Was she of real life, or fiction? I have looked through the lists of characters of contemporary plays, and read a few old jest books and some short tales of that desperately colorless sort, wherein you read page after page of the printed words with as little absorption of signification as if they were Choctaw. But never have I seen Joan Silver-pin's name; it was a bit of Elizabethan slang, I suspect,--a cant term once well known by every one, now existing solely through this chance reference of the old herbalists. [Illustration: Valerian.] No garden can aspire to be named An Old-fashioned Garden unless it contains that beautiful plant the Garden Valerian, known throughout New England to-day as Garden Heliotrope; as Setwall it grew in every old garden, as it was in every pharmacopoeia. It was termed "drink-quickening Setuale" by Spenser, from the universal use of its flowers to flavor various enticing drinks. Its lovely blossoms are pinkish in bud and open to pure white; its curiously penetrating vanilla-like fragrance is disliked by many who are not cats. I find it rather pleasing of scent when growing in the garden, and not at all like the extremely nasty-smelling medicine which is made from it, and which has been used for centuries for "histerrick fits," and is still constantly prescribed to-day for that unsympathized-with malady. Dr. Holmes calls it, "Valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms." It is a stately plant when in tall flower in June; my sister had great clumps of bloom like the ones shown above, but alas! the cats caught them before the photographer did. The cats did not have to watch the wind and sun and rain, to pick out plates and pack plate-holders, and gather ray-fillers and cloth and lens, and adjust the tripod, and fix the camera and focus, and think, and focus, and think, and then wait--till the wind ceased blowing. So when they found it, they broke down every slender stalk and rolled in it till the ground was tamped down as hard as if one of our lazy road-menders had been at it. Valerian has in England as an appropriate folk name, "Cats'-fancy." The pretty little annual, Nemophila, makes also a favorite rolling-place for our cat; while all who love cats have given them Catnip and seen the singular intoxication it brings. The sight of a cat in this strange ecstasy over a bunch of Catnip always gives me a half-sense of fear; she becomes such a truly wild creature, such a miniature tiger. In _The Art of Gardening_, by J. W., Gent., 1683, the author says of Marigolds: "There are divers sorts besides the common as the African Marigold, a Fair bigge Yellow Flower, but of a very Naughty Smell." I cannot refrain, ere I tell more of the Marigold's naughtiness, to copy a note written in this book by a Massachusetts bride whose new husband owned and studied the book two hundred years ago; for it gives a little glimpse of old-time life. In her exact little handwriting are these words:-- "Planted in Potts, 1720: An Almond Stone, an English Wallnut, Cittron Seeds, Pistachica nutts, Red Damsons, Leamon seeds, Oring seeds and Daits." Poor Anne! she died before she had time to become any one's grandmother. I hope her successor in matrimony, our forbear, cherished her little seedlings and rejoiced in the Lemon and Almond trees, though Anne herself was so speedily forgotten. She is, however, avenged by Time; for she is remembered better than the wife who took her place, through her simple flower-loving words. I am surprised at this aspersion on the Marigold as to its smell, for all the traditions of this flower show it to have been a great favorite in kitchen gardens; and I have found that elderly folk are very apt to like its scent. My father loved the flower and the fragrance, and liked to have a bowl of Marigolds stand beside him on his library table. It was constantly carried to church as a "Sabbath-day posy," and its petals used as flavoring in soups and stews. Charles Lamb said it poisoned them. Canon Ellacombe writes that it has been banished in England to the gardens of cottages and old farm-houses; it had a waning popularity in America, but was never wholly despised. How Edward Fitzgerald loved the African Marigold! "Its grand color is so comfortable to us Spanish-like Paddies," he writes to Fanny Kemble in letters punctuated with little references to his garden flowers: letters so cheerful, too, with capitals; "I love the old way of Capitals for Names," he says--and so do I; letters bearing two surprises, namely, the infrequent references to Omar Khayyam; and the fact that Nasturtiums, not Roses, were his favorite flower. The question of the agreeableness of a flower scent is a matter of public opinion as well as personal choice. Environment and education influence us. In olden times every one liked certain scents deemed odious to-day. Parkinson's praise of Sweet Sultans was, "They are of so exceeding sweet a scent as it surpasses the best civet that is." Have you ever smelt civet? You will need no words to tell you that the civet is a little cousin of the skunk. Cowper could not talk with civet in the room; most of us could not even breathe. The old herbalists call Privet sweet-scented. I don't know that it is strange to find a generation who loved civet and musk thinking Privet pleasant-scented. Nearly all our modern botanists have copied the words of their predecessors; but I scarcely know what to say or to think when I find so exact an observer as John Burroughs calling Privet "faintly sweet-scented." I find it rankly ill-scented. The men of Elizabethan days were much more learned in perfumes and fonder of them than are most folk to-day. Authors and poets dwelt frankly upon them without seeming at all vulgar. Of course herbalists, from their choice of subject, were free to write of them at length, and they did so with evident delight. Nowadays the French realists are the only writers who boldly reckon with the sense of smell. It isn't deemed exactly respectable to dwell too much on smells, even pleasant ones; so this chapter certainly must be brief. I suppose nine-tenths of all who love flower scents would give Violets as their favorite fragrance; yet how quickly, in the hothouse Violets, can the scent become nauseous. I recall one formal luncheon whereat the many tables were mightily massed with violets; and though all looked as fresh as daybreak to the sight, some must have been gathered for a day or more, and the stale odor throughout the room was unbearable. But it is scarcely fair to decry a flower because of its scent in decay. Shakespeare wrote:-- "Lilies festered smell far worse than weeds." Many of our Compositæ are vile after standing in water in vases; Ox-eye Daisies, Rudbeckia, Zinnia, Sunflower, and even the wholesome Marigold. Delicate as is the scent of the Pansy, the smell of a bed of ancient Pansy plants is bad beyond words. The scent of the flowers of fruit-bearing trees is usually delightful; but I cannot like the scent of Pear blossoms. I dislike much the rank smell of common yellow Daffodils and of many of that family. I can scarcely tolerate them even when freshly picked, upon a dinner table. Some of the Jonquils are as sickening within doors as the Tuberose, though in both cases it is only because the scent is confined that it is cloying. In the open air, at a slight distance, they smell as well as many Lilies, and the Poet's Narcissus is deemed by many delightful. [Illustration: Old "War Office."] I have ever found the scent of Lilacs somewhat imperfect, not well rounded, not wholly satisfying; but one of my friends can never find in a bunch of our spring Lilacs any odor save that of illuminating gas. I do wish he had not told me this! Now when I stand beside my Lilac bush I feel like looking around anxiously to see where the gas is escaping. Linnæus thought the perfume of Mignonette the purest ambrosia. Another thinks that Mignonette has a doggy smell, as have several flowers; this is not wholly to their disparagement. Our cocker spaniel is sweeter than some flowers, but he is not a Mignonette. There be those who love most of all the scent of Heliotrope, which is to me a close, almost musty scent. I have even known of one or two who disliked the scent of Roses, and the Rose itself has been abhorred. Marie de' Medici would not even look at a painting or carving of a Rose. The Chevalier de Guise had a loathing for Roses. Lady Heneage, one of the maids of honor to Queen Elizabeth, was made very ill by the presence or scent of Roses. This illness was not akin to "Rose cold," which is the baneful companion of so many Americans, and which can conquer its victims in the most sudden and complete manner. Even my affection for Roses, and my intense love of their fragrance, shown in its most ineffable sweetness in the old pink Cabbage Rose, will not cause me to be silent as to the scent of some of the Rose sisters. Some of the Tea Roses, so lovely of texture, so delicate of hue, are sickening; one has a suggestion of ether which is most offensive. "A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet," but not if its name (and its being) was the Persian Yellow. This beautiful double Rose of rich yellow was introduced to our gardens about 1830. It is infrequent now, though I find it in florists' lists; and I suspect I know why. Of late years I have not seen it, but I have a remembrance of its uprootal from our garden. Mrs. Wright confirms my memory by calling it "a horrible thing--the Skunk Cabbage of the garden." It smells as if foul insects were hidden within it, a disgusting smell. I wonder whether poor Marie de' Medici hadn't had a whiff of it. A Persian Rose! it cannot be possible that Omar Khayyam ever smelt it, or any of the Rose singers of Persia, else their praises would have turned to loathing as they fled from its presence. There are two or three yellow Roses which are not pleasing, but are not abhorrent as is the Persian Yellow. One evening last May I walked down the garden path, then by the shadowy fence-side toward the barn. I was not wandering in the garden for sweet moonlight, for there was none; nor for love of flowers, nor in admiration of any of nature's works, for it was very cold; we even spoke of frost, as we ever do apprehensively on a chilly night in spring. The kitten was lost. She was in the shrubbery at the garden end, for I could hear her plaintive yowling; and I thus traced her. I gathered her up, purring and clawing, when I heard by my side a cross rustling of leaves and another complaining voice. It was the Crown-imperial, unmindful or unwitting of my presence, and muttering peevishly: "Here I am, out of fashion, and therefore out of the world! torn away from the honored border by the front door path, and even set away from the broad garden beds, and thrust with sunflowers and other plants of no social position whatever down here behind the barn, where, she dares to say, we 'can all smell to heaven together.' "What airs, forsooth! these twentieth century children put on! Smell to heaven, indeed! I wish her grandfather could have heard her! He didn't make such a fuss about smells when I was young, nor did any one else; no one's nose was so over-nice. Every spring when I came up, glorious in my dress of scarlet and green, and hung with my jewels of pearls, they were all glad to see me and to smell me, too; and well they might be, for there was a rotten-appley, old-potatoey smell in the cellar which pervaded the whole house when doors were closed. And when the frost came up from the ground the old sink drain at the kitchen door rendered up to the spring sunshine all the combined vapors of all the dish-water of all the winter. The barn and hen-house and cow-house reeked in the sunlight, but the pigpen easily conquered them all. There was an ancient cesspool far too near the kitchen door, underground and not to be seen, but present, nevertheless. A hogshead of rain-water stood at the cellar door, and one at the end of the barn--to water the flowers with--they fancied rotten rain-water made flowers grow! A foul dye-tub was ever reeking in every kitchen chimney corner, a culminating horror in stenches; and vessels of ancient soap grease festered in the outer shed, the grease collected through the winter and waiting for the spring soap-making. The vapor of sour milk, ever present, was of little moment--when there was so much else so much worse. There wasn't a bath-tub in the grandfather's house, nor in any other house in town, nor any too much bathing in winter, either, I am sure, in icy well-water in icier sleeping rooms. The windows were carefully closed all winter long, but the open fireplaces managed to save the life of the inmates, though the walls and rafters were hung with millions of germs which every one knows are all the wickeder when they don't smell, because you take no care, fancying they are not there. But the grandfather knew naught of germs--and was happy. The trees shaded the house so that the roof was always damp. Oh, how those germs grew and multiplied in the grateful shade of those lovely trees, and how mould and rust rejoiced. Well might people turn from all these sights and scents to me. The grandfather and his wife, when they were young, as when they were in middle age, and when they were old, walked every early spring day at set of sun, slowly down the front path, looking at every flower, every bud; pulling a tiny weed, gathering a choice flower, breaking a withered sprig; and they ever lingered long and happily by my side. And he always said, 'Wife! isn't this Crown-imperial a glorious plant? so stately, so perfect in form, such an expression of life, and such a personification of spring!' 'Yes, father,' she would answer quickly, 'but don't pick it.' Why, I should have resented even that word had she referred to my perfume. She meant that the garden border could not spare me. The children never could pick me, even the naughtiest ones did not dare to; but they could pull all the little upstart Ladies' Delights and Violets they wished. And yet, with all this family homage which should make me a family totem, here I am, stuck down by the barn--I, who sprung from the blood of a king, the great Gustavus Adolphus--and was sung by a poet two centuries ago in the famous _Garland of Julia_. The old Jesuit poet Rapin said of me, 'No flower aspires in pomp and state so high.' "Read this page from that master-herbalist, John Gerarde, telling of the rare beauties within my golden cup. "A very intelligent and respectable old gentleman named Parkinson, who knew far more about flowers than flighty folk do nowadays, loved me well and wrote of me, 'The Crown-imperial, for its stately beautifulnesse deserveth the first place in this our garden of delight to be here entreated of before all other Lilies.' He had good sense. It was not I who was stigmatized by him as Joan Silver-pin. He spoke very plainly and very sensibly of my perfume; there was no nonsense in his notions, he told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: 'The whole plant and every part thereof, as well as rootes as leaves and floures doe smell somewhat strong, as it were the savour of a foxe, so that if any doe but near it, he can but smell it, yet is not unwholesome.' "How different all is to-day in literature, as well as in flower culture. Now there are low, coarse attempts at wit that fairly wilt a sensitive nature like mine. There is one miserable Man who comes to this garden, and who _thinks_ he is a Poet; I will not repeat his wretched rhymes. But only yesterday, when he stood looking superciliously down upon us, he said sneeringly, 'Yes, spring is here, balmy spring; we know her presence without seeing her face or hearing her voice; for the Skunk Cabbage is unfurled in the swamps, and the Crown-imperial is blooming in the garden.' Think of his presuming to set me alongside that low Skunk Cabbage--me with my 'stately beautifulness.' [Illustration: Crown Imperial. A Page from Gerarde's _Herball_.] "Little do people nowadays know about scents anyway, when their botanists and naturalists write that the Privet bloom is 'pleasingly fragrant,' and one dame set last summer a dish of Privet on her dining table before many guests. Privet! with its ancient and fishlike smell! And another tells of the fragrant delight of flowering Buckwheat--may the breezes blow such fragrance far from me! But why dwell on perfumes; flowers were made to look at, not to smell; sprays of Sweet Balm or Basil leaves outsweeten every flower, and make no pretence or thought of beauty; render to each its own virtues, and try not to engross the charm of another. "I was indeed the queen of the garden, and here I am exiled behind the barn. Life is not worth living. I won't come up again. She will walk through the garden next May and say, 'How dull and shabby the garden looks this year! the spring is backward, everything has run to leaves, nothing is in bloom, we must buy more fertilizer, we must get a new gardener, we must get more plants and slips and seeds and bulbs, it is fearfully discouraging, I never saw anything so gone off!' then perhaps she will remember, and regret the friend of her grandparents, the Crown-imperial--whom she thrust from her Garden of Delight." CHAPTER XV CHILDHOOD IN A GARDEN "I see the garden thicket's shade Where all the summer long we played, And gardens set and houses made, Our early work and late." --MARY HOWITT. How we thank God for the noble traits of our ancestors; and our hearts fill with gratitude for the tenderness, the patience, the loving kindness of our parents; I have an infinite deal for which to be sincerely grateful; but for nothing am I now more happy than that there were given to me a flower-loving father and mother. To that flower-loving father and mother I offer in tenderest memory equal gratitude for a childhood spent in a garden. Winter as well as summer gave us many happy garden hours. Sometimes a sudden thaw of heavy snow and an equally quick frost formed a miniature pond for sheltered skating at the lower end of the garden. A frozen crust of snow (which our winters nowadays so seldom afford) gave other joys. And the delights of making a snow man, or a snow fort, even of rolling great globes of snow, were infinite and varied. More subtle was the charm of shaping certain _things_ from dried twigs and evergreen sprigs, and pouring water over them to freeze into a beautiful resemblance of the original form. These might be the ornate initials or name of a dear girl friend, or a tiny tower or pagoda. I once had a real winter garden in miniature set in twigs of cedar and spruce, and frozen into a fairy garden. In summertime the old-fashioned garden was a paradise for a child; the long warm days saw the fresh telling of child to child, by that curiously subtle system of transmission which exists everywhere among happy children, of quaint flower customs known to centuries of English-speaking children, and also some newer customs developed by the fitness of local flowers for such games and plays. The Countess Potocka says the intense enjoyment of nature is a sixth sense. We are not born with this good gift, nor do we often acquire it in later life; it comes through our rearing. The fulness of delight in a garden is the bequest of a childhood spent in a garden. No study or possession of flowers in mature years can afford gratification equal to that conferred by childish associations with them; by the sudden recollection of flower lore, the memory of child friendships, the recalling of games or toys made of flowers: you cannot explain it; it seems a concentration, an extract of all the sunshine and all the beauty of those happy summers of our lives when the whole day and every day was spent among flowers. The sober teachings of science in later years can never make up the loss to children debarred of this inheritance, who have grown up knowing not when "the summer comes with bee and flower." [Illustration: Milkweed Seed.] A garden childhood gives more sources of delight to the senses in after life than come from beautiful color and fine fragrance. Have you pleasure in the contact of a flower? Do you like its touch as well as its perfume? Do you love to feel a Lilac spray brush your cheek in the cool of the evening? Do you like to bury your face in a bunch of Roses? How frail and papery is the Larkspur! And how silky is the Poppy! A Locust bloom is a fringe of sweetness; and how very doubtful is the touch of the Lily--an unpleasant thick sleekness. The Clove Carnation is the best of all. It feels just as it smells. These and scores more give me pleasure through their touch, the result of constant handling of flowers when I was a child. There were harmful flowers in the old garden--among them the Monk's-hood; we never touched it, except warily. Doubtless we were warned, but we knew it by instinct and did not need to be told. I always used to see in modest homes great tubs each with a flourishing Oleander tree. I have set out scores of little slips of Oleander, just as I planted Orange seeds. I seldom see Oleanders now; I wonder whether the plant has been banished on account of its poisonous properties. I heard of but one fatal case of Oleander poisoning--and that was doubtful. A little child, the sister of one of my playmates, died suddenly in great distress. Several months after her death the mother was told that the leaves of the Oleander were poisonous, when she recalled that the child had eaten them on the day of her death. Oleander blossoms were lovely in shape and color. Edward Fitzgerald writes to Fanny Kemble: "Don't you love the Oleander? So clean in its Leaves and Stem, as so beautiful in its Flower; loving to stand in water which it drinks up fast. I have written all my best Mss. with a Pen that has been held with its nib in water for more than a fortnight--Charles Keene's recipe for keeping Pens in condition--Oleander-like." This, written in 1882, must, even at that recent date, refer to quill pens. The lines of Mary Howitt's, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, ring to me so true; there is in them no mock sentiment, it is the real thing,--"the garden thicket's shade," little "cubby houses" under the close-growing stems of Lilac and Syringa, with an old thick shawl outspread on the damp earth for a carpet. Oh, how hot and scant the air was in the green light of those close "garden-thickets," those "Lilac ambushes," which were really not half so pleasant as the cooler seats on the grass under the trees, but which we clung to with a warmth equal to their temperature. [Illustration: The Children's Garden.] Let us peer into these garden thickets at these happy little girls, fantastic in their garden dress. Their hair is hung thick with Dandelion curls, made from pale green opal-tinted stems that have grown long under the shrubbery and Box borders. Around their necks are childish wampum, strings of Dandelion beads or Daisy chains. More delicate wreaths for the neck or hair were made from the blossoms of the Four-o'clock or the petals of Phlox or Lilacs, threaded with pretty alternation of color. Fuchsias were hung at the ears for eardrops, green leaves were pinned with leaf stems into little caps and bonnets and aprons, Foxgloves made dainty children's gloves. Truly the garden-bred child went in gay attire. That exquisite thing, the seed of Milkweed (shown on page 328), furnished abundant playthings. The plant was sternly exterminated in our garden, but sallies into a neighboring field provided supplies for fairy cradles with tiny pillows of silvery silk. One of the early impulses of infancy is to put everything in the mouth; this impulse makes the creeping days of some children a period of constant watchfulness and terror to their apprehensive guardians. When the children are older and can walk in the garden or edge of the woods, a fresh anxiety arises; for a certain savagery in their make-up makes them regard every growing thing, not as an object to look at or even to play with, but to eat. It is a relief to the mother when the child grows beyond the savage, and falls under the dominion of tradition and folk-lore, communicated to him by other children by that subtle power of enlightenment common to children, which seems more like instinct than instruction. The child still eats, but he makes distinctions, and seldom touches harmful leaves or seeds or berries. He has an astonishing range: roots, twigs, leaves, bark, tendrils, fruit, berries, flowers, buds, seeds, all alike serve for food. Young shoots of Sweetbrier and Blackberry are nibbled as well as the branches of young Birch. Grape tendrils, too, have an acid zest, as do Sorrel leaves. Wild Rose hips and the drupes of dwarf Cornel are chewed. The leaf buds of Spruce and Linden are also tasted. I hear that some children in some places eat the young fronds of Cinnamon Fern, but I never saw it done. Seeds of Pumpkins and Sunflowers were edible, as well as Hollyhock cheeses. There was one Slippery Elm tree which we know in our town, and we took ample toll of it. Cherry gum and Plum gum are chewed, as well as the gum of Spruce trees. There was a boy who used sometimes to intrude on our girl's paradise, since he was the son of a neighbor, and he said he ate raw Turnips, and something he called Pig-nuts--I wonder what they were. Those childish customs linger long in our minds, or rather in our subconsciousness. I never walk through an old garden without wishing to nibble and browse on the leaves and stems which I ate as a child, without sucking a drop of honey from certain flowers. I do it not with intent, but I waken to realization with the petal of Trumpet Honeysuckle in my hand and its drop of ambrosia on my lips. [Illustration: Foxgloves in a Narragansett Garden.] Children care far less for scent and perfection in a flower than they do for color, and, above all, for desirability and adaptability of form, this desirability being afforded by the fitness of the flower for the traditional games and plays. The favorite flowers of my childhood were three noble creatures, Hollyhocks, Canterbury Bells, and Foxgloves, all three were scentless. I cannot think of a child's summer in a garden without these three old favorites of history and folk-lore. Of course we enjoyed the earlier flower blooms and played happily with them ere our dearest treasures came to us; but never had we full variety, zest, and satisfaction till this trio were in midsummer bloom. There was a little gawky, crudely-shaped wooden doll of German manufacture sold in Worcester which I never saw elsewhere; they were kept for sale by old Waxler, the German basket maker, a most respected citizen, whose name I now learn was not Waxler but Weichsler. These dolls came in three sizes, the five-cent size was a midsummer favorite, because on its featureless head the blossoms of the Canterbury Bells fitted like a high azure cap. I can see rows of these wooden creatures sitting, thus crowned, stiffly around the trunk of the old Seckel Pear tree at a doll's tea-party. By the constant trampling of our childish feet the earth at the end of the garden path was hard and smooth under the shadow of the Lilac trees near our garden fence; and this hard path, remote from wanderers in the garden, made a splendid plateau to use for flower balls. Once we fitted it up as a palace; circular walls of Balsam flowers set closely together shaped the ball-room. The dancers were blue and white Canterbury Bells. Quadrilles were placed of little twigs, or strong flower stalks set firmly upright in the hard trodden earth, and on each of these a flower bell was hung so that the pretty reflexion of the scalloped edges of the corolla just touched the ground as the hooped petticoats swayed lightly in the wind. [Illustration: Hollyhocks in Garden of Kimball Homestead, Portsmouth, New Hampshire.] We used to catch bumblebees in the Canterbury Bells, and hear them buzz and bump and tear their way out to liberty. We held the edges of the flower tightly pinched together, and were never stung. Besides its adaptability as a toy for children, the Canterbury Bell was beloved for its beauty in the garden. An appropriate folk name for it is Fair-in-sight. Healthy clumps grow tall and stately, towering up as high as childish heads; and the firm stalks are hung so closely in bloom. Nowadays people plant expanses of Canterbury Bells; one at the beautiful garden at White Birches, Elmhurst, Illinois, is shown on page 111. I do not like this as well as the planting in our home garden when they are set in a mixed border, as shown opposite page 416. Our tastes in the flower world are largely influenced by what we were wonted to in childhood, not only in the selection of flowers, but in their placing in our gardens. The Canterbury Bell has historical interest through its being named for the bells borne by pilgrims to the shrine at Canterbury. I have been delighted to see plants of these sturdy garden favorites offered for sale of late years in New York streets in springtime, by street venders, who now show a tendency to throw aside Callas, Lilies, Tuberoses, and flowers of such ilk, and substitute shrubs and seedlings of hardy growth and satisfactory flowering. But it filled me with regret, to hear the pretty historic name--Canterbury Bells--changed in so short a residence in the city, by these Italian and German tongues to Gingerbread Bells--a sad debasement. Native New Englanders have seldom forgotten or altered an old flower name, and very rarely transferred it to another plant, even in two centuries of everyday usage. But I am glad to know that the flower will bloom in the flower pot or soap box in the dingy window of the city poor, or in the square foot of earth of the city squatter, even if it be called Gingerbread Bells. I think we may safely affirm that the Hollyhock is the most popular, and most widely known, of all old-fashioned flowers. It is loved for its beauty, its associations, its adaptiveness. It is such a decorative flower, and looks of so much distinction in so many places. It is invaluable to the landscape gardener and to the architect; and might be named the wallflower, since it looks so well growing by every wall. I like it there, or by a fence-side, or in a corner, better than in the middle of flower beds. How many garden pictures have Hollyhocks? Sir Joshua Reynolds even used them as accessories of his portraits. They usually grow so well and bloom so freely. I have seen them in Connecticut growing wild--garden strays, standing up by ruined stone walls in a pasture with as much grace of grouping, as good form, as if they had been planted by our most skilful gardeners or architects. Many illustrations of them are given in this book; I need scarcely refer to them; opposite page 334 is shown a part of the four hundred stalks of rich bloom in a Portsmouth garden. There is a pretty semidouble Hollyhock with a single row of broad outer petals and a smaller double rosette for the centre; but the single flowers are far more effective. I like well the old single crimson flower, but the yellow ones are, I believe, the loveliest; a row of the yellow and white ones against an old brick wall is perfection. I can never repay to the Hollyhock the debt of gratitude I owe for the happy hours it furnished to me in my childhood. Its reflexed petals could be tied into such lovely silken-garbed dolls; its "cheeses" were one of the staple food supplies of our dolls' larder. I am sure in my childhood I would have warmly chosen the Hollyhock as my favorite flower. The sixty-two folk names of the Foxglove give ample proof of its closeness to humanity; it is a familiar flower, a home flower. Of these many names I never heard but two in New England, and those but once; an old Irish gardener called the flowers Fairy Thimbles, and an English servant, Pops--this from the well-known habit of popping the petals on the palm of the hand. We used to build little columns of these Foxgloves by thrusting one within another, alternating purple and white; and we wore them for gloves, and placed them as foolscaps on the heads of tiny dolls. The beauty of the Foxglove in the garden is unquestioned; the spires of white bloom are, as Cotton Mather said of a pious and painful Puritan preacher, "a shining and white light in a golden candlestick improved for the sweet felicity of Mankind and to the honour of our Maker." Opposite page 340 is a glimpse of a Box-edged garden in Worcester, whose blossoming has been a delight to me every summer of my entire life. In my childhood this home was that of flower-loving neighbors who had an established and constant system of exchange with my mother and other neighbors of flowers, plants, seeds, slips, and bulbs. The garden was serene with an atmosphere of worthy old age; you wondered how any man so old could so constantly plant, weed, prune, and hoe until you saw how he loved his flowers, and how his wife loved them. The Roses, Peonies, and Flower de Luce in this garden are sixty years old, and the Box also; the shrubs are almost trees. Nothing seems to be transplanted, yet all flourish; I suppose some plants must be pulled up, sometimes, else the garden would be a thicket. The varying grading of city streets has left this garden in a little valley sheltered from winds and open to the sun's rays. Here bloom Crocuses, Snowdrops, Grape Hyacinths, and sometimes Tulips, before any neighbor has a blossom and scarce a leaf. On a Sunday noon in April there are always flower lovers hanging over the low fences, and gazing at the welcome early blooms. Here if ever, "Winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring." A close cloud of Box-scent hangs over this garden, even in midwinter; sometimes the Box edgings grow until no one can walk between; then drastic measures have to be taken, and the rows look ragged for a time. [Illustration: An Autumn Path in a Worcester Garden.] I think much of my love of Box comes from happy associations with this garden. I used to like to go there with my mother when she went on what the Japanese would call "garden-viewing" visits, for at the lower end of the garden was a small orchard of the finest playhouse Apple trees I ever climbed (and I have had much experience), and some large trees bearing little globular early Pears; and there were rows of bushes of golden "Honeyblob" Gooseberries. The Apple trees are there still, but the Gooseberry bushes are gone. I looked for them this summer eagerly, but in vain; I presume the berries would have been sour had I found them. [Illustration: Hollyhocks at Tudor Place.] In many old New England gardens the close juxtaposition and even intermingling of vegetables and fruits with the flowers gave a sense of homely simplicity and usefulness which did not detract from the garden's interest, and added much to the child's pleasure. At the lower end of the long flower border in our garden, grew "Mourning Brides," white, pale lavender, and purple brown in tint. They opened under the shadow of a row of Gooseberry bushes. I seldom see Gooseberry bushes nowadays in any gardens, whether on farms or in nurseries; they seem to be an antiquated fruit. I have in my memory many other customs of childhood in the garden; some of them I have told in my book _Child Life in Colonial Days_, and there are scores more which I have not recounted, but most of them were peculiar to my own fanciful childhood, and I will not recount them here. One of the most exquisite of Mrs. Browning's poems is _The Lost Bower_; it is endeared to me because it expresses so fully a childish bereavement of my own, for I have a lost garden. Somewhere, in my childhood, I saw this beautiful garden, filled with radiant blossoms, rich with fruit and berries, set with beehives, rabbit hutches, and a dove cote, and enclosed about with hedges; and through it ran a purling brook--a thing I ever longed for in my home garden. All one happy summer afternoon I played in it, and gathered from its beds and borders at will--and I have never seen it since. When I was still a child I used to ask to return to it, but no one seemed to understand; and when I was grown I asked where it was, describing it in every detail, and the only answer was that it was a dream, I had never seen and played in such a garden. This lost garden has become to me an emblem, as was the lost bower to Mrs. Browning, of the losses of life; but I did not lose all; while memory lasts I shall ever possess the happiness of my childhood passed in our home garden. [Illustration: An Old Worcester Garden.] CHAPTER XVI MEETIN' SEED AND SABBATH DAY POSIES "I touched a thought, I know Has tantalized me many times. Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing Fennel run to seed." --ROBERT BROWNING. My "thought" is the association of certain flowers with Sunday; the fact that special flowers and leaves and seeds, Fennel, Dill, and Southernwood, were held to be fitting and meet to carry to the Sunday service. "Help me to hold it"--to record those simple customs of the country-side ere they are forgotten. In the herb garden grew three free-growing plants, all three called indifferently in country tongue, "meetin' seed." They were Fennel, Dill, and Caraway, and similar in growth and seed. Caraway is shown on page 342. Their name was given because, in summer days of years gone by, nearly every woman and child carried to "meeting" on Sundays, bunches of the ripe seeds of one or all of these three plants, to nibble throughout the long prayers and sermon. It is fancied that these herbs were anti-soporific, but I find no record of such power. On the contrary, Galen says Dill "procureth sleep, wherefore garlands of Dill are worn at feasts." A far more probable reason for its presence at church was the quality assigned to it by Pliny and other herbalists down to Gerarde, that of staying the "yeox or hicket or hicquet," otherwise the hiccough. If we can judge by the manifold remedies offered to allay this affliction, it was certainly very prevalent in ancient times. Cotton Mather wrote a bulky medical treatise entitled _The Angel of Bethesda_. It was never printed; the manuscript is owned by the American Antiquarian Society. The character of this medico-religious book may be judged by this opening sentence of his chapter on the hiccough:-- "The Hiccough or the Hicox rather, for it's a Teutonic word that signifies to sob, appears a Lively Emblem of the battle between the Flesh and the Spirit in the Life of Piety. The Conflict in the Pious Mind gives all the Trouble and same uneasiness as Hickox. Death puts an end to the Conflict." [Illustration: Caraway.] Parson Mather gives Tansy and Caraway as remedies for the hiccough, but far better still--spiders, prepared in various odious ways; I prefer Dill. Peter Parley said that "a sprig of Fennel was the theological smelling-bottle of the tender sex, and not unfrequently of the men, who from long sitting in the sanctuary, after a week of labor in the field, found themselves tempted to sleep, would sometimes borrow a sprig of Fennel, to exorcise the fiend that threatened their spiritual welfare." Old-fashioned folk kept up a constant nibbling in church, not only of these three seeds, but of bits of Cinnamon or Lovage root, or, more commonly still, the roots of Sweet Flag. Many children went to brooksides and the banks of ponds to gather these roots. This pleasure was denied to us, but we had a Flag root purveyor, our milkman's daughter. This milkman, who lived on a lonely farm, used often to take with him on his daily rounds his little daughter. She sat with him on the front seat of his queer cart in summer and his queerer pung in winter, an odd little figure, with a face of gypsylike beauty which could scarcely be seen in the depths of the Shaker sunbonnet or pumpkin hood. If my mother chanced to see her, she gave the child an orange, or a few figs, or some little cakes, or almonds and raisins; in return the child would throw out to us violently roots of Sweet Flag, Wild Ginger, Snakeroot, Sassafras, and Apples or Pears, which she carried in a deep detached pocket at her side. She never spoke, and the milkman confided to my mother that he "took her around because she was so wild," by which he meant timid. We were firmly convinced that the child could not walk nor speak, and had no ears; and we were much surprised when she walked down the aisle of our church one Sunday as actively as any child could, displaying very natural ears. Her father had bought a home in the town that she might go to school. He was rewarded by her development into one of those scholars of phenomenal brilliancy, such as are occasionally produced from New England farmers' families. She also became a beauty of most unusual type. At her father's death she "went West." I have always expected to read of her as of marked life in some way, but I never have. Of course her family name may have been changed by marriage; but her Christian name, Appoline, was so unusual I could certainly trace her. If my wild and beautiful little milk girl reads these lines, I hope she will forgive me, for she certainly was queer. [Illustration: Sun-dial of Jonathan Fairbanks.] When her residence was in town, Appoline did not cease her gifts of country treasures. She brought on spring Sundays a very delightful addition to our Sabbath day nibblings and browsings, the most delicious mouthful of all the treasures of New England woods, what we called Pippins, the first tender leaves of the aromatic Checkerberry. In the autumn the spicy berries of the same plant filled many a paper cornucopia which was secretly conveyed to us. It was also a universal custom among the elder folk to carry a Sunday posy; the stems were discreetly enwrapped with the folded handkerchief which also concealed the sprig of Fennel. Dean Hole tells us that a sprig of Southernwood was always seen in the Sunday smocks of English farm folk. Mary Howitt, in her poem, _The Poor Man's Garden_, has this verse:-- "And here on Sabbath mornings The goodman comes to get His Sunday nosegay--Moss Rose bud, White Pink, and Mignonette." This shows to me that the church posy was just as common in England as in America; in domestic and social customs we can never disassociate ourselves from England; our ways, our deeds, are all English. Thoreau noted with pleasure when, at the last of June, the young men of Concord "walked slowly and soberly to church, in their best clothes, each with a Pond Lily in his hand or bosom, with as long a stem as he could get." And he adds thereto almost the only decorous and conventional picture he gives of himself, that he used in early life to go thus to church, smelling a Pond Lily, "its odor contrasting with and atoning for that of the sermon." He associated this universal bearing of the Lily with a very natural act, that of the first spring swim and bath, and pictured with delight the quiet Sabbath stillness and the pure opening flowers. He said the flower had become typical to him equally of a Sunday morning swim and of church-going. He adds that the young women carried on this floral Sunday, as a companion flower, their first Rose. [Illustration: Bronze Sun-dial on Dutch Reformed Church. West End Avenue, New York.] This Sabbath bearing of the early Water Lilies may have been a local custom; a few miles from Walden Pond and Concord an old kinsman of mine throughout his long life (which closed twenty years ago) carried Water Lilies on summer Sundays to church; and starting with neighborly intent a short time before the usual hour of church service, he placed a single beautiful Lily in the pew of each of his old friends. All knew who was the flower bearer, and gentle smiles and nods of thanks would radiate across the old church to him. These lilies were gathered for him freshly each Sabbath morning by the young men of his family, who, as Thoreau tells, all took their morning bath in the pond throughout the summer. [Illustration: Sun-dial on Boulder, Swiftwater, Pennsylvania.] There were conventions in these Sunday posies. I never heard of carrying sprays of Lemon Verbena or Rose Geranium, or any of the strong-scented herbs of the Mint family; but throughout eastern Massachusetts, especially in Concord and Wayland, a favorite posy was a spray of the refreshing, soft-textured leaves from what country folk called the Tongue plant--which was none other than Costmary, also called Beaver tongue, and Patagonian mint. As there has been recently much interest and discussion anent this Tongue plant, I here give its botanical name _Chrysanthemum balsamita_, var. _tanacetoides_. A far more popular Sunday posy than any blossom was a sprig of Southernwood, known also everywhere as Lad's-love, and occasionally as Old Man and Kiss-me-quick-and-go. It was also termed Meeting plant from this universal Sunday use. A restless little child was once handed during the church services in summer a bunch of Caraway seeds, and a goodly sprig of Southernwood. The little girl's mother listened earnestly to the long sermon, and was horrified at its close to find that her child had eaten the entire bunch of Caraway, stems and seeds, and all the bitter Southernwood. She was hurried out of church to the village doctor's, and spent a very unhappy hour or two as the result of her Nebuchadnezzar-like gorging. Like many New Englanders, I dearly love the scent of Southernwood:-- "I'll give to him Who gathers me, more sweetness than he knows Without me--more than any Lily could, I, that am flowerless, being Southernwood." Southernwood bears a balmier breath than is ever borne by many blossoms, for it is sweet with the fragrance of memory. The scent that has been loved for centuries, the leaves that have been pressed to the hearts of fair maids, as they questioned of love, are indeed endeared. [Illustration: Buckthorn Arch in an Old Salem Garden.] Southernwood was a plant of vast powers. It was named in the fourteenth century as potent to cure talking in sleep, and other "vanityes of the heade." An old Salem sea captain had this recipe for baldness: "Take a quantitye of Suthernwoode and put it upon kindled coale to burn and being made into a powder mix it with oyl of radiches, and anoynt a bald head and you shall see great experiences." The lying old _Dispensatory_ of Culpepper gave a rule to mix the ashes of Southernwood with "Old Sallet Oyl" which "helpeth those that are hair-fallen and bald." [Illustration: Sun-dial at Emery Place, Brightwood, District of Columbia.] Far pleasanter were the uses of the plant as a love charm. Pliny did not disdain to counsel putting Southernwood under the pillow to make one dream of a lover. A sprig of Southernwood in an unmarried girl's shoe would bring to her the sight of her husband-to-be before night. Sixty years ago two young country folk of New England were married. The twain built them a house and established their home. Since a sprig of Southernwood had played a romantic part in their courtship, each planted a bush at the side of the broad doorstone; and the husband, William, often thrust a bit of this Lad's-love from the flourishing bushes in the buttonhole of his woollen shirt, for he fancied the fresh scent of the leaves. [Illustration: Sun-dial at Traveller's Rest.] The twain had no children, and perhaps therefrom grew and increased in Hetty a fairly passionate love of exact order and neatness in her home--a trait which is not so common in New England housewives as many fancy, and which does not always find equal growth and encouragement in New England husbands. William chafed under the frequent and bitter reproofs for the muddy shoes, dusty garments, hanging straws and seeds which he brought into his wife's orderly paradise, and the jarring culminated one night over such a trifle, a green sprig of Lad's-love which he had dropped and trodden into the freshly washed floor of the kitchen, where it left a green stain on the spotless boards. The quarrel flamed high, and was followed by an ominous calm which was not broken at breakfast. It would be impossible to express in words Hetty's emotions when she crossed her threshold to set her shining milk tins in the morning sunlight, and saw on one side of the doorstone a yawning hole where had grown for ten years William's bunch of Lad's-love. He had driven to the next village to sell some grain, so she could search unseen for the vanished emblem of domestic felicity, and soon she found it, in the ditch by the public road, already withered in the hot sun. When her husband went at nightfall to feed and water his cattle, he found the other bush of Lad's-love, which had been planted with such affectionate sentiment, trodden in the mire of the pigpen, under the feet of the swine. They lived together for thirty years after this crowning indignity. The grass grew green over the empty holes by the doorside, but he never forgave her, and they never spoke to each other save in direst necessity, and then in fewest words. Yet they were not wicked folk. She cared for his father and mother in the last years of their life with a devotion that was fairly pathetic when it was seen that the old man was untidy to a degree, and absolutely oblivious of all her orderly ways and wishes. At their death he sent for and "homed," as the expression ran, a brother of hers who was almost blind, and paid the expenses of her nephew through college--but he died unforgiving; the sight of that beloved Southernwood--in the pigpen--forever killed his affection. CHAPTER XVII SUN-DIALS "'Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain, In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb. "And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak--a worn and shattered row:-- 'I am a Shade; A Shadowe too arte thou; I mark the Time; saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?'" --AUSTIN DOBSON. A century or more ago, in the heart of nearly all English gardens, and in the gardens of our American colonies as well, there might be seen a pedestal of varying material, shape, and pretension, surmounted by the most interesting furnishing in "dead-works" of the garden, a sun-dial. In public squares, on the walls of public buildings, on bridges, and by the side of the way, other and simpler dials were found. On the walls of country houses and churches vertical sun-dials were displayed; every English town held them by scores. In Scotland, and to some extent in England, these sun-dials still are found; in fine old gardens the most richly carved dials are standing; but in America they have become so rare that many people have never seen one. In many of the formal gardens planned by our skilled architects, sun-dials are now springing afresh like mushroom growth of a single night, and some are objects of the greatest beauty and interest. [Illustration: Two Old Cronies, the Sun-dial and Bee Skepe.] If the claims of antiquity and historical association have aught to charm us, every sun-dial must be assured of our interest. The most primitive mode of knowing of the midday hour was by a "noon mark," a groove cut or line drawn on door or window sill which indicated the meridian hour through a shadow thrown on this noon mark. A good guess as to the hours near noon could be made by noting the distance of the shadow from the noon mark. I chanced to be near an old noon mark this summer as the sun warned that noon approached; I noted that the marking shadow crossed the line at twenty minutes before noon by our watches--which, I suppose, was near enough to satisfy our "early to rise" ancestors. Meridian lines were often traced with exactness on the floors of churches in Continental Europe. An advance step in accuracy and elegance was made when a simple metal sun-dial was affixed to the window sill instead of cutting the rude noon mark. Soon the sun-dial was set on a simple pedestal near the kitchen window, so that the active worker within might glance at the dial face without ceasing in her task. Such a sun-dial is shown on page 354, as it stands under the "buttery" window cosily hobnobbing with its old crony of many years, the bee skepe. One could wish to be a bee, and live in that snug home under the Syringa bush. Portable sun-dials succeeded fixed dials; they have been known as long as the Christian era; shepherds' dials were the "Kalendars" or "Cylindres" about which treatises were written as early as the thirteenth century. They were small cylinders of wood or ivory, having at the top a kind of stopper with a hinged gnomon; they are still used in the Pyrenees. Pretty little "ring-dials" of brass, gold, or silver, are constructed on the same principle. The exquisitely wrought portable dial shown on this page is a very fine piece of workmanship, and must have been costly. It is dated 1764, and is eleven inches in diameter. It is a perfect example of the advanced type of dial made in Italy, which had a simpler form as early certainly as A.D. 300. The compass was added in the thirteenth century. The compass-needle is missing on this dial, its only blemish. The Italians excelled in dial-making; among their interesting forms were the cross-shaped dials evidently a reliquary. [Illustration: Portable Sun-dial.] Portable dials were used instead of watches. There is at the Washington headquarters at Morristown a delicately wrought oval silver case, with compass and sun-dial, which was carried by one of the French officers who came here with Lafayette; George Washington owned and carried one. The colonists came here from a land set with dials, whether they sailed from Holland or England. Charles I had a vast fancy for dials, and had them placed everywhere; the finest and most curious was the splendid master dial placed in his private gardens at Whitehall; this had five dials set in the upper part, four in the four corners, and a great horizontal concave dial; among these were scattered equinoctial dials, vertical dials, declining dials, polar dials, plane dials, cylindrical dials, triangular dials; each was inscribed with explanatory verses in Latin. Equally beautiful and intricate were the dials of Charles II, the most marvellous being the vast pyramid dial bearing 271 different dial faces. Those who wish to learn of English sun-dials should read Mrs. Gatty's _Book of Sun-dials_, a massive and fascinating volume. No such extended record could be made of American sun-dials; but it pleases me that I know of over two hundred sun-dials in America, chiefly old ones; that I have photographs of many of them; that I have copies of many hundred dial mottoes, and also a very fair collection of the old dial faces, of various metals and sizes. I know of no public collection of sun-dials in America save that in the Smithsonian Institution, and that is not a large one. Several of our Historical Societies own single sun-dials. In the Essex Institute is the sun-dial of Governor Endicott; another, shown on page 344, was once the property of my far-away grandfather, Jonathan Fairbanks; it is in the Dedham Historical Society. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Garden of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq.] All forms of sun-dials are interesting. A simple but accurate one was set on Robins Island by the late Samuel Bowne Duryea, Esq., of Brooklyn. Taking the flagpole of the club house as a stylus, he laid the lines and figures of the dial-face with small dark stones on a ground of light-hued stones, all set firmly in the earth at the base of the pole. Thus was formed, with the simplest materials, by one who ever strove to give pleasure and stimulate knowledge in all around him, an object which not only told the time o' the day, but afforded gratification, elicited investigation, and awakened sentiment in all who beheld it. A similar use of a vertical pole as a primitive gnomon for a sun-dial seems to have been common to many uncivilized peoples. In upper Egypt the natives set up a palm rod in open ground, and arrange a circle of stones or pegs around it, calling it an _alka_, and thus mark the hours. The ploughman leaves his buffalo standing in the furrow while he learns the progress of time from this simple dial--and we recall the words of Job, "As a servant earnestly desireth a shadow." [Illustration: Sun-dial at Morristown, New Jersey.] The Labrador Indians, when on the hunt or the march, set an upright stick or spear in the snow, and draw the line of the shadow thus cast. They then stalk on their way; and the women, heavily laden with provisions, shelter, and fuel, come slowly along two or three hours later, note the distance between the present shadow and the line drawn by their lords, and know at once whether they must gather up the stick or spear and hurry along, or can rest for a short time on their weary march. This is a primitive but exact chronometer. There are serious objections to quoting from Charles Lamb: you are never willing to end the transcription--you long to add just one phrase, one clause more. Then, too, the purity of the pearl which you choose seems to render duller than their wont the leaden sentences with which you enclose it as a setting. Still, who could write of sun-dials without choosing to transcribe these words of Lamb's? "What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead or brass, its pert or solemn dulness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old dial! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere banished? If its business use be suspended by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance. It spoke of moderate labors, of pleasures not protracted after sunset, of temperance and good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horologe of the first world. Adam could scarce have missed it in Paradise. The 'shepherd carved it out quaintly in the sun,' and turning philosopher by the very occupation, provided it with mottoes more touching than tombstones." [Illustration: Yes, Toby! It's Three O'clock.] Sun-dial mottoes still can be gathered by hundreds; and they are one record of a force in the development of our literate people. For it was long after we had printing ere we had any general class of folk, who, if they could read, read anything save the Bible. To many the knowledge of reading came from the deciphering of what has been happily termed the Literature of the Bookless. This literature was placed that he who ran might read; and its opening chapters were in the form of inscriptions and legends and mottoes which were placed, not only on buildings and walls, and pillars and bridges, but on household furniture and table utensils. The inscribing of mottoes on sun-dials appears to have sprung up with dial-making; and where could a strict moral lesson, a suggestive or inspiring thought, be better placed? Even the most heedless or indifferent passer-by, or the unwilling reader could not fail to see the instructive words when he cast his glance to learn the time. The mottoes were frequently in Latin, a few in Greek or Hebrew; but the old English mottoes seem the most appealing. ABUSE ME NOT I DO NO ILL I STAND TO SERVE THEE WITH GOOD WILL AS CAREFUL THEN BE SURE THOU BE TO SERVE THY GOD AS I SERVE THEE. A CLOCK THE TIME MAY WRONGLY TELL I NEVER IF THE SUN SHINE WELL. AS A SHADOW SUCH IS LIFE. I COUNT NONE BUT SUNNY HOURS. BE THE DAY WEARY, BE THE DAY LONG SOON IT SHALL RING TO EVEN SONG. Scriptural verses have ever been favorites, especially passages from the Psalms: "Man is like a thing of nought, his time passeth away like a shadow." "My time is in Thy hand." "Put not off from day to day." "Oh, remember how short my time is." Some of the Latin mottoes are very beautiful. [Illustration: Face of Dial at Sag Harbor, Long Island.] Poets have written special verses for sun-dials. These noble lines are by Walter Savage Landor:-- IN HIS OWN IMAGE THE CREATOR MADE, HIS OWN PURE SUNBEAM QUICKENED THEE, O MAN! THOU BREATHING DIAL! SINCE THE DAY BEGAN THE PRESENT HOUR WAS EVER MARKED WITH SHADE. The motto, _Horas non numero nisi serenas_, in various forms and languages, has ever been a favorite. From an old album I have received this poem written by Professor S. F. B. Morse; there is a note with it in Professor Morse's handwriting, saying he saw the motto on a sun-dial at Worms:-- TO A. G. E. _Horas non numero nisi serenas._ The sun when it shines in a clear cloudless sky Marks the time on my disk in figures of light; If clouds gather o'er me, unheeded they fly, I note not the hours except they be bright. So when I review all the scenes that have past Between me and thee, be they dark, be they light, I forget what was dark, the light I hold fast; I note not the hours except they be bright. SAMUEL F. B. MORSE, Washington, March, 1845. The sun-dial seems too classic an object, and too serious a teacher, to bear a jesting motto. This sober pun was often seen:-- LIFE'S BUT A SHADOWE MAN'S BUT DUST THIS DYALL SAYES DY ALL WE MUST. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Garden of Grace Church Rectory, New York.] The sun-dial does not lure to "idle dalliance." Nine-tenths of the sun-dial mottoes tersely warn you not to linger, to haste away, that time is fleeting, and your hours are numbered, and therefore to "be about your business." In a single moment and at a single glance the sun-dial has said its lesson, has told its absolute message, and there is no reason for you to gaze at it longer. Its very position, too, in the unshaded rays of the sun, does not invite you to long companionship, as do the shady lengths of a pergola, or a green orchard seat. Still, I would ever have a garden seat near a sun-dial, especially when it is a work of art to be studied, and with mottoes to be remembered. For even in hurrying America the sun-dial seems--like a guide-post--a half-human thing, for which we can feel an almost personal interest. [Illustration: Fugio Bank-note.] The figure of a sun-dial played an interesting part in the early history of the United States. In the first set of notes issued for currency by the American Congress was one for the value of one third of a dollar. One side has the chain of links bearing the names of the thirteen states, enclosing a sunburst bearing the words, _American Congress, We are One_. The reverse side is shown on this page. It bears a print of a sun-dial, with the motto, _Fugio, Mind Your Business_. The so-called "Franklin cent" has a similar design of a sun-dial with the same motto, and there was a beautiful "Fugio dollar" cast in silver, bronze, and pewter. Though this design and motto were evidently Franklin's taste, the motto in its use on a sun-dial was not original with Franklin, nor with any one else in the Congress, for it had been seen on dials on many English churches and houses. In the form, "Begone about Your Business," it was on a house in the Inner Temple; this is the tradition of the origin of this motto. The dialler sent for a motto to place under the dial, as he had been instructed by the Benchers; when the man arrived at the Library, he found but one surly old gentleman poring over a musty book. To him he said, "Please, sir, the gentlemen told me to call this hour for a motto for the sun-dial." "Begone about your business," was the testy answer. So the man painted the words under the dial; and the chance words seemed so appropriate to the Benchers that they were never removed. It is told of Dean Cotton of Bangor that he had a cross old gardener who always warded off unwelcome visitors to the deanery by saying to every one who approached, "Go about your business!" After the gardener's death the dean had this motto engraved around the sun-dial in the garden, "Goa bou tyo urb us in ess, 1838." Thus the gardener's growl became his epitaph. Another form was, "Be about Your Business," and it is a suggestive fact that it was on a dial on the General Post-office in London in 1756. Franklin's interest in and knowledge of postal matters, his long residence in London, and service under the crown as American postmaster general, must have familiarized him with this dial, and I am convinced it furnished to him the notion for the design on the first bank-note and coins of the new nation. An interesting bit of history allied to America is given to us in the finding of a sun-dial which gives to American students of heraldic antiquities another dated shield of the Washington "stars and stripes." [Illustration: Sun-dial at "Washington House," Little Brington, England.] In Little Brington, Northamptonshire, stands a house known as "The Washington House," which gave shelter to the Washingtons of Sulgrave after the fall of their fortunes. Within a stone's throw of the house has recently been found a sun-dial having the Washington arms (argent) two bars, and in chief three mullets (gules) carved upon it, with the date 1617. The existence of this stone has been known for forty years; but it has never been closely examined and noted till recently. It is a circular slab of sandstone three inches thick and sixteen inches in diameter. The gnomon is lacking. The lines, figures, and shield are incised, and the letters R. W. can be dimly seen. These were probably the initials of Robert Washington, great uncle of the two emigrants to Virginia. [Illustration: Dial-face from Mount Vernon.] Through the kindness of Mr. A. L. Y. Morley, a faithful antiquary of Great Barrington, I have the pleasure of giving, on page 367, a representation of this interesting dial. It is shown leaning against the "pump-stand" in the yard of the "Washington House"; and the pump seems as ancient as the dial. [Illustration: Sun-dial of Mary Washington, Fredericksburg, Virginia.] In this book are three other sun-dials associated with George Washington. At Mount Vernon there stands at the front of the entrance door a modern sun-dial. The fine old metal dial-face, about ten inches in diameter, which in Washington's day was placed on the same site, is now the property of Mr. William F. Havemeyer, Jr., of New York. It was given to him by Mr. Custis; a picture of it is shown on page 368. This dial-face is a splendid relic; one closely associated with Washington's everyday life, and full of suggestion and sentiment to every thoughtful beholder. The sun-dial which stood in the old Fredericksburg garden of Mary Washington, the mother of George Washington, still stands in Fredericksburg, in the grounds of Mr. Doswell. A photograph of it is reproduced on page 369. The fourth historic dial is on page 371. It is the one at Kenmore, the home built by Fielding Lewis for his bride, Betty Washington, the sister of George Washington, on ground adjoining her mother's home. A part of the garden which connected these two Washington homes is shown on page 228. These three American sun-dials afford an interesting proof of the universal presence of sun-dials in Virginian homes of wealth, and they also show the kind of dial-face which was generally used. Another ancient dial (page 350) at Travellers' Rest, a near-by Virginian country seat, is similar in shape to these three, and differs but little in mounting. In Pennsylvania and Virginia sun-dials have lingered in use in front of court-houses, on churches, and in a few old garden dials. In New England I scarcely know an old garden dial still standing in its original place on its original pedestal. Four old ones of brass or pewter are shown in the illustration on page 379. These once stood in New England gardens or on the window sills of old houses; one was taken from a sunny window ledge to give to me. Perhaps the attention paid the doings of the American Philosophical Society, and the number of scientists living near Philadelphia, may account for the many sun-dials set up in the vicinity of the town. Godfrey, the maker of Godfrey's Quadrant, was one of those scientific investigators, and must have been a famous "dialler." [Illustration: Kenmore, the Home of Betty Washington Lewis.] On page 373 is shown an ancient sun-dial in the garden of Charles F. Jenkins, Esq., in Germantown, Pennsylvania. This sun-dial originally belonged to Nathan Spencer, who lived in Germantown prior to and during the Revolutionary War. Hepzibah Spencer, his daughter, married, and took the sun-dial to Byberry. Her daughter carried the sun-dial to Gwynedd when her name was changed to Jenkins; and their grandson, the present owner, rescued it from the chicken house with the gnomon missing, which was afterward found. Its inscription, "Time waits for No Man," is an old punning device on the word gnomon. At one time dialling was taught by many a country schoolmaster, and excellent and accurate sun-dials were made and set up by country workmen, usually masons of slight education. In Scotland the making of sun-dials has never died out. In America many pewter sun-dials were cast in moulds of steatite or other material. A few dial-makers still remain; one in lower New York makes very interesting-looking sun-dials of brass, which, properly discolored and stained, find a ready sale in uptown shops. I doubt if these are ever made for any special geographical point, but there is in a small Pennsylvania town an old Quaker who makes carefully calculated and accurate sun-dials, computed by logarithms for special places. I should like to see him "sit like a shepherd carving out dials, quaintly point by point." I have a very pretty circular brass dial of his making, about eight inches in diameter. He writes me that "the dial sent thee is a good students' dial, fit to set outside the window for a young man to use and study by in college," which would indicate to me that my Quaker dialler knows another type of collegian from those of my acquaintance, who would find the time set by a sun-dial rather slow. [Illustration: Sun-dial in Garden of Charles F. Jenkins, Esq., Germantown, Pennsylvania.] There have been those who truly loved sun-dials. Sir William Temple ordered that after his death his heart should be buried under the sun-dial in his garden--where his heart had been in life. 'Tis not unusual to see a sun-dial over the gate to a burial ground, and a noble emblem it is in that place; one at Mount Auburn Cemetery, near Boston, bears a pleasing motto written originally by John G. Whittier for his friend, Dr. Henry Ingersoll Bowditch, and inscribed on a beautiful silver sun-dial now owned by Dr. Vincent Y. Bowditch of Boston, Massachusetts. A facsimile of this dial was also placed before the Manor House on the island of Naushon by Mr. John M. Forbes in memory of Dr. Bowditch. The lines run thus:-- WITH WARNING HAND I MARK TIME'S RAPID FLIGHT FROM LIFE'S GLAD MORNING TO ITS SOLEMN NIGHT. YET, THROUGH THE DEAR GOD'S LOVE I ALSO SHOW THERE'S LIGHT ABOVE ME, BY THE SHADE BELOW. A sun-dial is to me, in many places, a far more inspiring memorial than a monument or tablet. Let me give as an example the fine sun-dial, designed by W. Gedney Beatty, Esq., and shown on page 359, which was erected on the grounds of the Memorial Hospital at Morristown, New Jersey, by the Society of the Daughters of the American Revolution, to mark the spot where Washington partook of the Communion. What dignified and appropriate church appointments sun-dials are. A simple and impressive bronze vertical dial on the wall of the Dutch Reformed Church on West End Avenue, New York, is shown on page 346. The sun-dial standing before the rectory of Grace Church on Broadway, New York, is on page 364. [Illustration: Sun-dial at Ophir Farm, White Plains, New York, Country-seat of Hon. Whitelaw Reid.] There is ever much question as to a suitable pedestal for garden sun-dials: it must not stand so high that the dial-face cannot be looked down upon by grown persons; it must not be so light as to seem rickety, nor so heavy as to be clumsy. A very good rule is to err on the side of simplicity in sun-dials for ordinary gardens. What I regard as a very satisfactory pedestal and mounting in every particular may be seen in the illustration facing page 80, showing the sun-dial in the garden of Charles E. Mather, Esq., at Avonwood Court, Haverford, Pennsylvania. Sometimes the pillars of old balustrades, old fence posts, and even parts of old tombs and monuments, have been used as pedestals for sun-dials. How pleasantly Sylvana in her _Letters to an Unknown Friend_, tells us and shows to us her cheerful sun-dial mounted on the four corners of an old tombstone with this fine motto cut into the upper step, _Lux et umbra vicissim sed semper amor_. I mean to search the stone-cutters' waste heap this summer and see whether I cannot rob the grave to mark the hours of my life. Charles Dickens had at Gadshill a sun-dial set on one of the pillars of the balustrade of Old Rochester Bridge. From Italy and Greece marble pillars have been sent from ancient ruins to be set up as dial pedestals. If possible, the pedestal as well as the dial-face of a handsome sun-dial should have some significance through association, suggestion, or history. At Ophir Farm, White Plains, New York, the country-seat of Hon. Whitelaw Reid, may be seen a sun-dial full of exquisite significance. It is shown on page 375. The signs of the Zodiac in finely designed bronze are set on the symmetrical marble pedestal, and seem wonderfully harmonious and appropriate. This sun-dial is a literal exemplification of the words of Emerson:-- "A calendar Exact to days, exact to hours, Counted on the spacious dial Yon broidered Zodiac girds." The dial-face is upheld by a carefully modelled tortoise in bronze, which is an equally suggestive emblem, connected with the tradition, folk-lore, and religious beliefs of both primitive and cultured peoples; it is specially full of meaning in this place. The whole sun-dial shows much thought and æsthetic perception in the designer and owner, and cannot fail to prove gratifying to all observers having either sensibility or judgment. Occasionally a very unusual and beautiful sun-dial standard may be seen, like the one in the Rose garden at Yaddo, Saratoga, New York, a copy of rarely beautiful Pompeian carvings. A representation of this is shown on page 86. Copies of simpler antique carvings make excellent sun-dial pedestals; a safe rule to follow is to have a reproduction made of some well-proportioned English or Scotch pedestal. The latter are well suited to small gardens. I have drawings of several Scotch sun-dials and pedestals which would be charming in American gardens. In the gardens at Hillside, by the side of the Shakespeare Border is a sun-dial (page 378) which is an exact reproduction of the one in the garden at Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott. This pedestal is suited to its surroundings, is well proportioned; and has historic interest. It forms an excellent example of Charles Lamb's "garden-altar." [Illustration: Sun-dial at Hillside, Menand's, near Albany, New York.] On a lawn or in any suitable spot the dial-face can be mounted on a boulder; one is here shown. I prefer a pedestal. For gardens of limited size, much simplicity of design is more pleasing and more fitting than any elaborate carving. In an Italian garden, or in any formal garden whose work in stone or marble is costly and artistic, the sun-dial pedestal should be the climax in richness of carving of all the garden furnishing. I like the pedestal set on a little platform, so two or three steps may be taken up to it from the garden level; but after all, no rules can be given for the dial's setting. It may be planted with vines, or stand unornamented; it may be set low, and be looked down upon, or it may be raised high up on a side wall; but wherever it is, it must not be for a single minute in shadow; no trees or overhanging shrubs should be near it; it is a child of the sun, and lives only in the sun's full rays. [Illustration: Old Brass and Pewter Dial-faces.] In the lovely old garden at the home of Frederick J. Kingsbury, Esq., at Waterbury, Conn., is a sun-dial bearing the motto, "_Horas non numero nisi serenas_," and the dates 1739-1751,--the dates of the building of the old and new houses on land that has been in the immediate family since 1739. Around this dial is a crescent-shaped bed of Zinnias, and very satisfactory do they prove. This garden has fine Box edgings; one is shown on page 173, a Box walk, set in 1851 with ancient Box brought from the garden of Mr. Kingsbury's great-great-grandfather. The gnomon of a sun-dial is usually a simple plate of metal in the general shape of a right-angled triangle, cut often in some pierced design, and occasionally inscribed with a motto, name, or date. Sometimes the dial-maker placed on the gnomon various Masonic symbols--the compass, square, and triangle, or the coat of arms of the dial owner. One old English dial fitting we have never copied in America. It was the taste of the days of the Stuart kings, days of constant jesting and amusement and practical jokes. Concealed water jets were placed which wet the clothing of the unwary one who lingered to consult the dial-face. The significance of the sun-dial, as well as its classicism, was sure to be felt by artists. In the paintings of Holbein, of Albert Dürer, dials may be seen, not idly painted, but with symbolic meaning. The mystic import of a sun-dial is shown in full effect in that perfect picture, _Beata Beatrix_, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I have chosen to show here (facing page 380) the _Beata Beatrix_ owned by Charles L. Hutchinson, Esq., of Chicago, as being less photographed and known than the one of the British Gallery, from which it varies slightly and also because it has the beautiful predella. In this picture, in the words of its poet-painter:-- "Love's Hour stands. Its eyes invisible Watch till the dial's thin brown shade Be born--yea, till the journeying line be laid Upon the point." [Illustration: Beata Beatrix.] Andrew Marvell wrote two centuries ago of the floral sun-dials which were the height of the gardening mode of his day:-- "How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new. When from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!" These were sometimes set of diverse flowers, sometimes of Mallows. Two of growing Box are described and displayed in the chapter on Box edgings. [Illustration: The Faithful Gardener.] Linnæus made a list of forty-six flowers which constituted what he termed the Horologe or Watch of Flora, and he gave what he called their exact hours of rising and setting. He divided them into three classes: Meteoric, Tropical, and Equinoctial flowers. Among those which he named are:-- =========================================================== | OPENING HOUR. | CLOSING HOUR. ----------------------------------------------------------- Dandelion | 5-6 A.M. | 8-9 P.M. Mouse-ear Hawkweed | 8 A.M. | 2 P.M. Sow Thistle | 5 A.M. | 11-12 P.M. Yellow Goat-beard | 3-5 A.M. | 9-10 (?) White Water Lily | 7 A.M. | 7 P.M. Day Lily | 5 A.M. | 7-8 P.M. Convolvulus | 5-6 A.M. | Mallow | 9-10 A.M. | Pimpernel | 7-8 A.M. | Portulaca | 9-10 A.M. | Pink (_Dianthus prolifer_) | 8 A.M. | 1 P.M. Succory | 4-5 A.M. | Calendula | 7 A.M. | 3-4 P.M. =========================================================== Of course these hours would vary in this country. And I must say very frankly that I think we should always be behind time if we trusted to Flora's Horologe. This floral clock of Linnæus was calculated for Upsala, Sweden; De Candolle gave another for Paris, and one has been arranged for our Eastern states. CHAPTER XVIII GARDEN FURNISHINGS "Furnished with whatever may make the place agreeable, melancholy, and country-like." --_Forest Trees_, JOHN EVELYN, 1670. Quaint old books of garden designers show us that much more was contained in a garden two centuries ago, than now; it had many more adjuncts, more furnishings; a very full list of them has been given by Batty Langley in his _New Principles of Gardening_, etc., 1728. Some seem amusing--as haystacks and woodpiles, which he terms "rural enrichments." Of water adornments there were to be purling streams, basins, canals, fountains, cascades, cold baths. There were to be aviaries, hare warrens, pheasant grounds, partridge grounds, dove-cotes, beehives, deer paddocks, sheep walks, cow pastures, and "manazeries" (menageries?); physic gardens, orchards, bowling-greens, hop gardens, orangeries, melon grounds, vineyards, parterres, fruit yards, nurseries, sun-dials, obelisks, statues, cabinets, etc., decorated the garden walks. There were to be land gradings of mounts, winding valleys, dales, terraces, slopes, borders, open plains, labyrinths, wildernesses, "serpentine meanders," "rude-coppices," precipices, amphitheatres. His "serpentine meanders" had large opening spaces at proper distances, in one of which might be placed a small fruit garden, a "cone of evergreens," or a "Paradice-Stocks,"--about which latter mysterious garden adornment I think we must be content to remain in ignorance, since he certainly has given us ample variety to choose from without it. Other "landscapists" placed in their gardens old ruins, misshapen rocks, and even dead trees, in order to look "natural." In 1608 Henry Ballard brought out _The Gardener's Labyrinth_--a pretty good book, shut away from the most of us by being printed in black letter. He says:-- "The framing of sundry herbs delectable, with waies and allies artfully devised is an upright herbar." Herbars, or arbors, were of two kinds: an upright arbor, which was merely a covered lean-to attached to a fence or wall; and a winding or "arch-arbor" standing alone. He names "archherbs," which are simply climbing vines to set "winding in arch-manner on withie poles." "Walker and sitters there-under" are thereby comfortably protected from the heat of the sun. These upright arbors were in high favor; Ballard says they offered "fragrant savours, delectable sights, and sharpening of the memory." [Illustration: A Garden Lyre at Waterford, Virginia.] Tree arbors were in use in Elizabethan times, platforms built in the branches of large trees. Parkinson called one that would hold fifty men, "the goodliest spectacle that ever his eyes beheld." A distinction was made between arbors and bowers. The arbor might be round or square, and was domed over the top; while the long arched way was a bower. In our Southern states that special use of the word bower is still universal, especially in the term Rose bowers. A quaint and universal furnishing of old Southern gardens were the trellises known as garden lyres. Two are shown in this chapter, from Waterford, Virginia; one bearing little foliage and another embowered in vines, in order to show what a really good vine support they were. Garden lyres and Rose bowers are rotting on the ground in old Virginia gardens, and I fear they will never be replaced. The word pergola was seldom heard here a century ago, save as used by the few who had travelled in Italy; but pergolas were to be found in many an old American garden. An ancient oval pergola still stands at Arlington, that beautiful spot which was once the home of the Virginia Lees, and is now the home of the honored dead of our Civil War. This old pergola has remained unharmed through fierce conflict, and is wreathed each spring with the verdure of vines of many kinds. It is twenty feet wide between the pillars, and forms an oval one hundred feet long and seventy wide, and when in full greenery is a lovely thing. It was called--indeed it is still termed in the South--a "green gallery," a word and thing of mediæval days. [Illustration: A Virginia Lyre with Vines.] There are many pretty trellises and vine supports and arbors which can be made of light poles and rails, but I do not like to hear the pretentious name, pergola, applied to them. A pergola must not be a mean, light-built affair. It should be of good proportions and substantial materials. It need not be made with brick or marble pillars; natural tree trunks of good size serve as well. It should look as if it had been built with care and stability, and that the vines had been planted and trained by skilled gardeners. A pergola may have a dilapidated Present and be endurable; but it should show evidences of a substantial Past. Little sisters of the pergola are the _charmilles_, or bosquets, arches of growing trees, whose interlaced boughs have no supports of wood as have the pergolas. When these arches are carefully trained and pruned, and the ground underneath is laid with turf or gravel, they form a delightful shady walk. Charming covered ways can be easily made by polling and training Plum or Willow trees. Arches are far too rare in American gardens. The few we have are generally old ones. In Mrs. Pierson's garden in Salem the splendid arch of Buckthorn is a hundred and twenty five years old. Similar ones are at Indian Hill. Cedar was an old choice for hedges and arches. It easily winter-kills at the base, and that is ample reason for its rejection and disuse. The many garden seats of the old English garden were perhaps its chief feature in distinction from American garden furnishings to-day. In a letter written from Kenilworth in 1575 the writer told of garden seats where he sat in the heat of summer, "feeling the pleasant whisking wynde." I have walked through many a large modern garden in the summer heat, and longed in vain for a shaded seat from which to regard for a few moments the garden treasures and feel the whisking wind, and would gladly have made use of the temporary presence of a wheelbarrow. [Illustration: Old Iron Gate at Westover-on-James.] Seats of marble and stone are in many of our modern formal gardens; a pretty one is in the garden at Avonwood Court. Grottoes, arbors, and summer-houses were all of importance in those days, when in our latitude and climate men had not thought to build piazzas surrounding the house and shadowing all the ground floor rooms. We are beginning to think anew of the value of sunlight in the parlors and dining rooms of our summer homes, which for the past thirty or forty years have been so darkened by our wide piazzas. Now we have fewer piazzas and more peristyles, and soon we shall have summer-houses and garden houses also. There are preserved in the South, in spite of war and earthquake, a number of fine examples of old wrought-iron garden gates. King William of England introduced these artistic gates into England, and they were the height of garden fashion. Among them were the beautiful gates still at Hampton Court, and those of Bulwich, Northamptonshire. They were called _clair-voyees_ on account of the uninterrupted view they permitted to those without and within the walls. These were often painted blue; but in America they were more sober of tint, though portions were gilded. One of the old gates at Westover-on-James is here shown, and on page 390 the rich wrought-iron work in the courtyard at the home of Colonel Colt in Bristol, Rhode Island. This is as fine as the house, and that is a splendid example of the best work of the first years of the nineteenth century. Fountains were seen usually in handsome gardens in the South; simple water jets falling in a handsome basin of marble or stone. Statuary of marble or lead was never common in old American gardens, though pretentious gardens had examples. To-day, in our carefully thought-out gardens, the garden statuary is a thing of beauty and often of meaning, as the figure shown on page 84. Usually our statues are of marble, sometimes a Japanese bronze is seen. [Illustration: Iron-work in Court of Colt Mansion, Bristol, Rhode Island.] In the old black letter _Gardener's Labyrinth_, a very full description is given of old modes of watering a garden. There was a primitive and very limited system of irrigation, the water being raised by "well-swipes"; there were very handy puncheons, or tubs on wheels, which could be trundled down the garden walk. There was also a formidable "Great Squirt of Tin," which was said to take "mighty strength" to handle, and which looked like a small cannon; with it was an ingenious bent tube of tin by which the water could be thrown in "great droppes" like a fountain. The author says of ordinary means of garden watering:-- "The common Watring Pot with us hath a narrow Neck, a Big Belly, Somewhat large Bottome, and full of little holes with a proper hole forced in the head to take in the water; which filled full and the Thumbe laid on the hole to keep in the aire may in such wise be carried in handsome Manner." Garden tools have changed but little since Tudor days; spade and rake were like ours to-day, so were dibble and mattock. Even grafting and pruning tools, shown in books of husbandry, were surprisingly like our own. Scythes were much heavier and clumsier. An old fellow is here shown sharpening in the ancient manner a scythe about three hundred years old. The art of grafting, known since early days, formed an important part of the gardener's craft. Large share of ancient garden treatises is devoted to minute instructions therein. To this day in New England towns a good grafter is a local autocrat. [Illustration: Summer-house at Ravensworth.] Beehives were once found in every garden; bee-skepes they were called when made of straw. Picturesque and homely were the old straw beehives, and still are they used in England; the old one shown in the chapter on sun-dials can scarcely be mated in America. They served as a conventional emblem of industry. They were made of welts or ropes of twisted straw, as were the heavy winnowing skepes once used for winnowing grain. In Maine, in a few out-of-the-way communities, ancient men still winnow grain with these skepes. I saw a man last autumn, a giant in stature, standing in a dull light on the crown of a hill winnowing wheat in one of these great skepes with an indescribably free and noble gesture. He was a classic, a relic of Homer's age, no longer a farmer, but a husbandman. Bees and honey were of much value in ancient days. Honey was the chief ingredient in many wholesome and pleasing drinks--mead, metheglin, bragget (or braket), morat, erboule--all very delightful in their ingredients, redolent of meadows and hedge-rows; thus Cowslip mead was made of Cowslip "pips," honey, Lemon juice, and "a handful of Sweetbrier." "Athol porridge," demure of name, was as potent as pleasing--potent as good honey, good cream, and good whiskey could make it. [Illustration: Sharpening the Old Dutch Scythe.] Rows of typical Southern beehives are shown in the two succeeding illustrations. From their home by the side of a White Rose and under an old Sweet Apple tree these Waterford bees did not wish to swarm out in a hurry to find a new home. These beehives are not very ancient in shape, but when I see a row of them set thus under the trees, or in a hive-shelter, they seem to tell of olden days. The very bees flying in and out seem steady-going, respectable old fellows. Such hives have a cosy look, with rows of Hollyhocks behind them, and hundreds of spires of Larkspur for these old bees to bury their heads in. [Illustration: Beehives at Waterford, Virginia.] The sadly picturesque old superstition of "telling the bees" of a death in a family and hanging a bit of black cloth on the hives as a mourning-weed still is observed in some country communities. Whittier's poem on the subject is wonderfully "countrified" in atmosphere, using the word chore-girl, so seldom heard even in familiar speech to-day and never found in verse elsewhere than in this rustic poem. I saw one summer in Narragansett, on Stony Lane, not far from the old Six-Principle Church, a row of beehives hung with strips of black cloth; the house mistress was dead--the friend of bird and beast and bee--who had reared the guardian of the garden told of on page 396 _et seq._ [Illustration: Beehives under the Trees.] A pretty and appropriate garden furnishing was the dove-cote. The possession of a dove-cote in England, and the rearing of pigeons, was free only to lords of the manor and noblemen. When the colonists came to America, many of them had never been permitted to keep pigeons. In Scotland persistent attempts at pigeon-raising by folks of humble station might be punished with death. The settlers must have revelled in the freedom of the new land, as well as in the plenty of pigeons, both wild and domestic. In old England the dove-cote was often built close to the kitchen door, that squab and pigeon might be near the hand of the cook. Dove-cotes in America were often simple boxes or houses raised on stout posts. Occasionally might be seen a fine brick dove-cote like the one still standing at Shirley-on-the-James, in Virginia, which is shaped without and within like several famous old dove-cotes in England, among them the one at Athelhampton Hall, Dorchester, England. The English dove-cote has within a revolving ladder hung from a central post while the Virginian squab catcher uses an ordinary ladder. The shelves for the birds to rest upon and the square recesses for the nests made by the ingenious placing of the bricks are alike in both cotes. [Illustration: Spring House at Johnson Homestead, Germantown, Pennsylvania.] A beautiful and fitting tenant of old formal gardens was the peacock, "with his aungelis federys bryghte." On large English estates peacocks were universally kept. A fine peacock, with full-spread tail, makes many a gay flower bed pale before his panoply of iridescence and color. The peahen is a demurely pretty creature. Peacocks are not altogether grateful to garden owners; on the old Narragansett farm whose garden is shown on page 35, they were always kept, and it was one of the prides and pleasures of formal hospitality to offer a roasted peacock to visitors. But, save when roasted, the vain creatures would not keep silence, and when they squawked the glory of their plumage was forgotten. They had an odious habit, too, of wandering off to distant groves on the farm, usually selecting the nights of bitterest cold, and roosting in some very high tree, in some very inaccessible spot. They could not be left in this ill-considered sleeping-place, else they would all freeze to death; and words fail to tell the labor in lowering twilight and temperature of discovering their retreat, the dislodging, capturing, and imprisoning them. [Illustration: Dove-cote at Shirley-on-James.] In Narragansett there is a charming old farm garden, which I often visit to note and admire its old-time blossoms. This garden has a guardian, who haunts the garden walks as did the terrace peacock of old England; no watch-dog ever was so faithful, and none half so acute. When I visit the garden I always ask "Where is Job?" I am answered that he is in the field with the cattle. Sometimes this is true, but at other times Job has left the field and is attending to his assumed duties. As he is not encouraged, he has learned great slyness and dissimulation. Immovable, and in silence, Job is concealed behind a Syringa hedge or in a Lilac ambush, and as you stroll peacefully and unwittingly down the paths, sniffing the honeyed sweetness of the dense edging of Sweet Alyssum, all is as balmy as the blossoms. But stoop for an instant, to gather some leaves of Sweet Basil or Sweet Brier, or to collect a dozen seed-pods of that specially delicate Sweet Pea, and lo! the enemy is upon you, like a fierce whirlwind. He looks mild and demure enough in his kitchen yard retreat, whereto, upon piercing outcry for help, the farmer and his two sons have haled him, and where the camera has caught him. But far from meek is his aspect when you are dodging him around the great Tree Peony, or flying frantically before him down the side path to the garden gate. This fierce wild beast was once that mildest of creatures--a pet lamb; the constant companion of the farm-wife, as she weeded and watered her loved garden. Her husband says, "He seems to think folks are stealing her flowers, if they stop to look." The wife and mother of these three great men has gone from her garden forever; but a tenderness for all that she loved makes them not only care for her flowers, but keeps this rampant guardian of the garden at the kitchen door, just as she kept him when he was a little lamb. I knew this New England farmer's wife, a noble woman, of infinite tenderness, strength, and endurance; a lover of trees and flowers and all living things, and I marvel not that they keep her memory green. [Illustration: The Peacock in His Pride.] CHAPTER XIX GARDEN BOUNDARIES "A garden fair ... with Wandis long and small Railèd about, and so with treès set Was all the place; and Hawthorne hedges knet, That lyf was none walking there forbye That might within scarce any wight espy." --_Kings Qubair_, KING JAMES I OF SCOTLAND. One who reads what I have written in these pages of a garden enclosed, will scarcely doubt that to me every garden must have boundaries, definite and high. Three old farm boundaries were of necessity garden boundaries in early days--our stone walls, rail fences, and hedge-rows. The first two seem typically American; the third is an English hedge fashion. Throughout New England the great boulders were blasted to clear the rocky fields; and these, with the smaller loose stones, were gathered into vast stone walls. We still see these walls around fields and as the boundaries of kitchen gardens and farm flower gardens, and delightful walls they are, resourceful of beauty to the inventive gardener. I know one lovely garden in old Narragansett, on a farm which is now the country-seat of folk of great wealth, where the old stone walls are the pride of the place; and the carefully kept garden seems set in a beautiful frame of soft gray stones and flowering vines. These walls would be more beautiful still if our climate would let us have the wall gardens of old England, but everything here becomes too dry in summer for wall gardens to flourish. [Illustration: The Guardian of the Garden.] Rhode Island farmers for two centuries have cleared and sheltered the scanty soil of their state by blasting the ledges, and gathering the great stones of ledge and field into splendid stone walls. Their beauty is a gift to the farmer's descendants in reward for his hours of bitter and wearying toil. One of these fine stone walls, six feet in height, has stood secure and unbroken through a century of upheavals of winter frosts--which it was too broad and firmly built to heed. It stretches from the Post Road in old Narragansett, through field and meadow, and by the side of the oak grove, to the very edge of the bay. To the waterside one afternoon in June there strolled, a few years ago, a beautiful young girl and a somewhat conscious but determined young man. They seated themselves on the stone wall under the flickering shadow of a great Locust tree, then in full bloom. The air was sweet with the honeyed fragrance of the lovely pendent clusters of bloom, and bird and bee and butterfly hovered around,--it was paradise. The beauty and fitness of the scene so stimulated the young man's fancy to thoughts and words of love that he soon burst forth to his companion in an impassioned avowal of his desire to make her his wife. He had often pictured to himself that some time he would say to her these words, and he had seen also in his hopes the looks of tender affection with which she would reply. What was his amazement to behold that, instead of blushes and tender glances, his words of love were met by an apparently frenzied stare of horror and disgust, that seemed to pierce through him, as his beloved one sprung at one bound from her seat by his side on the high stone wall, and ran away at full speed, screaming out, "Oh, kill him! kill him!" Now that was certainly more than disconcerting to the warmest of lovers, and with a half-formed dread that the suddenness of his proposal of love had turned her brain, he ran after her, albeit somewhat coolly, and soon learned the reason for her extraordinary behavior. Emulous of the tempting serpent of old, a great black snake, Mr. _Bascanion constrictor_, had said complaisantly to himself: "Now here are a fair young Adam and Eve who have entered uninvited my Garden of Eden, and the man fancies it is not good for him to be alone, but I will have a word to say about that. I will come to her with honied words." So he thrust himself up between the stones of the wall, and advanced persuasively upon them, behind the man's back. But a Yankee Eve of the year 1890 A.D. is not that simple creature, the Eve of the year ---- B.C.; and even the Father of Evil would have to be great of guile to succeed in his wiles with her. A farm servant was promptly despatched to watch for the ill-mannered and intrusive snake who--as is the fashion of a snake--had grown to be as big as a boa-constrictor after he vanished; and at the end of the week once more the heel of man had bruised the serpent's head, and the third party in this love episode lay dead in his six feet of ugliness, a silent witness to the truth of the story. Throughout Narragansett, Locust trees have a fashion of fringing the stone walls with close young growth, and shading them with occasional taller trees. [Illustration: Terrace Wall at Van Cortlandt Manor.] These form an ideal garden boundary. The stone walls also gather a beautiful growth of Clematis, Brier, wild Peas, and Grapes; but they form a clinging-place for that devil's brood, Poison Ivy, which is so persistent in growth and so difficult to exterminate. The old worm fence was distinctly American; it had a zigzag series of chestnut rails, with stakes of twisted cedar saplings which were sometimes "chunked" by moss-covered boulders just peeping from the earth. This worm fence secured to the nature lover and to wild life a strip of land eight or ten feet wide, whereon plant, bird, beast, reptile, and insect flourished and reproduced. It has been, within a few years, a gardening fashion to preserve these old "Virginia" fences on country places of considerable elegance. Planted with Clematis, Honeysuckle, Trumpet vine, Wistaria, and the free-growing new Japanese Roses, they are wonderfully effective. [Illustration: Rail Fence Corner.] On Long Island, east of Riverhead, where there are few stones to form stone walls, are curious and picturesque hedge-rows, which are a most interesting and characteristic feature of the landscape, and they are beautiful also, as I have seen them once or twice, at the end of an old garden. These hedge-rows were thus formed: when a field was cleared, a row of young saplings of varied growth, chiefly Oak, Elder, and Ash, was left to form the hedge. These young trees were cut and bent over parallel to the ground, and sometimes interlaced together with dry branches and vines. Each year these trees were lopped, and new sprouts and branches permitted to grow only in the line of the hedge. Soon a tangle of briers and wild vines overgrew and netted them all into a close, impenetrable, luxuriant mass. They were, to use Wordsworth's phrase, "scarcely hedge-rows, but lines of sportive woods run wild." In this close green wall birds build their nests, and in their shelter burrow wild hares, and there open Violets and other firstlings of the spring. The twisted tree trunks in these old hedges are sometimes three or four feet in diameter one way, and but a foot or more the other; they were a shiftless field-border, as they took up so much land, but they were sheep-proof. The custom of making a dividing line by a row of bent and polled trees still remains, even where the close, tangled hedge-row has disappeared with the flocks of sheep. [Illustration: Topiary Work at Levens Hall.] These hedge-rows were an English fashion seen in Hertfordshire and Suffolk. On commons and reclaimed land they took the place of the quickset hedges seen around richer farm lands. The bending and interlacing was called plashing; the polling, shrouding. English farmers and gardeners paid infinite attention to their hedges, both as a protection to their fields and as a means of firewood. There is something very pleasant in the thought that these English gentlemen who settled eastern Long Island, the Gardiners, Sylvesters, Coxes, and others, retained on their farm lands in the new world the customs of their English homes, pleasanter still to know that their descendants for centuries kept up these homely farm fashions. The old hedge-rows on Long Island are an historical record, a landmark--long may they linger. On some of the finest estates on the island they have been carefully preserved, to form the lower boundary of a garden, where, laid out with a shaded, grassy walk dividing it from the flower beds, they form the loveliest of garden limits. Planted skilfully with great Art to look like great Nature, with edging of Elder and Wild Rose, with native vines and an occasional congenial garden ally, they are truly unique. [Illustration: Oval Pergola at Arlington.] Yew was used for the most famous English hedges; and as neither Yew nor Holly thrive here--though both will grow--I fancy that is why we have ever had in comparison so few hedges, and have really no very ancient ones, though in old letters and account books we read of the planting of hedges on fine estates. George Washington tried it, so did Adams, and Jefferson, and Quincy. Osage Orange, Barberry, and Privet were in nurserymen's lists, but it has not been till within twenty or thirty years that Privet has become so popular. In Southern gardens, Cypress made close, good garden hedges; and Cedar hedges fifty or sixty years old are seen. Lilac hedges were unsatisfactory, save in isolated cases, as the one at Indian Hill. The Japan Quinces, and other of the Japanese shrubs, were tried in hedges in the mid-century, with doubtful success as hedges, though they form lovely rows of flowering shrubs. Snowballs and Snowberries, Flowering Currant, Altheas, and Locust, all have been used for hedge-planting, so we certainly have tried faithfully enough to have hedges in America. Locust hedges are most graceful, they cannot be clipped closely. I saw one lovely creation of Locust, set with an occasional Rose Acacia--and the Locust thus supported the brittle Acacia. If it were successful, it would be, when in bloom, a dream of beauty. Hemlock hedges are ever fine, as are hemlock trees everywhere, but will not bear too close clipping. Other evergreens, among them the varied Spruces, have been set in hedges, but have not proved satisfactory enough to be much used. [Illustration: French Homestead with old Stone Terrace, Kingston, Rhode Island.] Buckthorn was a century ago much used for hedges and arches. When Josiah Quincy, President of Harvard College, was in Congress in 1809, he obtained from an English gardener, in Georgetown, Buckthorn plants for hedges in his Massachusetts home, which hedges were an object of great beauty for many years. The traveller Kalm found Privet hedges in Pennsylvania in 1760. In Scotland Privet is called Primprint. Primet and Primprivet were other old names. Box was called Primpe. These were all derivative of prim, meaning precise. Our Privet hedges, new as they are, are of great beauty and satisfaction, and soon will rival the English Yew hedges. I have never yet seen the garden in which there was not some boundary or line which could be filled to advantage by a hedge. In garden great or garden small, the hedge should ever have a place. Often a featureless garden, blooming well, yet somehow unattractive, has been completely transformed by the planting of hedges. They seem, too, to give such an orderly aspect to the garden. In level countries hedges are specially valuable. I cannot understand why some denounce clipped hedges and trees as against nature. A clipped hedge is just as natural as the cut grass of a lawn, and is closely akin to it. Others think hedges "too set"; to me their finality is their charm. Hedges need to be well kept to be pleasing. Chaucer in his day in praising a "hegge" said that:-- "Every branche and leaf must grow by mesure Pleine as a bord, of an height by and by." In England, hedge-clipping has ever been a gardening art. [Illustration: Italian Garden at Wellesley, Massachusetts.] In the old English garden the topiarist was an important functionary. Besides his clipping shears he had to have what old-time cooks called _judgment_ or _faculty_. In English gardens many specimens of topiary work still exist, maintained usually as relics of the past rather than as a modern notion of the beautiful. The old gardens at Levens Hall, page 404, contain some of the most remarkable examples. In a few old gardens in America, especially in Southern towns, traces of the topiary work of early years can be seen; these overgrown, uncertain shapes have a curious influence, and the sentiment awakened is beautifully described by Gabriele d' Annunzio:-- "We walked among evergreens, among ancient Box trees, Laurels, Myrtles, whose wild old age had forgotten its early discipline. In a few places here and there was some trace of the symmetrical shapes carved once upon a time by the gardener's shears, and with a melancholy not unlike his who searches on old tombstones for the effigies of the forgotten dead, I noted carefully among the silent plants those traces of humanity not altogether obliterated." The height of topiary art in America is reached in the lovely garden, often called the Italian garden, of Hollis H. Hunnewell, Esq., at Wellesley, Massachusetts. Vernon Lee tells in her charming essay on "Italian Gardens" of the beauty of gardens without flowers, and this garden of Mr. Hunnewell is an admirable example. Though the effect of the black and white of the pictured representations shown on these pages is perhaps somewhat sombre, there is nothing sad or sombre in the garden itself. The clear gleam of marble pavilions and balustrades, the formal rows of flower jars with their hundreds of Century plants, and the lovely light on the lovely lake, serve as a delightful contrast to the clear, clean lusty green of the clipped trees. This garden is a beautiful example of the art of the topiarist, not in its grotesque forms, but in the shapes liked by Lord Bacon, pyramids, columns, and "hedges in welts," carefully studied to be both stately and graceful. I first saw this garden thirty years ago; it was interesting then in its well thought-out plan, and in the perfection of every inch of its slow growth; but how much more beautiful now, when the garden's promise is fulfilled. [Illustration: Steps in Italian Garden at Wellesley, Massachusetts.] The editor of _Country Life_ says that the most notable attempt at modern topiary work in England is at Ascott, the seat of Mr. Leopold de Rothschild, but the examples there have not attained a growth at all approaching those at Wellesley. Mr. Hunnewell writes thus of his garden:-- "It was after a visit to Elvaston nearly fifty years ago that I conceived the idea of making a collection of trees for topiary work in imitation of what I had witnessed at that celebrated estate. As suitable trees for that purpose could not be obtained at the nurseries in this country, and as the English Yew is not reliable in our New England climate, I was obliged to make the best selection possible from such trees as had proved hardy here--the Pines, Spruces, Hemlocks, Junipers, Arbor-vitæ, Cedars, and Japanese Retinosporas. The trees were all very small, and for the first twenty years their growth was shortened twice annually, causing them to take a close and compact habit, comparing favorably in that respect with the Yew. Many of them are now more than forty feet in height and sixty feet in circumference, the Hemlocks especially proving highly successful." This beautiful example of art in nature is ever open to visitors, and the number of such visitors is very large. It is, however, but one of the many beauties of the great estate, with its fine garden of Roses, its pavilion of splendid Rhododendrons and Azaleas, its uncommon and very successful rock garden, and its magnificent plantation of rare trees. There are also many rows of fine hedges and arches in various portions of the grounds, hedges of clipped Cedar and Hemlock, many of them twenty feet high, which compare well in condition, symmetry, and extent with the finest English hedges on the finest English estates. [Illustration: Topiary Work in California.] Through the great number of formal gardens laid out within a few years in America, the topiary art has had a certain revival. In California, with the lavish foliage, it may be seen in considerable perfection, though of scant beauty, as here shown. [Illustration: Serpentine Brick Wall at University of Virginia, Charlottesville.] Happy is the garden surrounded by a brick wall or with terrace wall of brick. How well every color looks by the side of old brick; even scarlet, bright pink, and rose-pink flowers, which seem impossible, do very well when held to the wall by clear green leaves. Flowering vines are perfect when trained on old soft-red brick enclosing walls; white-flowered vines are specially lovely thereon, Clematis, white Roses, and the rarely beautiful white Wistaria. How lovely is my Virgin's-bower when growing on brick; how Hollyhocks stand up beside it. Brick posts, too, are good in a fence, and, better still, in a pergola. A portion of the fine terrace wall at Van Cortlandt Manor is shown facing page 286. This wall was put in about fifty years ago; ere that there had been a grass bank, which is ever a trial in a garden; for it is hard to mow the grass on such a bank, and it never looks neat; it should be planted with some vine. A very curious garden wall is the serpentine brick wall still standing at the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville. It is about seven feet high, and closes in the garden and green of the row of houses occupied by members of the faculty; originally it may have extended around the entire college grounds. I present a view from the street in order to show its contour distinctly; within the garden its outlines are obscured by vines and flowers. The first thought in the mind of the observer is that its reason for curving is that it could be built much more lightly, and hence more cheaply, than a straight wall; then it seems a possible idealization in brick of the old Virginia rail fence. But I do not look to domestic patterns and influences for its production; it is to me a good example of the old-time domination of French ideas which was so marked and so disquieting in America. In France, after the peace of 1762, the Marquis de Geradin was revolutionizing gardening. His own garden at Ermenonville and his description of it exercised important influence in England and America, as in France. Jefferson was the planner and architect of the University of Virginia; and it is stated that he built this serpentine wall. Whether he did or not, it is another example of French influences in architecture in the United States. This French school, above everything else, replaced straight lines with carefully curving and winding lines. CHAPTER XX A MOONLIGHT GARDEN "How sweetly smells the Honeysuckle In the hush'd night, as if the world were one Of utter peace and love and gentleness." --WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Gardens fanciful of name, a Saint's Garden, a Friendship Garden, have been planted and cherished. I plant a garden like none other; not an everyday garden, nor indeed a garden of any day, but a garden for "brave moonshine," a garden of twilight opening and midnight bloom, a garden of nocturnal blossoms, a garden of white blossoms, and the sweetest garden in the world. It is a garden of my dreams, but I know where it lies, and it now is smiling back at this very harvest moon. The old house of Hon. Ben. Perley Poore--Indian Hill--at Newburyport, Massachusetts, has been for many years one of the loveliest of New England's homes. During his lifetime it had extraordinary charms, for on the noble hillside, where grew scattered in sunny fields and pastures every variety of native tree that would winter New England's snow and ice, there were vast herds of snow-white cows, and flocks of white sheep, and the splendid oxen were white. White pigeons circled in the air around ample dove-cotes, and the farmyard poultry were all white; an enthusiastic chronicler recounts also white peacocks on the wall, but these are also denied. On every side were old terraced walls covered with Roses and flowering vines, banked with shrubs, and standing in beds of old-time flowers running over with bloom; but behind the house, stretching up the lovely hillside, was The Garden, and when we entered it, lo! it was a White Garden with edgings of pure and seemly white Candytuft from the forcing beds, and flowers of Spring Snowflake and Star of Bethlehem and Jonquils; and there were white-flowered shrubs of spring, the earliest Spiræas and Deutzias; the doubled-flowered Cherries and Almonds and old favorites, such as Peter's Wreath, all white and wonderfully expressive of a simplicity, a purity, a closeness to nature. I saw this lovely farmstead and radiant White Garden first in glowing sunlight, but far rarer must have been its charm in moonlight; though the white beasts (as English hinds call cattle) were sleeping in careful shelter; and the white dog, assured of their safety, was silent; and the white fowl were in coop and cote; and "Only the white sheep were sometimes seen To cross the strips of moon-blanch'd green." But the White Garden, ah! then the garden truly lived; it was like lightest snow wreaths bathed in silvery moonshine, with every radiant flower adoring the moon with wide-open eyes, and pouring forth incense at her altar. And it was peopled with shadowy forms shaped of pearly mists and dews; and white night moths bore messages for them from flower to flower--this garden then was the garden of my dreams. Thoreau complained to himself that he had not put duskiness enough into his words in his description of his evening walks. He longed to have the peculiar and classic severity of his sentences, the color of his style, tell his readers that his scene was laid at night without saying so in exact words. I, too, have not written as I wished, by moonlight; I can tell of moonlight in the garden, but I desire more; I want you to see and feel this moonlight garden, as did Emily Dickinson her garden by moonlight:-- "And still within the summer's night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see." But perhaps I can no more gather it into words than I can bottle up the moonlight itself. This lovely garden, varied in shape, and extending in many and diverse directions and corners, bears as its crown a magnificent double flower border over seven hundred feet long; with a broad straight path trimly edged with Box adown through its centre, and with a flower border twelve feet wide on either side. This was laid out and planted in 1833 by the parents of Major Poore, after extended travel in England, and doubtless under the influences of the beautiful English flower gardens they had seen. Its length was originally broken halfway up the hill and crowned at the top of the hill by some formal parterres of careful design, but these now are removed. There are graceful arches across the path, one of Honeysuckle on the crown of the hill, from which you look out perhaps into Paradise--for Indian Hill in June is a very close neighbor to Paradise; it is difficult to define the boundaries between the two, and to me it would be hard to choose between them. Standing in this arch on this fair hill, you can look down the long flower borders of color and perfume to the old house, lying in the heart of the trees and vines and flowers. To your left is the hill-sweep, bearing the splendid grove, an arboretum of great native trees, planted by Major Poore, and for which he received the prize awarded by his native state to the finest plantation of trees within its bounds. Turn from the house and garden, and look through this frame of vines formed by the arch upon this scene,--the loveliest to me of any on earth,--a fair New England summer landscape. Fields of rich corn and grain, broken at times with the gray granite boulders which show what centuries of grand and sturdy toil were given to make these fertile fields; ample orchards full of promise of fruit; placid lakes and mill-dams and narrow silvery rivers, with low-lying red brick mills embowered in trees; dark forests of sombre Pine and Cedar and Oak; narrow lanes and broad highways shaded with the livelier green of Elm and Maple and Birch; gray farm-houses with vast barns; little towns of thrifty white houses clustered around slender church-spires which, set thickly over this sunny land, point everywhere to heaven, and tell, as if speaking, the story of New England's past, of her foundation on love of God, just as the fields and orchards and highways speak of thrift and honesty and hard labor; and the houses, such as this of Indian Hill, of kindly neighborliness and substantial comfort; and as this old garden speaks of a love of the beautiful, a refinement, an æsthetic and tender side of New England character which _we_ know, but into which--as Mr. Underwood says in _Quabbin_, that fine study of New England life--"strangers and Kiplings cannot enter." Seven hundred feet of double flower border, fourteen hundred feet of flower bed, twelve feet wide! "It do swallow no end of plants," says the gardener. [Illustration: Chestnut Path in Garden at Indian Hill.] In spite of the banishing dictum of many artists in regard to white flowers in a garden, the presence of ample variety of white flowers is to me the greatest factor in producing harmony and beauty both by night and day. White seems to be as important a foil in some cases as green. It may sometimes be given to the garden in other ways than through flower blossoms, by white marble statues, vases, pedestals, seats. We all like the approval of our own thoughts by men of genius; with my love of white flowers I had infinite gratification in these words of Walter Savage Landor's, written from Florence in regard to a friend's garden:-- "I like white flowers better than any others; they resemble fair women. Lily, Tuberose, Orange, and the truly English Syringa are my heart's delight. I do not mean to say that they supplant the Rose and Violet in my affections, for these are our first loves, before we grew _too fond of considering_; and too fond of displaying our acquaintance with others of sounding titles." In Japan, where flowers have rank, white flowers are the aristocrats. I deem them the aristocrats in the gardens of the Occident also. Having been informed of Tennyson's dislike of white flowers, I have amused myself by trying to discover in his poems evidence of such aversion. I think one possibly might note an indifference to white blossoms; but strong color sense, his love of ample and rich color, would naturally make him name white infrequently. A pretty line in _Walking to the Mail_ tells of a girl with "a skin as clean and white as Privet when it flowers"; and there were White Lilies and Roses and milk-white Acacias in Maud's garden. In _The Last Tournament_ the street-ways are depicted as hung with white samite, and "children sat in white," and the dames and damsels were all "white-robed in honor of the stainless child." A "swarthy one" cried out at last:-- "The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year, Would make the world as blank as wintertide. Come!--let us gladden their sad eyes With all the kindlier colors of the field. So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast Variously gay.... So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colors, the live grass, Rose-campion, King-cup, Bluebell, Poppy, glanced About the revels." [Illustration: Foxgloves in Lower Garden at Indian Hill.] In the garden borders is a commonplace little plant, gray of foliage, with small, drooping, closed flowers of an indifferently dull tint, you would almost wonder at its presence among its gay garden fellows. Let us glance at it in the twilight, for it seems like the twilight, a soft, shaded gray; but the flowers have already lifted their heads and opened their petals, and they now seem like the twilight clouds of palest pink and lilac. It is the Night-scented Stock, and lavishly through the still night it pours forth its ineffable fragrance. A single plant, thirty feet from an open window, will waft its perfume into the room. This white Stock was a favorite flower of Marie Antoinette, under its French name the Julienne. "Night Violets," is its appropriate German name. Hesperis! the name shows its habit. Dame's Rocket is our title for this cheerful old favorite of May, which shines in such snowy beauty at night, and throws forth such a compelling fragrance. It is rarely found in our gardens, but I have seen it growing wild by the roadside in secluded spots; not in ample sheets of growth like Bouncing Bet, which we at first glance thought it was; it is a shyer stray, blossoming earlier than comely Betsey. The old-fashioned single, or slightly double, country Pink, known as Snow Pink or Star Pink, was often used as an edging for small borders, and its bluish green, almost gray, foliage was quaint in effect and beautiful in the moonlight. When seen at night, the reason for the folk-name is evident. Last summer, on a heavily clouded night in June, in a cottage garden at West Hampton, borders of this Snow Pink shone out of the darkness with a phosphorescent light, like hoar-frost, on every grassy leaf; while the hundreds of pale pink blossoms seemed softly shining stars. It was a curious effect, almost wintry, even in midsummer. The scent was wafted down the garden path, and along the country road, like a concentrated essence, rather than a fleeting breath of flowers. One of these cottage borders is shown on page 292, and I have named it from these lines from _The Garden that I Love_:-- "A running ribbon of perfumed snow Which the sun is melting rapidly." At sundown the beautiful white Day Lily opens and gives forth all night an overwhelming sweetness; I have never seen night moths visiting it, though I know they must, since a few seed capsules always form. In the border stand-- "Clumps of sunny Phlox That shine at dusk, and grow more deeply sweet." These, with white Petunias, are almost unbearably cloying in their heavy odor. It is a curious fact that some of these night-scented flowers are positively offensive in the daytime; try your _Nicotiana affinis_ next midday--it outpours honeyed sweetness at night, but you will be glad it withholds its perfume by day. The plants of Nicotiana were first introduced to England for their beauty, sweet scent, and medicinal qualities, not to furnish smoke. Parkinson in 1629 writes of Tobacco, "With us it is cherished for medicinal qualities as for the beauty of its flowers," and Gerarde, in 1633, after telling of the beauty, etc., says that the dried leaves are "taken in a pipe, set on fire, the smoke suckt into the stomach, and thrust forth at the noshtrils." Snake-root, sometimes called Black Cohosh (_Cimicifuga racemosa_), is one of the most stately wild flowers, and a noble addition to the garden. A picture of a single plant gives little impression of its dignity of habit, its wonderfully decorative growth; but the succession of pure white spires, standing up several feet high at the edge of a swampy field, or in a garden, partake of that compelling charm which comes from tall trees of slender growth, from repetition and association, such as pine trees, rows of bayonets, the gathered masts of a harbor, from stalks of corn in a field, from rows of Foxglove--from all "serried ranks." I must not conceal the fact of its horrible odor, which might exile it from a small garden. [Illustration: Dame's Rocket.] Among my beloved white flowers, a favorite among those who are all favorites, is the white Columbine. Some are double, but the common single white Columbines picture far better the derivation of their name; they are like white doves, they seem almost an emblematic flower. William Morris says:-- "Be very shy of double flowers; choose the old Columbine where the clustering doves are unmistakable and distinct, not the double one, where they run into mere tatters. Don't be swindled out of that wonder of beauty, a single Snowdrop; there is no gain and plenty of loss in the double one." There are some extremists, such as Dr. Forbes Watson, who condemn all double flowers. One thing in the favor of double blooms is that their perfume is increased with their petals. Double Violets, Roses, and Pinks seem as natural now as single flowers of their kinds. I confess a distinct aversion to the thought of a double Lilac. I have never seen one, though the Ranoncule, said to be very fine, costs but forty cents a plant, and hence must be much grown. [Illustration: Snake-root.] There is a curious influence of flower-color which I can only explain by giving an example. We think of Iris, Gladiolus, Lupine, and even Foxglove and Poppy as flowers of a warm and vivid color; so where we see them a pure white, they have a distinct and compelling effect on us, pleasing, but a little eerie; not a surprise, for we have always known the white varieties, yet not exactly what we are wonted to. This has nothing of the grotesque, as is produced by the albino element in the animal world; it is simply a trifle mysterious. White Pansies and White Violets possess this quality to a marked degree. I always look and look again at growing White Violets. A friend says: "Do you think they will speak to you?" for I turn to them with such an expectancy of something. The "everlasting" white Pea is a most satisfactory plant by day or night. Hedges covered with it are a pure delight. Do not fear to plant it with liberal hand. Be very liberal, too, in your garden of white Foxgloves. Even if the garden be small, there is room for many graceful spires of the lovely bells to shine out everywhere, piercing up through green foliage and colored blooms of other plants. They are not only beautiful, but they are flowers of sentiment and association, endeared to childhood, visited of bees, among the best beloved of old-time favorites. They consort well with nearly every other flower, and certainly with every other color, and they seem to clarify many a crudely or dingily tinted flower; they are as admirable foils as they are principals in the garden scheme. In England, where they readily grow wild, they are often planted at the edge of a wood, or to form vistas in a copse. I doubt whether they would thrive here thus planted, but they are admirable when set in occasional groups to show in pure whiteness against a hedge. I say in occasional groups, for the Foxglove should never be planted in exact rows. The White Iris, the Iris of the Florentine Orris-root, is one of the noblest plants of the whole world; its pure petals are truly hyaline like snow-ice, like translucent white glass; and the indescribably beautiful drooping lines of the flowers are such a contrast with the defiant erectness of the fresh green leaves. Small wonder that it was a sacred flower of the Greeks. It was called by the French _la flambe blanche_, a beautiful poetic title--the White Torch of the Garden. A flower of mystery, of wonderment to children, was the Evening Primrose; I knew the garden variety only with intimacy. Possibly the wild flower had similar charms and was equally weird in the gloaming, but it grew by country roadsides, and I was never outside our garden limits after nightfall, so I know not its evening habits. We had in our garden a variety known as the California Evening Primrose--a giant flower as tall as our heads. My mother saw its pale yellow stars shining in the early evening in a cottage garden on Cape Ann, and was there given, out of the darkness, by a fellow flower lover, the seeds which have afforded to us every year since so much sentiment and pleasure. The most exquisite description of the Evening Primrose is given by Margaret Deland in her _Old Garden_:-- "There the primrose stands, that as the night Begins to gather, and the dews to fall, Flings wide to circling moths her twisted buds, That shine like yellow moons with pale cold glow, And all the air her heavy fragrance floods, And gives largess to any winds that blow. Here in warm darkness of a night in June, ... children came To watch the primrose blow. Silently they stood Hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around, And saw her slyly doff her soft green hood And blossom--with a silken burst of sound." [Illustration: The Title-page of Parkinson's _Paradisi in Solis_, etc.] The wild Primrose opens slowly, hesitatingly, it trembles open, but the garden Primrose flares open. The Evening Primrose is usually classed with sweet-scented flowers, but that exact observer, E. V. B., tells of its "repulsive smell. At night if the stem be shaken, or if the flower-cup trembles at the touch of a moth as it alights, out pours the dreadful odor." I do not know that any other garden flower opens with a distinct sound. Owen Meredith's poem, _The Aloe_, tells that the Aloe opened with such a loud explosive report that the rooks shrieked and folks ran out of the house to learn whence came the sound. The tall columns of the Yucca or Adam's Needle stood like shafts of marble against the hedge trees of the Indian Hill garden. Their beautiful blooms are a miniature of those of the great Century Plant. In the daytime the Yucca's blossoms hang in scentless, greenish white bells, but at night these bells lift up their heads and expand with great stars of light and odor--a glorious plant. Around their spire of luminous bells circle pale night moths, lured by the rich fragrance. Even by moonlight we can see the little white detached fibres at the edge of the leaves, which we are told the Mexican women used as thread to sew with. And we children used to pull off the strong fibres and put them in a needle and sew with them too. When I see those Yuccas in bloom I fully believe that they are the grandest flowers of our gardens; but happily, I have a short garden memory, so I mourn not the Yucca when I see the _Anemone japonica_ or any other noble white garden child. [Illustration: Yucca, like White Marble against the Evergreens.] Here at the end of the garden walk is an arbor dark with the shadow of great leaves, such as Gerarde calls "leaves round and big like to a buckler." But out of that shadowed background of leaf on leaf shine hundreds of pure, pale stars of sweetness and light,--a true flower of the night in fragrance, beauty, and name,--the Moon-vine. It is a flower of sentiment, full of suggestion. Did you ever see a ghost in a garden? I do so wish I could. If I had the placing of ghosts, I would not make them mope round in stuffy old bedrooms and garrets; but would place one here in this arbor in my Moonlight Garden. But if I did, I have no doubt she would take up a hoe or a watering-pot, and proceed to do some very unghostlike deed--perhaps, grub up weeds. Longfellow had a ghost in his garden (page 142). He must have mourned when he found it was only a clothes-line and a long night-gown. It was the favorite tale of a Swedish old lady who lived to be ninety-six years old, of a discovery of her youth, in the year 1762, of strange flashes of light which sparkled out of the flowers of the Nasturtium one sultry night. I suppose the average young woman of the average education of the day and her country might not have heeded or told of this, but she was the daughter of Linnæus, the great botanist, and had not the everyday education. Then great Goethe saw and wrote of similar flashes of light around Oriental Poppies; and soon other folk saw them also--naturalists and everyday folk. Usually yellow flowers were found to display this light--Marigolds, orange Lilies, and Sunflowers. Then the daughter of Linnæus reported another curious discovery; she certainly turned her nocturnal rambles in her garden to good account. She averred she had set fire to a certain gas which formed and hung around the Fraxinella, and that the ignition did not injure the plant. This assertion was met with open scoffing and disbelief, which has never wholly ceased; yet the popular name of Gas Plant indicates a widespread confidence in this quality of the Fraxinella and it is easily proved true. Another New England name for the Fraxinella, given me from the owner of the herb-garden at Elmhurst, is "Spitfire Plant," because the seed-pods sizzle so when a lighted match is applied to them. The Fraxinella is a sturdy, hardy flower. There are some aged plants in old New England gardens; I know one which has outlived the man who planted it, his son, grandson, and great-grandson. The Fraxinella bears a tall stem with Larkspur-like flowers of white or a curious dark pink, and shining Ash-like leaves, whence its name, the little Ash. It is one of the finest plants of the old-fashioned garden; fine in bloom, fine in habit of growth, and it even has decorative seed vessels. It is as ready of scent as anything in the garden; if you but brush against leaf, stem, flower, or seed, as you walk down the garden path, it gives forth a penetrating perfume, that you think at first is like Lemon, then like Anise, then like Lavender; until you finally decide it is like nothing save Fraxinella. As with the blossoms of the Calycanthus shrub, you can never mistake the perfume, when once you know it, for anything else. It is a scent of distinction. Through this individuality it is, therefore, full of associations, and correspondingly beloved. [Illustration: Fraxinella.] CHAPTER XXI FLOWERS OF MYSTERY "Let thy upsoaring vision range at large This garden through: for so by ray divine Kindled, thy ken a magic flight shall mount." --CARY'S Translation of Dante. Bogies and fairies, a sense of eeriness, came to every garden-bred child of any imagination in connection with certain flowers. These flowers seemed to be regarded thus through no special rule or reason. With some there may have been slight associations with fairy lore, or medicinal usage, or a hint of meretriciousness. Sometimes the child hardly formulated his thought of the flower, yet the dread or dislike or curiosity existed. My own notions were absolutely baseless, and usually absurd. I doubt if we communicated these fancies to each other save in a few cases, as of the Monk's-hood, when we had been warned that the flower was poisonous. I have read with much interest Dr. Forbes Watson's account of plants that filled his childish mind with mysterious awe and wonder; among them were the Spurge, Henbane, Rue, Dogtooth Violet, Nigella, and pink Marsh Mallow. The latter has ever been to me one of the most cheerful of blossoms. I did not know it in my earliest childhood, and never saw it in gardens till recent years. It is too close a cousin of the Hollyhock ever to seem to me aught but a happy flower. Henbane and Rue I did not know, but I share his feeling toward the others, though I could not carry it to the extent of fancying these the plants which a young man gathered, distilled, and gave to his betrothed as a poison. There has ever been much uncanny suggestion in the Cypress Spurge. I never should have picked it had I found it in trim gardens; but I saw it only in forlorn and neglected spots. Perhaps its sombre tinge may come now from association, since it is often seen in country graveyards; and I heard a country woman once call it "Graveyard Ground Pine." But this association was not what influenced my childhood, for I never went then to graveyards. In driving along our New England roads I am ever reminded of Parkinson's dictum that "Spurge once planted will hardly be got rid out again." For by every decaying old house, in every deserted garden, and by the roadside where houses may have been, grows and spreads this Cypress Spurge. I know a large orchard in Narragansett from which grass has wholly vanished; it has been crowded out by the ugly little plant, which has even invaded the adjoining woods. I wonder why every one in colonial days planted it, for it is said to be poisonous in its contact to some folks, and virulently poisonous to eat--though I am sure no one ever wanted to eat it. The colonists even brought it over from England, when we had here such lovely native plants. It seldom flowers. Old New England names for it are Love-in-a-huddle and Seven Sisters; not over significant, but of interest, as folk-names always are. I join with Dr. Forbes Watson in finding the Nigella uncanny. It has a half-spidery look, that seems ungracious in a flower. Its names are curious: Love-in-a-mist, Love-in-a-puzzle, Love-in-a-tangle, Puzzle-love, Devil-in-a-bush, Katherine-flowers--another of the many allusions to St. Katherine and her wheel; and the persistent styles do resemble the spokes of a wheel. A name given it in a cottage garden in Wayland was Blue Spider-flower, which seems more suited than that of Spiderwort for the Tradescantia. Spiderwort, like all "three-cornered" flowers, is a flower of mystery; and so little cared for to-day that it is almost extinct in our gardens, save where it persists in out-of-the-way spots. A splendid clump of it is here shown, which grows still in the Worcester garden I so loved in my childhood. In this plant the old imagined tracings of spider's legs in the leaves can scarce be seen. With the fanciful notion of "like curing like" ever found in old medical recipes, Gerarde says, vaguely, the leaves are good for "the Bite of that Great Spider," a creature also of mystery. Perhaps if the clear blue flowers kept open throughout the day, the Spiderwort would be more tolerated, for this picture certainly has a Japanesque appearance, and what we must acknowledge was far more characteristic of old-time flowers than of many new ones, a wonderful individuality; there was no sameness of outline. I could draw the outline of a dozen blossoms of our modern gardens, and you could not in a careless glance distinguish one from the other: Cosmos, _Anemone japonica_, single Dahlias, and Sunflowers, Gaillardia, Gazanias, all such simple Rose forms. [Illustration: Love-in-a-mist.] There was a quaint and mysterious annual in ancient gardens, called Shell flower, or Molucca Balm, which is not found now even on seedsmen's special lists of old-fashioned plants. The flower was white, pink-tipped, and set in a cup-shaped calyx an inch long, which was bigger than the flower itself. The plant stood two or three feet high, and the sweet-scented flowers were in whorls of five or six on a stem. It is a good example of my assertion that the old flowers had queerer shapes than modern ones, and were made of queer materials; the calyx of this Shell flower is of such singular quality and fibre. The Dog-tooth Violet always had to me a sickly look, but its leaves give it its special offensiveness; all spotted leaves, or flower petals which showed the slightest resemblance to the markings of a snake or lizard, always filled me with dislike. Among them I included Lungwort (Pulmonaria), a flower which seems suddenly to have disappeared from many gardens, even old-fashioned ones, just as it has disappeared from medicine. Not a gardener could be found in our public parks in New York who had ever seen it, or knew it, though there is in Prospect Park a well-filled and noteworthy "Old-fashioned Garden." Let me add, in passing, that nothing in the entire park system--greenhouses, water gardens, Italian gardens--affords such delight to the public as this old-fashioned garden. The changing blue and pink flowers of the Lungwort, somewhat characteristic of its family, are curious also. This plant was also known by the singular name of Joseph-and-Mary; the pink flowers being the emblem of Joseph; the blue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Lady's-tears was an allied name, from a legend that the Virgin Mary's tears fell on the leaves, causing the white spots to grow in them, and that one of her blue eyes became red from excessive weeping. It was held to be unlucky even to destroy the plant. Soldier-and-his-wife also had reference to the red and blue tints of the flower. A cousin of the Lungwort, our native _Mertensia virginica_, has in the young plant an equally singular leafage; every ordinary process of leaf progress is reversed: the young shoots are not a tender green, but are almost black, and change gradually in leaf, stem, and flower calyx to an odd light green in which the dark color lingers in veins and spots until the plant is in its full flower of tender blue, lilac, and pink. "Blue and pink ladies" we used to call the blossoms when we hung them on pins for a fairy dance. The Alstroemeria is another spotted flower of the old borders, curious in its funnel-shaped blooms, edged and lined with tiny brown and green spots. It is more grotesque than beautiful, but was beloved in a day that deemed the Tiger Lily the most beautiful of all lilies. [Illustration: Spiderwort.] The aversion I feel for spotted leaves does not extend to striped ones, though I care little for variegated or striped foliage in a garden. I like the striped white and green leaves of one variety of our garden Iris, and of our common Sweet Flag (Calamus), which are decorative to a most satisfactory degree. The firm ribbon leaves of the striped Sweet Flag never turn brown in the driest summer, and grow very tall; a tub of it kept well watered is a thing of surprising beauty, and the plants are very handsome in the rock garden. I wonder what the bees seek in the leaves! they throng its green and white blades in May, finding something, I am sure, besides the delightful scent; though I do not note that they pierce the veins of the plant for the sap, as I have known them to do along the large veins of certain palm leaves. I have seen bees often act as though they were sniffing a flower with appreciation, not gathering honey. The only endeared striped leaf was that of the Striped Grass--Gardener's Garters we called it. Clumps of it growing at Van Cortlandt Manor are here shown. We children used to run to the great plants of Striped Grass at the end of the garden as to a toy ribbon shop. The long blades of Grass looked like some antique gauze ribbons. They were very modish for dolls' wear, very useful to shape pin-a-sights, those very useful things, and very pretty to tie up posies. Under favorable circumstances this garden child might become a garden pest, a spreading weed. I never saw a more curious garden stray than an entire dooryard and farm garden--certainly two acres in extent, covered with Striped Grass, save where a few persistent Tiger Lilies pierced through the striped leaves. Even among the deserted hearthstones and tumble-down chimneys the striped leaves ran up among the roofless walls. Let me state here that the suggestion of mystery in a flower did not always make me dislike it; sometimes it added a charm. The Periwinkle--Ground Myrtle we used to call it--was one of the most mysterious and elusive flowers I knew, and other children thus regarded it; but I had a deep affection for its lovely blue stars and clean, glossy leaves, a special love, since it was the first flower I saw blooming out of doors after a severe illness, and it seemed to welcome me back to life. [Illustration: Gardener's Garters, at Van Cortlandt Manor.] The name is from the French Pervenche, which suffers sadly by being changed into the clumsy Periwinkle. Everywhere it is a flower of mystery; it is the "Violette des Sorciers" of the French. Sadder is its Tuscan name, "Flower of death," for it is used there as garlands at the burial of children; and is often planted on graves, just as it is here. A far happier folk-name was Joy-of-the-ground, and to my mind better suited to the cheerful, healthy little plant. An ancient medical manuscript gives this description of the Periwinkle, which for directness and lucidity can scarcely be excelled:-- "Parwyke is an erbe grene of colour, In tyme of May he bereth blue flour. Ye lef is thicke, schinede and styf, As is ye grene jwy lefe. Vnder brod and uerhand round, Men call it ye joy of grownde." On the list of the Boston seedsman (given on page 33 _et seq._) is Venus'-navelwort. I lingered this summer by an ancient front yard in Marblehead, and in the shade of the low-lying gray-shingled house I saw a refined plant with which I was wholly unacquainted, lying like a little dun cloud on the border, a pleasing plant with cinereous foliage, in color like the silvery gray of the house, shaded with a bluer tint and bearing a dainty milk-white bloom. This modest flower had that power of catching the attention in spite of the high and striking colors of its neighbors, such as a simple gown of gray and white, if of graceful cut and shape, will have among gay-colored silk attire--the charm of Quaker garb, even though its shape be ugly. You know how ready is the owner of such a garden to talk of her favorites, and soon I was told that this plant was "Navy-work." I accepted this name in this old maritime town as possibly a local folk-name, yet I was puzzled by a haunting memory of having heard some similar title. A later search in a botany revealed the original, Venus'-navelwort. I deem it right to state in this connection that any such corruption of the old name of a flower is very unusual in Massachusetts, where the English tongue is spoken by all of Massachusetts descent in much purity of pronunciation. There is no doubt that all the flowers of the old garden were far more suggestive, more full of meaning, than those given to us by modern florists. This does not come wholly from association, as many fancy, but from an inherent quality of the flower itself. I never saw Honeywort (Cerinthe) till five years ago, and then it was not in an old-fashioned garden; but the moment I beheld the graceful, drooping flowers in the flower bed, the yellow and purple-toothed corolla caught my eye, as it caught my fancy; it seemed to mean something. I was not surprised to learn that it was an ancient favorite of colonial days. The leaves of Honeywort are often lightly spotted, which may be one of its elements of mystery. Honeywort is seldom seen even in our oldest gardens; but it is a beautiful flower and a most hardy annual, and deserves to be reintroduced. [Illustration: Garden Walk at The Manse, Deerfield, Massachusetts.] A great favorite in the old garden was the splendid scarlet Lychnis, to which in New England is given the name of London Pride. There are two old varieties: one has four petals with squared ends, and is called, from the shape of the expanded flower, the Maltese Cross; the other, called Scarlet Lightning, is shown on a succeeding page; it has five deeply-nicked petals. It is a flower of midsummer eve and magic power, and I think it must have some connection with the Crusaders, being called by Gerarde Floure of Jerusalem, and Flower of Candy. The five-petalled form is rarely seen; in one old family I know it is so cherished, and deemed so magic a home-maker, that every bride who has gone from that home for over a hundred years has borne away a plant of that London Pride; it has really become a Family Pride. Another plant of mysterious suggestion was the common Plantain. This was not an unaided instinct of my childhood, but came to me through an explanation of the lines in the chapter, "The White Man's Foot," in _Hiawatha_:-- "Whereso'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us; Springs the White Man's Foot in blossom." After my father showed me the Plantain as the "White Man's Foot," I ever regarded it with a sense of its unusual power; and I used often to wonder, when I found it growing in the grass, who had stepped there. I have permanently associated with the Plantain or Waybred a curious and distasteful trick of my memory. We recall our American humorist's lament over the haunting lines from the car-conductor's orders, which filled his brain and ears from the moment he read them, wholly by chance, and which he tried vainly to forget. A similar obsession filled me when I read the spirited apostrophe to the Plantain or Waybred, in Cockayne's translation of Ælfric's _Lacunga_, a book of leech-craft of the eleventh century:-- "And thou Waybroad, Mother of worts, Over thee carts creaked, Over thee Queens rode, Over thee brides bridalled, Over thee bulls breathed, All these thou withstoodst, Venom and vile things, And all the loathly things, That through the land rove." I could not thrust them out of my mind; worse still, I kept manufacturing for the poem scores of lines of similar metre. I never shall forget the Plantain, it won't let me forget it. [Illustration: London Pride.] The Orpine was a flower linked with tradition and mystery in England, there were scores of fanciful notions connected with it. It has grown to be a spreading weed in some parts of New England, but it has lost both its mystery and its flowers. The only bed of flowering Orpine I ever saw in America was in the millyard of Miller Rose at Kettle Hole--and a really lovely expanse of bloom it was, broken only by old worn millstones which formed the doorsteps. He told with pride that his grandmother planted it, and "it was the flowering variety that no one else had in Rhode Island, not even in greenhouses in Newport." Miller Rose ground corn meal and flour with ancient millstones, and infinitely better were his grindings than "store meal." He could tell you, with prolonged detail, of the new-fangled roller he bought and used one week, and not a decent Johnny-cake could be made from the meal, and it shamed him. So he threw away all the meal he hadn't sold; and then the new machinery was pulled out and the millstones replaced, "to await the Lord's coming," he added, being a Second Adventist--or by his own title a "Christadelphian and an Old Bachelor." He was a famous preacher, having a pulpit built of heavy stones, in the woods near his mill. A little trying it was to hear the outpourings of his long sermons on summer afternoons, while you waited for him to come down from his pulpit and his prophesyings to give you your bag of meal. A tithing of time he gave each day to the Lord, two hours and a half of preaching--and doubtless far more than a tithe of his income to the poor. In sentimental association with his name, he had a few straggling Roses around his millyard--all old-time varieties; and, with Orpine and Sweetbrier, he could gather a very pretty posy for all who came to Kettle Hole. We constantly read of Fritillaries in the river fields sung of Matthew Arnold. In a charming book of English country life, _Idlehurst_, I read how closely the flower is still associated with Oxford life, recalling ever the Iffley and Kensington meadows to all Oxford men. The author tells that "quite unlikely sorts of men used to pick bunches of the flowers, and we would come up the towpath with our spoils." Fritillaries grew in my mother's garden; I cannot now recall another garden in America where I have ever seen them in bloom. They certainly are not common. On a succeeding page are shown the blossoms of the white Fritillary my mother planted and loved. Can you not believe that we love them still? They have spread but little, neither have they dwindled nor died. Each year they seem to us the very same blossoms she loved. Our cyclopædias of gardening tell us that the Fritillaries spread freely; but E. V. B. writes of them in her exquisite English: "Slow in growth as the Fritillaries are, they are ever sure. When they once take root, there they stay forever, with a constancy unknown in our human world. They may be trusted, however late their coming. In the fresh vigor of its youth was there ever seen any other flower planned so exquisitely, fashioned so slenderly! The pink symmetry of Kalmia perhaps comes nearest this perfection, with the delicately curved and rounded angles of its bloom." In no garden, no matter how modern, could the Fritillaries ever look to me aught but antique and classic. They are as essentially of the past, even to the careless eye, as an antique lamp or brazier. Quaint, too, is the fabric of their coats, like some old silken stuff of paduasoy or sarsenet. All are checkered, as their name indicates. Even the white flowers bear little birthmarks of checkered lines. They were among the famous dancers in my mother's garden, and I can tell you that a country dance of Fritillaries in plaided kirtles and green caps is a lively sight. Another name for this queer little flower is Guinea-hen Flower. Gerarde, with his felicity of description, says:-- "One square is of a greenish-yellow colour, the other purple, keeping the same order as well on the back side of the flower as on the inside; although they are blackish in one square, and of a violet colour in another: in so much that every leafe (of the flower) seemeth to be the feather of a Ginnie hen, whereof it took its name." A strong personal trait of the Fritillaries (for I may so speak of flowers I love) is their air of mystery. They mean something I cannot fathom; they look it, but cannot tell it. Fritillaries were a flower of significance even in Elizabethan days. They were made into little buttonhole posies, and, as Parkinson says, "worn abroad by curious lovers of these delights." In California grow wild a dozen varieties; the best known of these is recurved, but it does not droop, and is to all outward glance an Anemone, and has lost in that new world much the mystery of the old herbalist's "Checker Lily," save the checkers; these always are visible. [Illustration: White Fritillaria.] The Cyclamen and Dodecatheon lay their ears back like a vicious horse. Both have an eerie aspect, as if turned upside down, as has also the Nightshade. I knew a little child, a flower lover from babyhood, who feared to touch the Cyclamen, and even cried if any attempt was made to have her touch the flower. When older, she said that she had feared the flower would sting her. I have often a sense of mysterious meaning in a vine, it seems so plainly to reach out to attract your attention. I recall once being seated on the doorstep of a deserted farm-house, musing a little over the sad thought of this lost home, when suddenly some one tapped me on the cheek--I suppose I ought to say some thing, though it seemed a human touch. It was a spray of Matrimony vine, twenty feet long or more, that had reached around a corner, and helped by a breeze, had appealed to me for sympathy and companionship. I answered by following it around the corner. It had been trained up to a little shelf-like ledge or roof, over what had been a pantry window, and hung in long lines of heavy shade. It said to me: "Here once lived a flower-loving woman and a man who cared for her comfort and pleasure. She planted me when she, and the man, and the house were young, and he made the window shelter, and trained me over it, to make cool and green the window where she worked. I was the symbol of their happy married love. See! there they lie, under the gray stone beneath those cedars. Their children all are far away, but every year I grow fresh and green, though I find it lonely here now." To me, the Matrimony vine is ever a plant of interest, and it may be very beautiful, if cared for. On page 186 is shown the lovely growth on the porch at Van Cortlandt Manor. With a sentiment of wonder and inquiry, not unmixed with mystery, do we regard many flowers, which are described in our botanies as Garden Escapes. This Matrimony vine is one of the many creeping, climbing things that have wandered away from houses. Honeysuckles and Trumpet-vines are far travellers. I saw once in a remote and wild spot a great boulder surrounded with bushes and all were covered with the old Coral or Trumpet Honeysuckle; it had such a familiar air, and yet seemed to have gained a certain knowingness by its travels. This element of mystery does not extend to the flowers which I am told once were in trim gardens, but which I have never seen there, such as Ox-eye Daisies, Scotch Thistles, Chamomile, Tansy, Bergamot, Yarrow, and all of the Mint family; they are to me truly wild. But when I find flowers still cherished in our gardens, growing also in some wild spot, I regard them with wonder. A great expanse of Coreopsis, a field of Grape Hyacinth or Star of Bethlehem, roadsides of Coronilla or Moneywort, rows of red Day Lily and Tiger Lily, patches of Sunflowers or Jerusalem Artichokes, all are matters of thought; we long to trace their wanderings, to have them tell whence and how they came. Bouncing Bet is too cheerful and rollicking a wanderer to awaken sentiment. How gladly has she been welcomed to our fields and roadsides. I could not willingly spare her in our country drives, even to become again a cherished garden dweller. She rivals the Succory in beautifying arid dust heaps and barren railroad cuts, with her tender opalescent pink tints. How wholesome and hearty her growth, how pleasant her fragrance. We can never see her too often, nor ever stigmatize her, as have been so many of our garden escapes, as "Now a dreaded weed." [Illustration: Bouncing Bet.] One of the weirdest of all flowers to me is the Butter-and-eggs, the Toad-flax, which was once a garden child, but has run away from gardens to wander in every field in the land. I haven't the slightest reason for this regard of Butter-and-eggs, and I believe it is peculiar to myself, just as is Dr. Forbes Watson's regard of the Marshmallow to him. I have no uncanny or sad associations with it, and I never heard anything "queer" about it. Thirty years ago, in a locality I knew well in central Massachusetts, Butter-and-eggs was far from common; I even remember the first time I saw it and was told its quaint name; now it grows there and everywhere; it is a persistent weed. John Burroughs calls it "the hateful Toad-flax," and old Manasseh Cutler, in a curious mixture of compliment and slur, "a common, handsome, tedious weed." It travels above ground and below ground, and in some soils will run out the grass. It knows how to allure the bumblebee, however, and has honey in its heart. I think it a lovely flower, though it is queer; and it is a delight to the scientific botanist, in the delicate perfection of its methods and means of fertilization. The greatest beauty of this flower is in late autumn, when it springs up densely in shaven fields. I have seen, during the last week in October, fields entirely filled with its exquisite sulphur-yellow tint, one of the most delicate colors in nature; a yellow that is luminous at night, and is rivalled only by the pale yellow translucent leaves of the Moosewood in late autumn, which make such a strange pallid light in old forests in the North--a light which dominates over every other autumn tint, though the trees which bear them are so spindling and low, and little noted save in early spring in their rare pinkness, and in this their autumn etherealization. And the Moosewood shares the mystery of the Butter-and-eggs as well as its color. I should be afraid to drive or walk alone in a wood road, when the Moosewood leaves were turning yellow in autumn. I shall never forget them in Dublin, New Hampshire, driving through what our delightful Yankee charioteer and guide called "only a cat-road." This was to me a new use of the word cat as a prænomen, though I knew, as did Dr. Holmes and Hosea Biglow, and every good New Englander, that "cat-sticks" were poor spindling sticks, either growing or in a load of cut wood. I heard a country parson say as he regarded ruefully a gift of a sled load of firewood, "The deacon's load is all cat-sticks." Of course a cat-stick was also the stick used in the game of ball called tip-cat. Myself when young did much practise another loved ball game, "one old cat," a local favorite, perhaps a local name. "Cat-ice," too, is a good old New England word and thing; it is the thin layer of brittle ice formed over puddles, from under which the water has afterward receded. If there lives a New Englander too old or too hurried to rejoice in stepping upon and crackling the first "cat-ice" on a late autumn morning, then he is a man; for no New England girl, a century old, could be thus indifferent. It is akin to rustling through the deep-lying autumn leaves, which affords a pleasure so absurdly disproportioned and inexplicable that it is almost mysterious. Some of us gouty ones, alas! have had to give up the "cat-slides" which were also such a delight; the little stretches of glare ice to which we ran a few steps and slid rapidly over with the impetus. But I must not let my New England folk-words lure me away from my subject, even on a tempting "cat-slide." [Illustration: Overgrown Garden at Llanerck, Pennsylvania.] Though garden flowers run everywhere that they will, they are not easily forced to become wild flowers. We hear much of the pleasure of sowing garden seeds along the roadside, and children are urged to make beautiful wild gardens to be the delight of passers-by. Alphonse Karr wrote most charmingly of such sowings, and he pictured the delight and surprise of country folk in the future when they found the choice blooms, and the confusion of learned botanists in years to come. The delight and surprise and confusion would have been if any of his seeds sprouted and lived! A few years ago a kindly member of our United States Congress sent to me from the vast seed stores of our national Agricultural Department, thousands of packages of seeds of common garden flowers to be given to the poor children in public kindergartens and primary schools in our great city. The seeds were given to hundreds of eager flower lovers, but starch boxes and old tubs and flower pots formed the limited gardens of those Irish and Italian children, and the Government had sent to me such "hats full, sacks full, bushel-bags full," that I was left with an embarrassment of riches. I sent them to Narragansett and amused myself thereafter by sowing several pecks of garden seeds along the country roadsides; never, to my knowledge, did one seed live and produce a plant. I watched eagerly for certain plantings of Poppies, Candytuft, Morning-glories, and even the indomitable Portulaca; not one appeared. I don't know why I should think I could improve on nature; for I drove through that road yesterday and it was radiant with Wild Rose bloom, white Elder, and Meadow Beauty; a combination that Thoreau thought and that I think could not be excelled in a cultivated garden. Above all, these are the right things in the right place, which my garden plants would not have been. I am sure that if they had lived and crowded out these exquisite wild flowers I should have been sorry enough. [Illustration: Fountain at Yaddo.] The hardy Colchicum or Autumnal Crocus is seldom seen in our gardens; nor do I care for its increase, even when planted in the grass. It bears to me none of the delight which accompanies the spring Crocus, but seems to be out of keeping with the autumnal season. Rising bare of leaves, it has but a seminatural aspect, as if it had been stuck rootless in the ground like the leafless, stemless blooms of a child's posy bed. Its English name--Naked Boys--seems suited to it. The Colchicum is associated in my mind with the Indian Pipe and similar growths; it is curious, but it isn't pleasing. As the Indian Pipe could not be lured within garden walls, I will not write of it here, save to say that no one could ever see it growing in its shadowy home in the woods without yielding to its air of mystery. It is the weirdest flower that grows, so palpably ghastly that we feel almost a cheerful satisfaction in the perfection of its performance and our own responsive thrill, just as we do in a good ghost story. [Illustration: Avenue of White Pines at Wellesley, Mass., the Country-seat of Hollis H. Hunnewell, Esq.] Many wild flowers which we have transplanted to our gardens are full of magic and charm. In some, such as Thyme and Elder, these elements come from English tradition. In other flowers the quality of mystery is inherent. In childhood I absolutely abhorred Bloodroot; it seemed to me a fearsome thing when first I picked it. I remember well my dismay, it was so pure, so sleek, so innocent of face, yet bleeding at a touch, like a murdered man in the Blood Ordeal. The Trillium, Wake-robin, is a wonderful flower. I have seen it growing in a luxuriance almost beyond belief in lonely Canadian forests on the Laurentian Mountains. At this mining settlement, so remote that it was unvisited even by the omnipresent and faithful Canadian priest, was a wealth of plant growth which seemed fairly tropical. The starry flowers of the Trillium hung on long peduncles, and the two-inch diameter of the ordinary blossom was doubled. The Painted Trillium bore rich flowers of pink and wine color, and stood four or five feet from the ground. I think no one had ever gathered their blooms, for there were no women in this mining camp save a few French-Indian servants and one Irish cook, and no educated white woman had ever been within fifty, perhaps a hundred, miles of the place. Every variety of bloom seemed of exaggerated growth, but the Trillium exceeded all. An element of mystery surrounds this plant, a quality which appertains to all "three-cornered" flowers; perhaps there may be some significance in the three-sided form. I felt this influence in the extreme when in the presence of this Canadian Trillium, so much so that I was depressed by it when wandering alone even in the edge of the forest; and when by light o' the moon I peered in on this forest garden, it was like the vision of a troop of trembling white ghosts, stimulating to the fancy. It was but a part of the whole influence of that place, which was full of eerie mystery. For after the countless eons of time during which "the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the earth," the waters at last were gathered together and dry land appeared. And that dry land which came up slowly out of the face of the waters was this Laurentian range. And when at God's command "on the third day" the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielded seed--lo, among the things which were good and beautiful there shone forth upon the earth the first starry flowers of the white Trillium. CHAPTER XXII ROSES OF YESTERDAY "Each morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?" --_Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_, translated by EDWARD FITZGERALD, 1858. The answer can be given the Persian poet that the Rose of Yesterday leaves again in the heart. The subtle fragrance of a Rose can readily conjure in our minds a dream of summers past, and happy summers to come. Many a flower lover since Chaucer has felt as did the poet:-- "The savour of the Roses swote Me smote right to the herte rote." The old-time Roses possess most fully this hidden power. Sweetest of all was the old Cabbage Rose--called by some the Provence Rose--for its perfume "to be chronicled and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and all-to-be-praised." Its odor is perfection; it is the standard by which I compare all other fragrances. It is not too strong nor too cloying, as are some Rose scents; it is the idealization of that distinctive sweetness of the Rose family which other Roses have to some degree. The color of the Cabbage Rose is very warm and pleasing, a clear, happy pink, and the flower has a wholesome, open look; but it is not a beautiful Rose by florists' standards,--few of the old Roses are,--and it is rather awkward in growth. The Cabbage Rose is said to have been a favorite in ancient Rome. I wish it had a prettier name; it is certainly worthy one. The Hundred-leaved Rose was akin to the Cabbage Rose, and shared its delicious fragrance. In its rather irregular shape it resembled the present Duke of Sussex Rose. One of the rarest of old-time Roses in our gardens to-day is the red and white mottled York and Lancaster. It is as old as the sixteenth century. Shakespeare writes in the _Sonnets_:-- "The Roses fearfully in thorns did stand One blushing shame, another white despair. A third, nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both." They are what Chaucer loved, "sweitie roses red, brode, and open also." Roses of a broad, flat expanse when in full bloom; they have a cheerier, heartier, more gracious look than many of the new Roses that never open far from bud, that seem so pinched and narrow. What ineffable fragrance do they pour out from every wide-open flower, a fragrance that is the very spirit of the Oriental Attar of Roses; all the sensuous sweetness of the attar is gone, and only that which is purest and best remains. I believe, in thinking of it, that it equals the perfume of the Cabbage Rose, which, ere now, I have always placed first. This York and Lancaster Rose is the _Rosa mundi_,--the rose of the world. A fine plant is growing in Hawthorne's old home in Salem. [Illustration: Violets in Silver Double Coaster.] Opposite page 462 is an unusual depiction of the century-old York and Lancaster Rose still growing and flourishing in the old garden at Van Cortlandt Manor. It is from one of the few photographs which I have ever seen which make you forgive their lack of color. The vigor, the grace, the richness of this wonderful Rose certainly are fully shown, though but in black and white. I have called this Rose bush a century old; it is doubtless much older, but it does not seem old; it is gifted with everlasting youth. We know how the Persians gather before a single plant in flower; they spread their rugs, and pray before it; and sit and meditate before it; sip sherbet, play the lute and guitar in the moonlight; bring their friends and stand as in a vision, then talk in praises of it, and then all serenade it with an ode from Hafiz and depart. So would I gather my friends around this lovely old Rose, and share its beauty just as my friends at the manor-house share it with me; and as the Persians, we would praise it in sunlight and by moonlight, and sing its beauty in verses. This York and Lancaster Rose was known to Parkinson in his day; it is his _Rosa versicolor_. I wonder why so few modern gardens contain this treasure. I know it does not rise to all the standards of the modern Rose growers; but it possesses something better--it has a living spirit; it speaks of history, romance, sentiment; it awakens inspiration and thought, it has an ever living interest, a significance. I wonder whether a hundred years from now any one will stand before some Crimson Rambler, which will then be ancient, and feel as I do before this York and Lancaster goddess. [Illustration: York and Lancaster Rose.] The fragrance of the sweetest Roses--the Damask, the Cabbage, the York and Lancaster--is beyond any other flower-scent, it is irresistible, enthralling; you cannot leave it. You can push aside a Syringa, a Honeysuckle, even a Mignonette, but there is a magic something which binds you irrevocably to the Rose. I have never doubted that the Rose has some compelling quality shared not by other flowers. I know not whether it comes from centuries of establishment as a race-symbol, or from some inherent witchery of the plant, but it certainly exists. The variety of Roses known to old American gardens, as to English gardens, was few. The English Eglantine was quickly established here in gardens and spread to roadsides. The small, ragged, cheerful little Cinnamon Rose, now chiefly seen as a garden stray, is undoubtedly old. This Rose diffuses its faint "sinamon smelle" when the petals are dried. Nearly all of the Roses vaguely thought to be one or two hundred years old date only, within our ken, to the earlier years of the nineteenth century. The Seven Sisters Rose, imagined by the owner of many a Southern garden to belong to colonial days, is one of the family _Rosa multiflora_, introduced from Japan to England by Thunberg. Its catalogue name is Greville. I think the Seven Sisters dates back to 1822. The clusters of little double blooms of the Seven Sisters are not among our beautiful Roses, but are planted by the house mistress of every Southern home from power of association, because they were loved by her grandmothers, if not by more distant forbears. The crimson Boursaults are no older. They came from the Swiss Alps and therefore are hardy, but they are fussy things, needing much pruning and pulling out. I recall that they had much longer prickles than the other roses in our garden. The beloved little Banksia Rose came from China in 1807. The Madame Plantier is a hybrid China Rose of much popularity. We have had it about seventy or eighty years. In the lovely garden of Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright, author of _Flowers and Trees in their Haunts_, I saw, this spring, a giant Madame Plantier which had over five thousand buds, and which could scarcely be equalled in beauty by any modern Roses. Its photograph gives scant idea of its size. What gratitude we have in spring to the Sweetbrier! How early in the year, from sprouting branch and curling leaf, it begins to give forth its pure odor! Gracious and lavish plant, beloved in scent by every one, you have no rival in the spring garden with its pale perfumes. The Sweetbrier and Shakespeare's Musk Rose (_Rosa moschata_) are said to be the only Roses that at evening pour forth their perfume; the others are what Bacon called "fast of their odor." The June Rose, called by many the Hedgehog Rose, was, I think, the first Rose of summer. A sturdy plant, about three feet in height; set thick with briers, it well deserved its folk name. The flowers opened into a saucer of richest carmine, as fragrant as an American Beauty, and the little circles of crimson resembling the _Rosa rugosa_ were seen in every front dooryard. [Illustration: Cinnamon Roses.] In the Walpole garden from whence came to us our beloved Ambrosia, was an ample Box-edged flower bed which my mother and the great-aunt called The Rosery. One cousin, now living, recalls with distinctness its charms in 1830; for it was beautiful, though the vast riches of the Rose-world of China and Japan had not reached it. There grew in it, he remembers, Yellow Scotch Roses, Sweetbrier (or Eglantine), Cinnamon Roses, White Scotch Roses, Damask Roses, Blush Roses, Dog Roses (the Canker-bloom of Shakespeare), Black Roses, Burgundy Roses, and Moss Roses. The last-named sensitive creatures, so difficult to rear with satisfaction in such a climate, found in this Rosery by the river-side some exact fitness of soil or surroundings, or perhaps of fostering care, which in spite of the dampness and the constant tendency of all Moss Roses to mildew, made them blossom in unrivalled perfection. I remember their successors, deplored as much inferior to the Roses of 1830, and they were the finest Moss Roses I ever saw blooming in a garden. An amusing saying of some of the village passers-by (with smaller gardens and education) showed the universal acknowledgment of the perfection of these Roses. These people thought the name was Morse Roses and always thus termed them, fancying they were named for the family for whom the flowers bloomed in such beauty and number. Among the other Roses named by my cousin I recall the White Scotch Rose, sometimes called also the Burnet-leaved Rose. It was very fragrant, and was often chosen for a Sunday posy. There were both single and double varieties. The Blush Rose (_Rosa alba_), known also as Maiden's blush, was much esteemed for its exquisite color; it could be distinguished readily by the glaucous hue of the foliage, which always looked like the leaves of artificial roses. It was easily blighted; and indeed we must acknowledge that few of the old Roses were as certain as their sturdy descendants. The Damask Rose was the only one ever used in careful families and by careful housekeepers for making rose-water. There was a Velvet Rose, darker than the Damask and low-growing, evidently the same Rose. Both showed plentiful yellow stamens in the centres, and had exquisite rich dark leaves. The old Black Rose of The Rosery was so suffused with color-principle, so "color-flushing," that even the wood had black and dark red streaks. Its petals were purple-black. The Burgundy Rose was of the Cabbage Rose family; its flowers were very small, scarce an inch in diameter. There were two varieties: the one my cousin called Little Burgundy had clear dark red blossoms; the other, white with pink centres. Both were low-growing, small bushes with small leaves. They are practically vanished Roses--wholly out of cultivation. We had other tiny roses; one was a lovely little Rose creature called a Fairy Rose. I haven't seen one for years. As I recall them, the Rose plants were never a foot in height, and had dainty little flower rosettes from a quarter to half an inch in diameter set in thick clusters. But the recalled dimensions of youth vary so when seen actually in the cold light of to-day that perhaps I am wrong in my description. This was also called a Pony Rose. This Fairy Rose was not the Polyantha which also has forty or fifty little roses in a cluster. The single Polyantha Rose looks much like its cousin, the Blackberry blossom. Another small Rose was the Garland Rose. This was deemed extremely elegant, and rightfully so. It has great corymbs of tiny white blossoms with tight little buff buds squeezing out among the open Roses. Another old favorite was the Rose of Four Seasons--known also by its French name, _Rose de Quartre Saisons_--which had occasional blooms throughout the summer. It may have been the foundation of our Hybrid Perpetual Roses. The Bourbon Roses were vastly modish; their round smooth petals and oval leaves easily distinguish them from other varieties. Among the several hundred things I have fully planned out to do, to solace my old age after I have become a "centurion," is a series of water-color drawings of all these old-time Roses, for so many of them are already scarce. The Michigan Rose which covered the arches in Mr. Seward's garden, has clusters of deep pink, single, odorless flowers, that fade out nearly white after they open. It is our only native Rose that has passed into cultivation. From it come many fine double-flowered Roses, among them the beautiful Baltimore Belle and Queen of the Prairies, which were named about 1836 by a Baltimore florist called Feast. All its vigorous and hardy descendants are scentless save the Gem of the Prairies. It is one of the ironies of plant-nomenclature when we have so few plant names saved to us from the picturesque and often musical speech of the American Indians, that the lovely Cherokee Rose, Indian of name, is a Chinese Rose. It ought to be a native, for everywhere throughout our Southern states its pure white flowers and glossy evergreen leaves love to grow till they form dense thickets. People who own fine gardens are nowadays unwilling to plant the old "Summer Roses" which bloom cheerfully in their own Rose-month and then have no more blossoming till the next year; they want a Remontant Rose, which will bloom a second time in the autumn, or a Perpetual Rose, which will give flowers from June till cut off by the frost. But these latter-named Roses are not only of fine gardens but of fine gardeners; and folk who wish the old simple flower garden which needs no highly-skilled care, still are happy in the old Summer Roses I have named. [Illustration: Cottage Garden with Roses.] A Rose hedge is the most beautiful of all garden walls and the most ancient. Professor Koch says that long before men customarily surrounded their gardens with walls, that they had Rose hedges. He tells us that each of the four great peoples of Asia owned its own beloved Rose, carried in all wanderings, until at last the four became common to all races of men. Indo-Germanic stock chose the hundred-leaved red Rose, _Rosa gallica_ (the best Rose for conserves). _Rosa damascena_, which blooms twice a year, and the Musk Rose were cherished by the Semitic people; these were preferred for attar of Roses and Rose water. The yellow Rose, _Rosa lutea_, or Persian Rose, was the flower of the Turkish Mongolian people. Eastern Asia is the fatherland of the Indian and Tea Roses. The Rose has now become as universal as sunlight. Even in Iceland and Lapland grows the lovely _Rosa nitida_. We say these Roses are common to all peoples, but we have never in America been able to grow yellow Roses in ample bloom in our gardens. Many that thrive in English gardens are unknown here. The only yellow garden Rose common in old gardens was known simply as the "old yellow Rose," or Scotch Rose, but it came from the far East. In a few localities the yellow Eglantine was seen. The picturesque old custom of paying a Rose for rent was known here. In Manheim, Pennsylvania, stands the Zion Lutheran Church, which was gathered together by Baron William Stiegel, who was the first glass and iron manufacturer of note in this country. He came to America in 1750, with a fortune which would be equal to-day to a million dollars, and founded and built and named Manheim. He was a man of deep spiritual and religious belief, and of profound sentiment, and when in 1771 he gave the land to the church, this clause was in the indenture:-- "Yielding and paying therefor unto the said Henry William Stiegel, his heirs or assigns, at the said town of Manheim, in the Month of June Yearly, forever hereafter, the rent of _One Red Rose_, if the same shall be lawfully demanded." Nothing more touching can be imagined than the fulfilment each year of this beautiful and symbolic ceremony of payment. The little town is rich in Roses, and these are gathered freely for the church service, when One Red Rose is still paid to the heirs of the sainted old baron, who died in 1778, broken in health and fortunes, even having languished in jail some time for debt. A new church was erected on the site of the old one in 1892, and in a beautiful memorial window the decoration of the Red Rose commemorates the sentiment of its benefactor. The Rose Tavern, in the neighboring town of Bethlehem, stands on land granted for the site of a tavern by William Penn, for the yearly rental of One Red Rose. In England the payment of a Rose as rent was often known. The Bishop of Ely leased Ely house in 1576 to Sir Christopher Hatton, Queen Elizabeth's handsome Lord Chancellor, for a Red Rose to be paid on Midsummer Day, ten loads of hay and ten pounds per annum, and he and his Episcopal successors reserved the right of walking in the gardens and gathering twenty bushels of Roses yearly. In France there was a feudal right to demand a payment of Roses for the making of Rose water. Two of our great historians, George Bancroft and Francis Parkman, were great rose-growers and rose-lovers. I never saw Mr. Parkman's Rose Garden, but I remember Mr. Bancroft's well; the Tea Roses were especially beautiful. Mr. Bancroft's Rose Garden in its earliest days had no rivals in America. The making of potpourri was common in my childhood. While the petals of the Cabbage Rose were preferred, all were used. Recipes for making potpourri exist in great number; I have seen several in manuscript in old recipe books, one dated 1690. The old ones are much simpler than the modern ones, and have no strong spices such as cinnamon and clove, and no bergamot or mints or strongly scented essences or leaves. The best rules gave ambergris as one of the ingredients; this is not really a perfume, but gives the potpourri its staying power. There is something very pleasant in opening an old China jar to find it filled with potpourri, even if the scent has wholly faded. It tells a story of a day when people had time for such things. I read in a letter a century and a half old of a happy group of people riding out to the house of the provincial governor of New York; all gathered Rose leaves in the governor's garden, and the governor's wife started the distilling of these Rose leaves, in her new still, into Rose water, while all drank syllabubs and junkets--a pretty Watteau-ish scene. The hips of wild Roses are a harvest--one unused in America in modern days, but in olden times they were stewed with sugar and spices, as were other fruits. Sauce Saracen, or Sarzyn, was made of Rose hips and Almonds pounded together, cooked in wine and sweetened. I believe they are still cooked by some folks in England, but I never heard of their use in America save by one person, an elderly Irish woman on a farm in Narragansett. Plentiful are the references and rules in old cookbooks for cooking Rose hips. Parkinson says: "Hippes are made into a conserve, also a paste like licoris. Cooks and their Mistresses know how to prepare from them many fine dishes for the Table." Gerarde writes characteristically of the Sweetbrier, "The fruit when it is ripe maketh most pleasant meats and banqueting dishes, as tarts and such-like; the making whereof I commit to the cunning cooke, and teeth to eat them in the rich man's mouth." Children have ever nibbled Rose hips:-- "I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws-- Hard fare, but such as boyish appetite Disdains not." The Rose bush furnished another comestible for the children's larder, the red succulent shoots of common garden and wild Roses. These were known by the dainty name of "brier candy," a name appropriate and characteristic, as the folk-names devised by children frequently are. [Illustration: Madame Plantier Rose.] On the post-road in southern New Hampshire stands an old house, which according to its license was once "improved" as a tavern, and was famous for its ghost and its Roses. The tavern was owned by a family of two brothers and two sisters, all unmarried, as was rather a habit in the Mason family; though when any of the tribe did marry, a vast throng of children quickly sprung up to propagate the name and sturdy qualities of the race. The men were giants, and both men and women were hard-working folk of vast endurance and great thrift, and, like all of that ilk in New England, they prospered and grew well-to-do; great barns and out-buildings, all well filled, stretched down along the roadside below the house. Joseph Mason could lay more feet of stone wall in a day, could plough more land, chop down more trees, pull more stumps, than any other man in New Hampshire. His sisters could bake and brew, make soap, weed the garden, spin and weave, unceasingly and untiringly. Their garden was a source of purest pleasure to them, as well as of hard work; its borders were so stocked with medicinal herbs that it could supply a township; and its old-time flowers furnished seeds and slips and bulbs to every other garden within a day's driving distance; but its glory was a garden side to gladden the heart of Omar Khayyam, where two or three acres of ground were grown over heavily with old-fashioned Roses. These were only the common Cinnamon Rose, the beloved Cabbage Rose, and a pale pink, spicily scented, large-petalled, scarcely double Rose, known to them as the Apothecaries' Rose. Farmer-neighbors wondered at this waste of the Masons' good land in this unprofitable Rose crop, but it had a certain use. There came every June to this Rose garden all the children of the vicinity, bearing milk-pails, homespun bags, birch baskets, to gather Rose petals. They nearly all had Roses at their homes, but not the Mason Roses. These Rose leaves were carried carefully to each home, and were packed in stone jars with alternate layers of brown or scant maple sugar. Soon all conglomerated into a gummy, brown, close-grained, not over alluring substance to the vision, which was known among the children by the unromantic name of "Rose tobacco." This cloying confection was in high repute. It was chipped off and eaten in tiny bits, and much treasured--as a love token, or reward of good behavior. The Mason house was a tavern. It was not one of the regular stopping-places on the turnpike road, being rather too near the town to gather any travel of teamsters or coaches; but passers-by who knew the house and the Masons loved to stop there. Everything in the well-kept, well-filled house and barns contributed to the comfort of guests, and it was known that the Masons cared more for the company of the traveller than for his pay. There was a shadow on this house. The youngest of the family, Hannah, had been jilted in her youth, "shabbed" as said the country folks. After several years of "constant company-keeping" with the son of a neighbor, during which time many a linen sheet and tablecloth, many a fine blanket, had been spun and woven, and laid aside with the tacit understanding that it was part of her wedding outfit, the man had fallen suddenly and violently in love with a girl who came from a neighboring town to sing a single Sunday in the church choir. He had driven to her home the following week, carried her off to a parson in a third town, married her, and brought her to his home in a triumph of enthusiasm and romance, which quickly fled before the open dislike and reprehension of his upright neighbors, who abhorred his fickleness, and before the years of ill health and ill temper of the hard-worked, faded wife. Many children were born to them; two lived, sickly little souls, who, unconscious of the blemish on their parents' past, came with the other children every June, and gathered Rose leaves under Hannah Mason's window. Hannah Mason was called crazy. After her desertion she never entered any door save that of her own home, never went to a neighbor's house either in time of joy or sorrow; queerer still, never went to church. All her life, her thoughts, her vast strength, went into hard work. No labor was too heavy or too formidable for her. She would hetchel flax for weeks, spin unceasingly, and weave on a hand loom, most wearing of women's work, without thought of rest. No single household could supply work for such an untiring machine, especially when all labored industriously--so work was brought to her from the neighbors. Not a wedding outfit for miles around was complete without one of Hannah Mason's fine tablecloths. Every corpse was buried in one of her linen shrouds. Sailmakers and boat-owners in Portsmouth sent up to her for strong duck for their sails. Lads went up to Dartmouth College in suits of her homespun. Many a teamster on the road slept under Hannah Mason's heavy gray woollen blankets, and his wagon tilts were covered with her canvas. Her bank account grew rapidly--she became rich as fast as her old lover became poor. But all this cast a shadow on the house. Sojourners would waken and hear throughout the night some steady sound, a scratching of the cards, a whirring of the spinning-wheel, the thump-thump of the loom. Some said she never slept, and could well grow rich when she worked all night. [Illustration: Sun-dial and Roses at Van Cortlandt Manor.] At last the woman who had stolen her lover--the poor, sickly wife--died. The widower, burdened hopelessly with debts, of course put up in her memory a fine headstone extolling her virtues. One wakeful night, with a sentiment often found in such natures, he went to the graveyard to view his proud but unpaid-for possession. The grass deadened his footsteps, and not till he reached the grave did there rise up from the ground a tall, ghostly figure dressed all in undyed gray wool of her own weaving. It was Hannah Mason. "Hannah," whimpered the widower, trying to take her hand,--with equal thought of her long bank account and his unpaid-for headstone,--"I never really loved any one but you." She broke away from him with an indescribable gesture of contempt and dignity, and went home. She died suddenly four days later of pneumonia, either from the shock or the damp midnight chill of the graveyard. As months passed on travellers still came to the tavern, and the story began to be whispered from one to another that the house was haunted by the ghost of Hannah Mason. Strange sounds were heard at night from the garret where she had always worked; most plainly of all could be heard the whirring of her great wool wheel. When this rumor reached the brothers' ears, they determined to investigate the story and end it forever. That night their vigil began, and soon the sound of the wheel was heard. They entered the garret, and to their surprise found the wheel spinning round. Then Joseph Mason went to the garret and seated himself for closer and more determined watch. He sat in the dark till the wheel began to revolve, then struck a sudden light and found the ghost. A great rat had run out on the spoke of the wheel and when he reached the broad rim had started a treadmill of his own--which made the ghostly sound as it whirred around. Soon this rat grew so tame that he would come out on the spinning-wheel in the daytime, and several others were seen to run around in the wheel as if it were a pleasant recreation. The old brick house still stands with its great grove of Sugar Maples, but it is silent, for the Masons all sleep in the graveyard behind the church high up on the hillside; no travellers stop within the doors, the ghost rats are dead, the spinning-wheel is gone, but the garden still blossoms with eternal youth. Though children no longer gather rose leaves for Rose tobacco, the "Roses of Yesterday" bloom every year; and each June morn, "a thousand blossoms with the day awake," and fling their spicy fragrance on the air. Index Abbotsford, Ivy from, 62; sun-dial from, 219, 377. Achillæa, 238. Aconite, 266. Acrelius, Dr., quoted, 208. Adam's Needle. _See_ Yucca. Adlumia, 183. Agapanthus, 52. Ageratum, as edging, 60, 264. Ague-weed, 146. Akers, Elizabeth, quoted, 152. Alcott, A. B., cited, 120. Alka, 359. Alleghany Vine. _See_ Adlumia. Allen, James Lane, quoted, 195. Almond, flowering, 39, 41, 159. Aloe, 429. Alpine Strawberries, 62. Alstroemeria, 438. Alyssum, sweet, 59-60, 179; yellow, 137. Ambrosia, 48, 235 _et seq._ _Anemone japonica_, 67, 187. Annunzio, G. d', quoted, 94. Apple betty, 211. Apple butter, 212-213. Apple frolic, 211 _et seq._ Apple hoglin, 211. Apple-luns, 209. Apple mose, 209. Apple moy, 209. Apple paring, 207. Apple pie, 208. Apple sauce, 213. Apple slump, 211. Apple stucklin, 211. Apple tansy, 209. Aquilegia, 260. Arabis, 47. Arbors, 384. Arbutus, trailing, 166, 291, 299. Arches, 384, 387, 418. Arch-herbs, 384. Arethusa, 247 _et seq._, 295, 299 _et seq._ Arlington, pergola at, 385. Arnold, Matthew, quoted, 225, 226. Ascott, sun-dial at, 98. Asters, 179, 180. Athol porridge, 393. Azalea, 16. Baby's Breath, 257. Bachelor's Buttons, 52, 176, 265, 291. Back-yard, flowers in, 154. Bacon-and-eggs, 138. Bacon, Lord, cited, 44-45, 55, 56, 144. Balloon Flower. _See_ _Platycodon grandiflorum_. Balloon Vine, 183-184. Balsams, 257. Baltimore Belle Rose, 468. Bancroft, George, Rose Garden of, 471. Banksia Rose, 463. Bare-dames, 17. Barney, Major, landscape art of, 101. Bartram, John, 12. Basil, sweet, 121 _et seq._ Battle of Princeton, 78. Batty Langley, cited, 383. Bayberry, 302. Beata Beatrix, 380. Beaver-tongue, 347-348. Beech, weeping, 231. Bee-hives, 354, 391 _et seq._ Beekman, James, greenhouse of, 19. Bee Larkspur, 265, 268. Bell-bind, 181, 182. Bell Flower, Chinese or Japanese. _See_ _Platycodon grandiflorum_. Belvoir Castle, Lunaria at, 171-172. Bergamot, 166. Bergen Homestead, garden of, 23. Berkeley, Bishop, Apple trees of, 194-195. Bitter Buttons. _See_ Tansy. Bitter-sweet, 25, 238. Black Cohosh, 423-424. Black Roses, 466. Bleeding-heart. _See_ Dielytra. Blind, herb-garden for, 131. Bloodroot, 154, 457. Bluebottles, 265. Blue-eyed Grass, 278-279. Blue-pipe tree, 144. Blue Roses, 253. Blue Sage, 264. Blue Spider-flower, 435. Bluetops, 265. Bluets, 260. Blue-weed. _See_ Viper's Bugloss. Blush Roses, 466. Bocconia. _See_ Plume Poppy. Boneset, 145 _et seq._ Bosquets, 387. Botrys. _See_ Ambrosia. Boulder, sun-dial mounted on, 377. Bouncing Bet, 52, 450. Bourbon Roses, 467. Boursault Roses, 48, 463. Bowers, 385. Bowling greens, 240. Bowne, Eliza Southgate, diary of, 31. Box. _See_ Chapter IV.; also 29, 47, 48, 54, 59, 71, 80, 112, 338. Break-your-spectacles, 265. Brecknock Hall, Box at, 103-104. Bricks for edging, 59, 71; for walls, 71-72, 412 _et seq._ Brier candy, 473. British soldiers, graves of, 77 _et seq._ Broom. _See_ Woad-waxen. Broughton Castle, Box sun-dial at, 97, 98. Brown, Dr. John, cited, 103. Browne, Sir Thomas, quoted, 306. Brunelle. _See_ Prunella. Buck-thorn, 387, 407. Bulbs, 157. Burgundy Roses, 465, 466, 467. Burnet, 305. Burnet-leaved Rose, 466. Burroughs, J., quoted, 195, 451-452. Burying-grounds, Box in, 94; Dogwood in, 155; Thyme in, 303; Spurge in, 434. Butter-and-eggs. _See_ Toad-flax. Buttercups, 166, 291, 294. Cabbage Rose, 297, 320, 459, 460, 471. Calceolarias, 179. Calopogon, 247. Calycanthus, 297. Cambridge University, sun-dial at, 97. Camden, South Carolina, gardens at, 15. Camellia Japonica, 16. Camomile, 192. Campanula, 52, 262. Candy-tuft, as edging, 59. Canker-bloom, 465. Canterbury Bells, 34, 162, 262, 333 _et seq._ Caraway, 341, 342. Carnation, green, 239. Catalpas, 26, 31, 293. Cat-ice, 453. Catnip, 315. Cat road, 452. Cat's-fancy, 315. Cat-slides, 453. Cat-sticks, 453. Cedar hedges, 387. Cedar of Lebanon, 29. Centaurea Cyanus. _See_ Bachelor's Buttons. Cerinthe. _See_ Honeywort. Charles I. sun-dials of, 357. Charles II. sun-dials of, 357. Charlottesville, Virginia, wall at, 414. Charmilles, 387. Chaucer, Geoffrey, quoted, flowers of, 215. Checkerberry, 345. Checker lily. _See_ Fritillaria. Chenopodium Botrys. _See_ Ambrosia. Cherokee Rose, 468. Cherry blossoms, 158, 193, 197. Cheshire, Connecticut, Apple tree in, 194. Chicory, 266 _et seq._ Chinese Bell Flower. _See_ _Platycodon grandiflorum_. Chionodoxa, 137. Chore-girl, 393. Christalan, statue of, 84, 85. Chrysanthemums, 179. Cider, manufacture of, 202 _et seq._ Cider soup, 212. Cinnamon Fern, 332. Cinnamon Roses, 463, 465. Civet, 317. Clair-voyées, 389. Clare, John, quoted, 227, 309. Claymont, Virginia, garden at, 181, 182. Claytonia, 294. Clematis, Jackmanni, 182. Clove apple, 210. Clover, 165. Clover, Italian, 241. Codlins and Cream, 138. Cohosh. _See_ Snakeroot. Colchicum, 455. Columbia, South Carolina, gardens at, 15. Columbine, 260, 424-425. Comfort Apple, 210. Concord, Massachusetts, British dead at, 78; Sunday observance in, 345 _et seq._ Cooper, Susan, quoted, 289. Corchorus, 190. Cornel, 332. Cornelian Rose, 17. Cornuti, Dr., list of plants, 10. Corydalis, 154. Costmary, 347-348. Covert walks, 59. Cowslips, 294. Cowslip mead, 393. Crab Apple trees, 192. Craigie House, 141. Crape Myrtle, 16, 71. Creeping Jenny, 60. Crocus, 136. Crown Imperial, 40; _loquitur_, 322 _et seq._ Culpepper, N., cited, 349. Cupid's Car, 266. Currant, flowering, 298. Cyanus, 33. Cyclamens, 448. Cylindres, 355. Cypress, 406. Daffodil Dell, 84. Daffodils, 137 _et seq._; 318. Dahlias, 176 _et seq._ Daisies, 165. Damask Roses, 462, 465, 466. Dames' Rocket, 422. Dandelion, 117, 135, 154-155, 330. Dante's Garden, 228. Deland, Margaret, quoted, 64, 229, 267, 429. Delphinum. _See_ Larkspur. Derby family, gardens of, 30-31. Deutzias, 189. Devil-in-a-bush, 435. Devil's-bit, 289. Dialling, taught, 372. Dicentra. _See_ Dielytra. Dickens, Charles, sun-dial of, 376. Dickinson, Emily, quoted, 341, 417. Dielytra, 185 _et seq._ Dill, 5, 341-343. Dodocatheon, 448. Dog Roses, 465. Dogtooth Violet, 434, 437. Dogwood, 155. Double Buttercups, 176. Double flowers, 425. Douglas, Gavin, quoted, 257. Dovecotes in England, 394; at Shirley-on-James, 394 _et seq._ Draytons, garden of, 16. Drumthwacket, garden at, 76 _et seq._ Drying Apples, 207. Dudgeon, 99-100. Dutch gardens, 19, 20 _et seq._, 71 _et seq._ Dutchman's Pipe, 184. Dumbledore's Delight, 266. Dyer's Weed. _See_ Woad-waxen. Egyptians, sun-dials of, 359. Elder, 304. Election Day, lilacs bloom on, 148. Elijah's Chariot, 271. Ely Place, rental of, 471. Emerson, R. W., quoted, 138, 376. Endicott, Governor, garden of, 3; nursery of, 24; bequest of Woad-waxen, 24, 25; sun-dial of, 358. Erasmus quoted, 109. Evening Primrose, 10, 428, 429. Everlasting Pea, 427. Fairbanks, Jonathan, sun-dial of, 344, 358. Fairies, charm to see, 304. Fair-in-sight, 334. Fairy Roses, 467. Fairy Thimbles, 337. Faneuil, Andrew, glass house of, 19. Fennel, 5, 341 _et seq._ Fitchburg, Massachusetts, garden at jail, 101, 102. Fitzgerald, Edward, quoted, 316, 330. Flag, sweet, striped, 438; blue, 278. Flagroot, 343 _et seq._ Flax, 262. Flower closes, 240. Flower de Luce, 257 _et seq._ Flowering Currant, 64. Flower-of-death, 441. Flower-of-prosperity, 42. Flower toys, 156. Flushing, Long Island, nurseries at, 26; _et seq._, 156, 230 _et seq._ Fore court, 40. Forget-me-not, 265. Formal garden, 78 _et seq._ Forsythia, 133, 189, 190. Forth rights, 58. Fortune, Robert, 187 _et seq._ Fountains, 69, 85-86, 380, 389. Fox, George, bequest of, 11; at Sylvester Manor, 105. Foxgloves, 162, 427. Frankland, Sir Henry, 29. Franklin cent, 365. Fraxinella, 432. Fringed Gentian, 265, 273, 294. Fritillaria, 81, 165, 446 _et seq._ Fuchsias, 52, 331. Fugio bank note, 364, 365. Fumitory, Climbing, 183. Funerals, in front yard, 51; Tansy at, 128 _et seq._ Funkias, 70. Gardener's Garters, 438. Garden Heliotrope, 313. Garden of Sentiment, 110. Garden Pink. _See_ Pinks. Garden, Significance of name, 280. Garden-viewing, 338. Gardiner, Grissel, 104. Garland of Julia, 323. Garland Roses, 467. Garrets with herbs, 115. Garth, 39. Gas-plant. _See_ Fraxinella. Gate of Yaddo, 81, 82; at Westover-on-James, 388, 389; at Bristol, Rhode Island, 389. Gatherer of simples, 118. Gaultheria, 118. Gem of the Prairies Rose, 468. Genista tinctoria. _See_ Woad-waxen. Geraniums, 244. Germander, 59. Germantown, Pennsylvania, gardens at, 11, 12; sun-dial at, 371 _et seq._ Ghosts in gardens, 431. Gilly flowers, 5. Ginger, Wild, 343. _Girls' Life Eighty Years Ago_, 31. Glory-of-the-snow, 137. Gnomon of sun-dial, 379 _et seq._ Goethe, cited, 431. Goncourt, Edmond de, quoted, 248, 249. Gooseberries, 338, 339 _et seq._ Goosefoot, 59. Gorse, 221, 222. Grace Church Rectory, sun-dial of, 364, 374. Grafting, 391. Grape Hyacinth, 255 _et seq._ Graveyard Ground-pine, 434. Green apples, 200 _et seq._ Green, color, 138, 233 _et seq._ Green galleries, 385. Greenhouse, of James Beekman, 19; of T. Hardenbrook, 19. Ground Myrtle, 439. Groundsel, 292. Guinea-hen flower, 447. Gypsophila, 175. Hair-dye, of Box, 99. Hampton Court, Box at, 94. Hampton, garden at, 14, 58, 60, 95, 101. Hancock garden, 30. Hawdods, 265. Hawthorn, 292, 300. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, quoted, 153, 299. Headaches, 309. Heart pea, 184. Heather, 221, 222. Hedgehog Roses, 464. Hedgerows, 399 _et seq._, 403 _et seq._ Hedges, of Box, 99; of Lilac, 143-144, 406; of Privet, 406, 408; of Locust, 406. Heliotrope, scent of, 319. Hermerocallis. _See_ Lemon Lily. Hemlock hedges, 406. Henbane, 434. Hepatica, 259. Herbaceous border, 113 _et seq._ Herber, 113, 384. Herbert, George, quoted, 114. Herb twopence, 61. Hermits, 245. Herrick, flowers of, 216. Hesperis, 421-422. Hiccough, 342. Higginson, T. W., quoted, 74. Hips of Roses, 472. Holly, 406. Holmes, Oliver Wendell, quoted, 91, 139-140, 226, 268, 301, 313. Hollyhocks, 5, 6, 33, 52, 332 _et seq._, 336. Honesty. _See_ Lunaria. Honeyblob gooseberries, 338. Honey, from Thyme, 303; in drinks, 393. Honeysuckle, 182, 332, 450. Honeywort, 33, 442. Hood, quoted, 228-229. Hopewell, Lilacs at, 148. Houstonia, 260. Howitt Garden, 223. Howitt, Mary, quoted, 326, 330, 345. Humming-birds, 243. Hundred-leaved Rose, 460, 469. Hutchinson, Governor, garden of, 54. Hyacinths, 257. Hydrangea, 182; blue, 260; at Capetown, 261. Hyssop, 54. Iberis. _See_ Candy-tuft. Independence Trees. _See_ Catalpa. Indian Hill, 144, 415 _et seq._ Indian Pipe, 455. Indian plant names, 293 _et seq._ Innocence. _See_ Houstonia. Iris, 427. _See_ also Flower de Luce. Italian gardens, 75 _et seq._ Jack-in-the-pulpit, 154. Jacob's Ladder, 265. James I., quoted, 62. Japan, flowers from, 40, 67, 157, 158, 406. Jenoffelins, 17. Jewett, S. O., quoted, 38, 49. Joepye-weed, 145 _et seq._ Johnson, Dr. Samuel, dial motto of, 219. Jonquils, 318. Joseph and Mary, 437, 438. Josselyn, John, quoted, 4 _et seq._, 8. Joy-of-the-ground, 441. Judas tree, 158. June Roses, 464. Kalendars, 355. Kalm, cited, 128, 203, 408. Karr, Alphonse, quoted, 272, 302, 453, 454. Katherine flowers, 435. Keats, cited, 223 _et seq._ Kiskatomas nut, 294. Kiss-me-at-the-garden-gate, 135. Kitchen door, 69. Knots, described, 54 _et seq._ Labels, 217. Labrador Indians, sun-dials of, 359. Laburnum, 168, 169, 231. Ladies' Delights, 48, 133 _et seq._ Lad's Love. _See_ Southernwood. Lady's Slipper, 293. Lafayette, influence of, 241; dial of, 357. Lamb, Charles quoted, 360. Landor, Walter Savage, quoted, 140, 362-363, 415, 420. Larch, 300. Larkspur, 33, 162, 267 _et seq._ Latin names, 291. Lavender, 5, 33, 121. Lavender Cotton, 5, 61. Lawns, 53, 240. Lawson, William, quoted, 56. Lebanon, Cedar of, 29. Lemon Lily, 45, 80. Lennox, Lady, Box sun-dial of, 97-98. Leucojum, 234-235. Lilacs, at Hopkinton, 29, also 140-153, 318 _et seq._, 406. Lilies, 180. Linen, drying of, 99; bleaching of, 99. Linnæus, classification of, 282; horologe of, 381-382; discovery of daughter of, 431 _et seq._ Liricon-fancy, 45. Little Burgundy Rose, 467. Live-forever. _See_ Orpine. Live Oaks, 16. Lobelia, 33, 271-272. Loch, 259. Locust, as house friend, 22-23; blossoms sold, 155; on Long Island, 156; in Narragansett, 401 _et seq._; in a hedge, 406-407. Loggerheads, 265. Lombardy Poplars, 27. London Pride, 45, 443. Longfellow, quoted, 141; garden of, 102, 431. Lotus, 74. Lovage-root, 343. Love divination, with Lilacs, 150; with Apples, 205 _et seq._; with Southernwood, 349. Love-in-a-huddle, 435. Love-in-a-mist, 435. Love lies bleeding, 287. Love philtres, 118 _et seq._ Lowell, J. R., quoted, 48-49, 89, 227, 277. Luck-lilac, 150. Lunaria, 5, 33, 170 _et seq._ Lungwort, 437-438. Lupines, 33, 163, 253, 275 _et seq._ Lychnis. _See_ Mullein Pink; also London Pride. Lyre flower. _See_ Dielytra. Lyres, 385, 386. Madame Plantier Rose, 71, 463, 464. Magnolia-on-the-Ashley, gardens at, 16. Magnolias, 26, 71, 155-156. Maiden's Blush Roses, 466. Maize, 293-294. Maltese Cross, 443. Manheim, Rose for rent in, 470. Maple, only Celtic plant name, 292. Marigolds, 33, 52, 315 _et seq._ Maritoffles, 17. Markham, Gervayse, cited, 40, 54, 115. Marsh Mallow, 434. Marsh Marigold, 294. Marvell, Andrew, quoted, 231, 239, 381. Mather, Cotton, quoted, 337, 342. Matrimony Vine, 185, 449-450. Mayflower, 166, 291, 299. Maze, described, 54-55; in America, 55; at Sylvester Manor, 106. Meadow Rue, 175-176. Meet-her-in-the-entry, Kiss-her-in-the-buttery, 135. Meeting-plant, 348. Meet-me-at-the-garden-gate, 135. Meredith, Owen, quoted, 166. Meresteads, 3. Meridian lines, 355. Mertensia, 438. Michigan Roses, 62, 468. Mignonette, scent of, 319. Milkweed silk, 328, 331. Mills, for cider-making, 203. Minnow-tansy, 127. Mint family, 117-264. Miskodeed, 294. Missionary plant, 25. Mitchell, Dr., disinterment of, 129 _et seq._ Mithridate, 123. Moccasin flower, 293. Mole cider, 212. Molucca Balm, 436-437. Money-in-both-pockets, 170 _et seq._ Moneywort, 60-61. Monkshood, 266, 329, 433. Moon vine, 430-431. Moosewood, 452 _et seq._ Morning-glory, 181-182. Morristown, sun-dial at, 359, 374. Morris, William, quoted, 240, 425. Morse, S. B. F., lines on sun-dial motto, 363. Mosquitoes, 74. Moss Roses, 345, 465, 466. Mottoes on sun-dials, 88, 360, _et seq._ Mountain Fringe. _See_ Adlumia. Mount Atlas Cedar, 29. Mount Auburn Cemetery, sun-dial at, 373. Mount Vernon, garden at, 11-12; sun-dial at, 369. Mourning Bride, 297, 339 _et seq._ Mulberries, 27. Mullein Pink, 174. Musk Roses, 464, 469. Names, old English, 284 _et seq._ Naked Boys, 455. Napanock, garden at, 69-70. Naushon, Gorse on, 222; sun-dial at, 374. Nemophila, 315. New Amsterdam, flowers of, 17-18. _New England's Prospect_, 3. New England's Rarities, 5. Nicotiana, 423. Nigella, 33, 434, 435. Night-scented Stock, 421-422. Nightshade, 448. Night Violets, 422. Noon-marks, 355. None-so-pretty, 135. Oak of Jerusalem. _See_ Ambrosia. Obesity, cure for, 122. Old Man. _See_ Southernwood. Oleanders, 52, 329-330. Olitory, 113. Open knots, 57-58. Ophir Farm, sun-dial at, 376 _et seq._ Opyn-tide, meaning of, 143. Orange Lily, 50. Orchard seats, 192. Orpine, 444-445. Orris-root, 259. Osage Orange, 69, 406. Ostrowskia, 262. "Out-Landish Flowers," 58. Oxeye Daisies, introduction to America, 25. Oxford, sun-dial at, 97. Pansies, 134, 318. Pappoose-root, 293. Parkman, Francis, Rose Garden of, 471. Parley, Peter, quoted, 343. Parsons, T. W., on Lilacs, 153. Parterre, 58 _et seq._ Pastorius, Father, 11. Patagonian Mint, 347-348. Patience, 6. Paulownias, 29. Peach blossoms, 158. Peacocks, 395 _et seq._ Pear blossoms, scent of, 318. Pedestals for sun-dials, 374 _et seq._ Pennsylvania, sun-dials in, 370 _et seq._ Penn, William, encouraged gardens, 11. Peony, 42 _et seq._ Peppermint, as medicine, 118. Pergolas, 82-83, 385 _et seq._ Peristyle, 389. Periwinkle, 62, 439 _et seq._ Perpetual Roses, 468. Persians, colors of, 253; plant names of, 292; flower love of, 462. Persian Lilac, 152. Persian Yellow Rose, 320, 469. Peter's Wreath, 41-42. Petunias, 179, 423. Phlox, 40, 45, 162, 423. Piazzas, 388-389. Pig-nuts, 332. _Pilgrim's Progress_, quotations from, 201. Pinckney, E. L., floriculture by, 14. Pine at Yaddo, 90. Pink-of-my-Joan, 135. Pinks, as edgings, 34, 47, 61, 292, 422-423. Pippins, 345. Plane trees in Pliny's garden, 97. Plantain, 197, 443-444. Plant-of-twenty-days, 42. _Platycodon grandiflorum_, 262. Playhouse Apple tree, 199. Pliny, quoted, 342, 349; gardens of, 96-97. Plum blossoms, 157-158. Plume Poppy, 175 _et seq._ Plymouth, Massachusetts, early gardens at, 3. Poet's Narcissus, 318. Pogonia, 247. Poison Ivy, 403. Polling, of trees, 387. Polyantha Rose, 467. Polyanthus, as edging, 62. Pomander, 212. Pomatum, 209-210. Pompeii, standards at, 87 _et seq._ Pond Lily, 345. Pony Roses, 467. Poppies, 163-164, 243-244, 309 _et seq._, 431. Pops, 337. Portable dials, 356-357. Portulaca, 178-179. Potatoes, planted by Raleigh, 230. Potocka, Countess, quoted, 327. Pot-pourri, 471. Preston Garden, 15-16, 18, 24, 101. Prick-song plant. _See_ Lunaria. Primprint. _See_ Privet. Prince Nurseries, 26 _et seq._, 230. Privet, 54, 317, 406, 408. Provence Roses, 459. Prunella, 264-265. Prygmen, 99. Pudding, 304. Pulmonaria, 437-438. Pumps, old, 67-68. Pussy Willows, 155, 247. Puzzle-love, 435. Pyrethrum, 242. _Quabbin_, 419. Queen Anne, hatred of Box, 94. Queen's Maries, bower of, 103. Queen of the Prairies Rose, 468. Quincy, Josiah, 407. Ragged Robin, 291. Ragged Sailors, 265. Rail fences, 399 _et seq._ Railings, 62. Raleigh, Sir Walter, garden of, 230. Rapin, René, quoted, 94, 323; on gardens, 227. Red, influence of, 251. Remontant Roses, 468. Rent, of a Rose, 469 _et seq._ _Rescue of an Old Place_, cited, 103, 290. Rhodes, Cecil, garden of, 261. Rhododendrons, 42, 182, 244, 245. Ridgely Garden, 57, 60, 95, 101. Ring dials, 356. Rock Cress. _See_ Arabis. Rocket. _See_ Dames' Rocket. Rose Acacia, 185, 406. Rose Campion, 33, 174, 175. Rose Garden, at Yaddo, 81 _et seq._ Rosemary, 5, 55, 59, 110. Rose of Four Seasons, 467. Rose of Plymouth, 295. Rose Tavern, 470. Rose tobacco, 475. Rose-water, 472. Rossetti, D. G., picture by, 380; quoted, 380. Roxbury Waxwork. _See_ Bittersweet. Rue, 5, 110, 123 _et seq_, 434. Ruskin, John, quoted, 243, 283, 255, 279, 309. Sabbatia, 295. Saffron-tea, 118. Sage, 125 _et seq._ Sag Harbor, sun-dial at, 362. Salpiglossis, 262. Salt Box House, 128. Sand, in parterres, 56, 58. Santolina. _See_ Lavender Cotton. Sapson Apples, 201-202. Sassafras, 343. Satin-flower, 170 _et seq._ Sauce Saracen, 472. Scarlet Lightning, 443. Scilla, 255. Scotch Roses, 48, 464, 469. Scott, Sir Walter, sun-dial of, 219, 377. Scythes, 391. Seeds, sale of, 32 _et seq._ Serpentine Walls, 414. Setwall. _See_ Valerian. Seven Sisters, 435. Seven Sisters Rose, 463. Shade alleys, 59. Shaded Walks, 64. Shakespeare Border, 217 _et seq._ Sheep bones, as edgings, 57-58. Shelley, Garden, 223. Shell flower, 436-437. Shirley Poppies, 255, 312. Simples, 115. Skepes, 354, 391 _et seq._ Slugs, in Box, 95. Smithsonian Institution, sun-dials in, 357-358. Snakeroot, 423-424. Snapdragons, 33, 175. Snowballs, 71. Snowberry, 169. Snowdrops, 234. Snow in Summer, 47. Snow Pink. _See_ Pinks. Soldier and his Wife, 438. Sops-o'-wine. _See_ Sapson. Sorrel, 6, 240, 332. South Carolina, gardens of, 14. Southernwood, 5, 341, 348 _et seq._ Southey, Robert, quoted, 266. Spenser, Edmund, quoted, 54; flowers of, 215, 284. Spider-flower. _See_ Love-in-a-mist. Spiders in medicine, 303, 343. Spiderwort, 435-436. Spiræas, 189. Spitfire Plant. _See_ Fraxinella. Spring Beauty, 294. Spring Snowflake, 234, 235. Spruce gum, 332. Spurge, Cypress, 434 _et seq._ Squirrel Cups, 260. Squirt, for water, 390. Star of Bethlehem, 34, 235. Star Pink. _See_ Pink. Statues in garden, 85, 389. Stockton, Richard, letter of, 30-31. Stones, for edging, 58. Stonecrop, 135. Stone walls, 399 _et seq._ Strawberry Bush. _See_ Calycanthus. Striped Grass, 438-439. Striped Lily, 61. Stuyvesant, Peter, garden of, 18-19. Succory. _See_ Chicory. Summer-houses, 392. Summer Roses, 468. Summer savory, 124. Summer-sots, 17. Sun-dials of Box, 62, 80, 87, 88, 97 _et seq._ Sun-flowers, 178, 287. Sunken gardens, 72-73. Sunshine Bush, 189. Swan River Daisy, 263, 264. Sweet Alyssum. _See_ Alyssum. Sweet Brier, 6, 25, 48, 302, 464, 465. Sweet Fern, 2. Sweet Flag, 343. Sweet Johns, 285. Sweet Marjoram, 124. Sweet Peas, 33, 178, 224. Sweet Rocket, 34. Sweet Shrub. _See_ Calycanthus. Sweet Williams, 34, 162, 285 _et seq._ Sylvester Manor, gardens at, 104 _et seq._ Syringas, 71. Tansy, 6, 126 _et seq._ Tansy bitters, 128. Tansy cakes, 128. Tasmania, Thistles in, 26. Tea Roses, 320, 469. Telling the bees, 393. Temperance Reform, 204. Tennyson, on blue, 266; on white, 420-421. Thaxter, Celia, cited, 311. Thistles, in Tasmania, 26. Thomas, Edith, quoted, 229. Thoreau, H. D., quoted, 148, 197, 198, 199, 275, 276, 345, 346, 417. Thoroughwort, 145 _et seq._ Thrift, sun-dials in, 97; as edging, 61-62. Thyme, 34, 60, 302 _et seq._ Tiger Lilies, 45, 162. Toad-flax, 450 _et seq._ Tobacco. _See_ Nicotiana. Tongue-plant, 347-348. Topiary work in England, 408; at Wellesley, 409 _et seq._; in California, 412. Tradescantia. _See_ Spiderwort. Trailing Arbutus, 299. Traveller's Rest, sun-dial at, 350, 370. Tree arbors, 199, 384-385. Tree Peony. _See_ Peony. Trillium, 154, 457, 458. Trumpet vine, 449-450. Tuckahoe, Box at, 102, 105. Tudor gardens, 55. Tudor Place, garden at, 103. Tulips, 18, 138, 168. Turner, cited, 61, 236. Tusser, Thomas, quoted, 115. Twopenny Grass, 61. Valerian, 34, 313 _et seq._ Van Cortlandt Manor, garden at, 20 _et seq._ Van Cortlandt, Pierre, 21. Vancouver's Island, 26. Van der Donck, Adrian, quoted, 17-18. Velvet Roses, 466. Vendue, 50-51. Venus' Navelwort, 33, 441-442. Versailles, Box at, 97. Victoria Regia, 74-75. Vinca. _See_ Periwinkle. Viola tricolor, 134. Violets, edgings of, 71; in backyard, 154; gallant grace of, 166; scent of, 259, 317-318. Viper's Bugloss, 273-274. Virginia Allspice. _See_ Calycanthus. Virginia, sun-dials in, 369-370; Rose-bowers in, 385; lyres in, 385. Virgin's Bower. _See_ Adlumia. Wake Robin. _See_ Trillium. Walden Pond, 198, 345. Walpole, New Hampshire, garden in, 237 _et seq._, 464 _et seq._ Walton, Izaak, 127. Wandis, 62. Warwick, Lady, sun-dial of, 98; gardens of, 84, 85, 110; Shakespeare Border of, 217. Washings, semi-annual, 99. Washington, Betty, sun-dial of, 370. Washington Family, in England, 367; sun-dial of, 367 _et seq._ Washington, George, sun-dials of, 357, 368. Washington, Martha, garden of, 12-13. Washington, Mary, sun-dial of, 369; garden of, 370. Wassailing, 206. Waterbury, Connecticut, sun-dial at, 379. Waterford, Virginia, bee-hives at, 393. Water gardens, 73-74. Watering-pot, 391. Watson, Forbes, cited, 425, 433. Waybred, 443-444. Weed-smother, 300. Weeds of old garden, 8, 48, 52. Wellesley, gardens at, 409 _et seq._ Well-sweeps, 68, 390. White animals on farm; 416 _et seq._ White Garden, 415 _et seq._ Whitehall, home of Bishop Berkeley, 194, 195. White Man's Foot, 443-444. White Satin, 170 _et seq._ White, value in garden, 157, 255, 419. Whiteweed, 291. _See_ Oxeye Daisy. Whitman, Walt, quoted, 152-153. Whittier, J. G., sun-dial motto by, 373-374. Wild gardens, 237 _et seq._, 453-454. Wine-sap. _See_ Sapson. Winter, in a garden, 327 _et seq._ Winter posy, 131. Winthrop, John, quoted, 1, 3. Wistaria, 166, 182, 188 _et seq._, 232. Woad-waxen, 24, 25. Wordsworth, W., quoted, 193. Wort, 113. Wort-cunning, 113. Yaddo, garden at, 81 _et seq._ Yew, 406. York and Lancaster Rose, 62, 460 _et seq._ Yucca, 293, 429-430. Zodiac, signs of, on sun-dial, 376. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: A prescription symbol on page 304 is represented in this text as "Rx". Obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected without comment. One example of an obvious error is on page 126 where the word "perservation" was changed to "preservation" in the phrase: "... preservation of all perishable food...." With the exception of obvious errors, inconsistencies in the author's spelling and use of punctuation and hyphenation are left unchanged, as in the original text. One error which has been retained in this version is on Page 415, where the attribution line for the poem reads "Walter Savage Landor" while the correct author of the poem is Alfred Lord Tennyson. Illustrations have been moved to the nearest, most appropriate paragraph break. 
28524	----	[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885), _Nobody_ (1883), Nisbet edition] NOBODY BY SUSAN WARNER AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD" "QUEECHY" ETC. ETC. "Let me see; What think you of falling in love?" --_As You Like It_ LONDON JAMES NISBET & C° LIMITED 31 BERNERS STREET NOTICE TO READER. The following is again a true story of real life. For character and colouring, no doubt, I am responsible; but the facts are facts. MARTLAER'S ROCK, _Aug_. 9, 1882. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. WHO IS SHE? II. AT BREAKFAST III. A LUNCHEON PARTY IV. ANOTHER LUNCHEON PARTY V. IN COUNCIL VI. HAPPINESS VII. THE WORTH OF THINGS VIII. MRS. ARMADALE IX. THE FAMILY X. LOIS'S GARDEN XI. SUMMER MOVEMENTS XII. APPLEDORE XIII. A SUMMER HOTEL XIV. WATCHED XV. TACTICS XVI. MRS. MARX'S OPINION XVII. TOM'S DECISION XVIII. MR. DILLWYN'S PLAN XIX. NEWS XX. SHAMPUASHUH XXI. GREVILLE'S MEMOIRS XXII. LEARNING XXIII. A BREAKFAST TABLE XXIV. THE CARPENTER XXV. ROAST PIG XXVI. SCRUPLES XXVII. PEAS AND RADISHES XXVIII. THE LAGOON OF VENICE XXIX. AN OX CART XXX. POETRY XXXI. LONG CLAMS XXXII. A VISITOR XXXIII. THE VALUE OF MONEY XXXIV. UNDER AN UMBRELLA XXXV. OPINIONS XXXVI. TWO SUNDAY SCHOOLS XXXVII. AN OYSTER SUPPER XXXVIII. BREAKING UP XXXIX. LUXURY XL. ATTENTIONS XLI. CHESS XLII. RULES XLIII. ABOUT WORK XLIV. CHOOSING A WIFE XLV. DUTY XLVI. OFF AND ON XLVII. PLANS XLVIII. ANNOUNCEMENTS XLIX. ON THE PASS NOBODY. CHAPTER I. WHO IS SHE? "Tom, who was that girl you were so taken with last night?" "Wasn't particularly taken last night with anybody." Which practical falsehood the gentleman escaped from by a mental reservation, saying to himself that it was not _last night_ that he was "taken." "I mean the girl you had so much to do with. Come, Tom!" "I hadn't much to do with her. I had to be civil to somebody. She was the easiest." "Who is she, Tom?" "Her name is Lothrop." "O you tedious boy! I know what her name is, for I was introduced to her, and Mrs. Wishart spoke so I could not help but understand her; but I mean something else, and you know I do. Who is she? And where does she come from?" "She is a cousin of Mrs. Wishart; and she comes from the country somewhere." "One can see _that_." "How can you?" the brother asked rather fiercely. "You see it as well as I do," the sister returned coolly. "Her dress shows it." "I didn't notice anything about her dress." "You are a man." "Well, you women dress for the men. If you only knew a thing or two, you would dress differently." "That will do! You would not take me anywhere, if I dressed like Miss Lothrop." "I'll tell you what," said the young man, stopping short in his walk up and down the floor;--"she can afford to do without your advantages!" "Mamma!" appealed the sister now to a third member of the party,--"do you hear? Tom has lost his head." The lady addressed sat busy with newspapers, at a table a little withdrawn from the fire; a lady in fresh middle age, and comely to look at. The daughter, not comely, but sensible-looking, sat in the glow of the fireshine, doing nothing. Both were extremely well dressed, if "well" means in the fashion and in rich stuffs, and with no sparing of money or care. The elder woman looked up from her studies now for a moment, with the remark, that she did not care about Tom's head, if he would keep his heart. "But that is just precisely what he will not do, mamma. Tom can't keep anything, his heart least of all. And this girl mamma, I tell you he is in danger. Tom, how many times have you been to see her?" "I don't go to see _her;_ I go to see Mrs. Wishart." "Oh!--and you see Miss Lothrop by accident! Well, how many times, Tom? Three--four--five." "Don't be ridiculous!" the brother struck in. "Of course a fellow goes where he can amuse himself and have the best time; and Mrs. Wishart keeps a pleasant house." "Especially lately. Well, Tom, take care! it won't do. I warn you." "What won't do?"--angrily. "This girl; not for _our_ family. Not for you, Tom. She hasn't anything,--and she isn't anybody; and it will not do for you to marry in that way. If your fortune was ready made to your hand, or if you were established in your profession and at the top of it,--why, perhaps you might be justified in pleasing yourself; but as it is, _don't_, Tom! Be a good boy, and _don't!_" "My dear, he will not," said the elder lady here. "Tom is wiser than you give him credit for." "I don't give any man credit for being wise, mamma, when a pretty face is in question. And this girl has a pretty face; she is very pretty. But she has no style; she' is as poor as a mouse; she knows nothing of the world; and to crown all, Tom, she's one of the religious sort.--Think of that! One of the real religious sort, you know. Think how that would fit." "What sort are you?" asked her brother. "Not that sort, Tom, and you aren't either." "How do you know she is?" "Very easy," said the girl coolly. "She told me herself." "She told you!" "Yes." "How?" "O, simply enough. I was confessing that Sunday is such a fearfully long day to me, and I did not know what to do with it; and she looked at me as if I were a poor heathen--which I suppose she thought me--and said, 'But there is always the Bible!' Fancy!--'always the Bible.' So I knew in a moment where to place her." "I don't think religion hurts a woman," said the young man. "But you do not want her to have too much of it--" the mother remarked, without looking up from her paper. "I don't know what you mean by too much, mother. I'd as lief she found Sunday short as long. By her own showing, Julia has the worst of it." "Mamma! speak to him," urged the girl. "No need, my dear, I think. Tom isn't a fool." "Any man is, when he is in love, mamma." Tom came and stood by the mantelpiece, confronting them. He was a remarkably handsome young man; tall, well formed, very well dressed, hair and moustaches carefully trimmed, and features of regular though manly beauty, with an expression of genial kindness and courtesy. "I am not in love," he said, half laughing. "But I will tell you,--I never saw a nicer girl than Lois Lothrop. And I think all that you say about her being poor, and all that, is just--bosh." The newspapers went down. "My dear boy, Julia is right. I should be very sorry to see you hurt your career and injure your chances by choosing a girl who would give you no sort of help. And you would regret it yourself, when it was too late. You would be certain to regret it. You could not help but regret it." "I am not going to do it. But why should I regret it?" "You know why, as well as I do. Such a girl would not be a good wife for you. She would be a millstone round your neck." Perhaps Mr. Tom thought she would be a pleasant millstone in those circumstances; but he only remarked that he believed the lady in question would be a good wife for whoever could get her. "Well, not for you. You can have anybody you want to, Tom; and you may just as well have money and family as well as beauty. It is a very bad thing for a girl not to have family. That deprives her husband of a great advantage; and besides, saddles upon him often most undesirable burdens in the shape of brothers and sisters, and nephews perhaps. What is this girl's family, do you know?" "Respectable," said Tom, "or she would not be a cousin of Mrs. Wishart. And that makes her a cousin of Edward's wife." "My dear, everybody has cousins; and people are not responsible for them. She is a poor relation, whom Mrs. Wishart has here for the purpose of befriending her; she'll marry her off if she can; and you would do as well as another. Indeed you would do splendidly; but the advantage would be all on their side; and that is what I do not wish for you." Tom was silent. His sister remarked that Mrs. Wishart really was not a match-maker. "No more than everybody is; it is no harm; of course she would like to see this little girl well married. Is she educated? Accomplished?" "Tom can tell," said the daughter. "I never saw her do anything. What can she do, Tom?" "_Do?_" said Tom, flaring up. "What do you mean?" "Can she play?" "No, and I am glad she can't. If ever there was a bore, it is the performances of you young ladies on the piano. It's just to show what you can do. Who cares, except the music master?" "Does she sing?" "I don't know!" "Can she speak French?" "French!" cried Tom. "Who wants her to speak French? We talk English in this country." "But, my dear boy, we often have to use French or some other language, there are so many foreigners that one meets in society. And a lady _must_ know French at least. Does she know anything?" "I don't know," said Tom. "I have no doubt she does. I haven't tried her. How much, do you suppose, do girls in general know? girls with ever so much money and family? And who cares how much they know? One does not seek a lady's society for the purpose of being instructed." "One might, and get no harm," said the sister softly; but Tom flung out of the room. "Mamma, it is serious." "Do you think so?" asked the elder lady, now thrusting aside all her papers. "I am sure of it. And if we do not do something--we shall all be sorry for it." "What is this girl, Julia? Is she pretty?" Julia hesitated. "Yes," she said. "I suppose the men would call her so." "You don't?" "Well, yes, mamma; she is pretty, handsome, in a way; though she has not the least bit of style; not the least bit! She is rather peculiar; and I suppose with the men that is one of her attractions." "Peculiar how?" said the mother, looking anxious. "I cannot tell; it is indefinable. And yet it is very marked. Just that want of style makes her peculiar." "Awkward?" "No." "Not awkward. How then? Shy?" "No." "How then, Julia? What is she like?" "It is hard to tell in words what people are like. She is plainly dressed, but not badly; Mrs. Wishart would see to that; so it isn't exactly her dress that makes her want of style. She has a very good figure; uncommonly good. Then she has most beautiful hair, mamma; a full head of bright brown hair, that would be auburn if it were a shade or two darker; and it is somewhat wavy and curly, and heaps itself around her head in a way that is like a picture. She don't dress it in the fashion; I don't believe there is a hairpin in it, and I am sure there isn't a cushion, or anything; only this bright brown hair puffing and waving and curling itself together in some inexplicable way, that would be very pretty if it were not so altogether out of the way that everybody else wears. Then there _is_ a sweet, pretty face under it; but you can see at the first look that she was never born or brought up in New York or any other city, and knows just nothing about the world." "Dangerous!" said the mother, knitting her brows. "Yes; for just that sort of thing is taking to the men; and they don't look any further. And Tom above all. I tell you, he is smitten, mamma. And he goes to Mrs. Wishart's with a regularity which is appalling." "Tom takes things hard, too," said the mother. "Foolish boy!" was the sister's comment. "What can be done?" "I'll tell you, mamma. I've been thinking. Your health will never stand the March winds in New York. You must go somewhere." "Where?" "Florida, for instance?" "I should like it very well." "It would be better anyhow than to let Tom get hopelessly entangled." "Anything would be better than that." "And prevention is better than cure. You can't apply a cure, besides. When a man like Tom, or any man, once gets a thing of this sort in his head, it is hopeless. He'll go through thick and thin, and take time to repent afterwards. Men are so stupid!" "Women sometimes." "Not I, mamma; if you mean me. I hope for the credit of your discernment you don't." "Lent will begin soon," observed the elder lady presently. "Lent will not make any difference with Tom," returned the daughter. "And little parties are more dangerous than big ones." "What shall I do about the party we were going to give? I should be obliged to ask Mrs. Wishart." "I'll tell you, mamma," Julia said after a little thinking. "Let it be a luncheon party; and get Tom to go down into the country that day. And then go off to Florida, both of you." CHAPTER II. AT BREAKFAST. "How do you like New York, Lois? You have been here long enough to judge of us now?" "Have I?" Mrs. Wishart and her guest being at breakfast, this question and answer go over the table. It is not exactly in New York, however. That is, it is within the city bounds, but not yet among the city buildings. Some little distance out of town, with green fields about it, and trees, and lawn sloping down to the river bank, and a view of the Jersey shore on the other side. The breakfast room windows look out over this view, upon which the winter sun is shining; and green fields stand in beautiful illumination, with patches of snow lying here and there. Snow is not on the lawn, however. Mrs. Wishart's is a handsome old house, not according to the latest fashion, either in itself or its fitting up; both are of a simpler style than anybody of any pretension would choose now-a-days; but Mrs. Wishart has no need to make any pretension; her standing and her title to it are too well known. Moreover, there are certain quain't witnesses to it all over, wherever you look. None but one of such secured position would have such an old carpet on her floor; and few but those of like antecedents could show such rare old silver on the board. The shawl that wraps the lady is Indian, and not worn for show; there are portraits on the walls that go back to a respectable English ancestry; there is precious old furniture about, that money could not buy; old and quain't and rich, and yet not striking the eye; and the lady is served in the most observant style by one of those ancient house servants whose dignity is inseparably connected with the dignity of the house and springs from it. No new comer to wealth and place can be served so. The whole air of everything in the room is easy, refined, leisurely, assured, and comfortable. The coffee is capital; and the meal, simple enough, is very delicate in its arrangement. Only the two ladies are at the table; one behind the coffee urn, and the other near her. The mistress of the house has a sensible, agreeable face, and well-bred manner; the other lady is the one who has been so jealously discussed and described in another family. As Miss Julia described her, there she sits, in a morning dress which lends her figure no attraction whatever. And--her figure can do without it. As the question is asked her about New York, her eye goes over to the glittering western shore. "I like this a great deal better than the city," she added to her former words. "O, of course, the brick and stone!" answered her hostess. "I did not mean _that_. I mean, how do you like _us?_" "Mrs. Wishart, I like _you_ very much," said the girl with a certain sweet spirit. "Thank you! but I did not mean that either. Do you like no one but me?" "I do not know anybody else." "You have seen plenty of people." "I do not know them, though. Not a bit. One thing I do not like. People talk so on the surface of things." "Do you want them to go deep in an evening party?" "It is not only in evening parties. If you want me to say what I think, Mrs. Wishart. It is the same always, if people come for morning calls, or if we go to them, or if we see them in the evening; people talk about nothing; nothing they care about." "Nothing _you_ care about." "They do not seem to care about it either." "Why do you suppose they talk it then?" Mrs. Wishart asked, amused. "It seems to be a form they must go through," Lois said, laughing a little. "Perhaps they enjoy it, but they do not seem as if they did. And they laugh so incessantly,--some of them,--at what has no fun in it. That seems to be a form too; but laughing for form's sake seems to me hard work." "My dear, do you want people to be always serious?" "How do you mean, 'serious'?" "Do you want them to be always going 'deep' into things?" "N-o, perhaps not; but I would like them to be always in earnest." "My dear! What a fearful state of society you would bring about! Imagine for a moment that everybody was always in earnest!" "Why not? I mean, not always _sober;_ did you think I meant that? I mean, whether they laugh or talk, doing it heartily, and feeling and thinking as they speak. Or rather, speaking and laughing only as they feel." "My dear, do you know what would become of society?" "No. What?" "I go to see Mrs. Brinkerhoff, for instance. I have something on my mind, and I do not feel like discussing any light matter, so I sit silent. Mrs. Brinkerhoff has a fearfully hard piece of work to keep the conversation going; and when I have departed she votes me a great bore, and hopes I will never come again. When she returns my visit, the conditions are reversed; I vote _her_ a bore; and we conclude it is easier to do without each other's company." "But do you never find people a bore as it is?" Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Do you?" "Sometimes. At least I should if I lived among them. _Now_, all is new, and I am curious." "I can tell you one thing, Lois; nobody votes you a bore." "But I never talk as they do." "Never mind. There are exceptions to all rules. But, my dear, even you must not be always so desperately in earnest. By the way! That handsome young Mr. Caruthers--does he make himself a bore too? You have seen a good deal of him." "No," said Lois with some deliberation. "He is pleasant, what I have seen of him." "And, as I remarked, that is a good deal. Isn't he a handsome fellow? I think Tom Caruthers is a good fellow, too. And he is likely to be a successful fellow. He is starting well in life, and he has connections that will help him on. It is a good family; and they have money enough." "How do you mean, 'a good family'?" "Why, you know what that phrase expresses, don't you?" "I am not sure that I do, in your sense. You do not mean religious?" "No," said Mrs. Wishart, smiling; "not necessarily. Religion has nothing to do with it. I mean--we mean-- It is astonishing how hard it is to put some things! I mean, a family that has had a good social standing for generations. Of course such a family is connected with other good families, and it is consequently strong, and has advantages for all belonging to it." "I mean," said Lois slowly, "a family that has served God for generations. Such a family has connections too, and advantages." "Why, my dear," said Mrs. Wishart, opening her eyes a little at the girl, "the two things are not inconsistent, I hope." "I hope not." "Wealth and position are good things at any rate, are they not?" "So far as they go, I suppose so," said Lois. "O yes, they are pleasant things; and good things, if they are used right." "They are whether or no. Come! I can't have you holding any extravagant ideas, Lois. They don't do in the world. They make one peculiar, and it is not good taste to be peculiar." "You know, I am not in the world," Lois answered quietly. "Not when you are at home, I grant you; but here, in my house, you are; and when you have a house of your own, it is likely you will be. No more coffee, my dear? Then let us go to the order of the day. What is this, Williams?" "For Miss Lot'rop," the obsequious servant replied with a bow,--"de bo-quet." But he presented to his mistress a little note on his salver, and then handed to Lois a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers. Mrs. Wishart's eyes followed the bouquet, and she even rose up to examine it. "That is beautiful, my dear. What camellias! And what geraniums! That is the Black Prince, one of those, I am certain; yes, I am sure it is; and that is one of the new rare varieties. That has not come from any florist's greenhouse. Never. And that rose-coloured geranium is Lady Sutherland. Who sent the flowers, Williams?" "Here is his card, Mrs. Wishart," said Lois. "Mr. Caruthers." "Tom Caruthers!" echoed Mrs. Wishart. "He has cut them in his mother's greenhouse, the sinner!" "Why?" said Lois. "Would that be not right?" "It would be right, _if_--. Here's a note from Tom's mother, Lois--but not about the flowers. It is to ask us to a luncheon party. Shall we go?" "You know, dear Mrs. Wishart, I go just where you choose to take me," said the girl, on whose cheeks an exquisite rose tint rivalled the Lady Sutherland geranium blossoms. Mrs. Wishart noticed it, and eyed the girl as she was engrossed with her flowers, examining, smelling, and smiling at them. It was pleasure that raised that delicious bloom in her cheeks, she decided; was it anything more than pleasure? What a fair creature! thought her hostess; and yet, fair as she is, what possible chance for her in a good family? A young man may be taken with beauty, but not his relations; and they would object to a girl who is nobody and has nothing. Well, there is a chance for her, and she shall have the chance. "Lois, what will you wear to this luncheon party?" "You know all my dresses, Mrs. Wishart. I suppose my black silk would be right." "No, it would not be right at all. You are too young to wear black silk to a luncheon party. And your white dress is not the thing either." "I have nothing else that would do. You must let me be old, in a black silk." "I will not let you be anything of the kind. I will get you a dress." "No, Mrs. Wishart; I cannot pay for it." "I will pay for it." "I cannot let you do that. You have done enough for me already. Mrs. Wishart, it is no matter. People will just think I cannot afford anything better, and that is the very truth." "No, Lois; they will think you do not know any better." "That is the truth too," said Lois, laughing. "No it isn't; and if it is, I do not choose they should think so. I shall dress you for this once, my dear; and I shall not ruin myself either." Mrs. Wishart had her way; and so it came to pass that Lois went to the luncheon party in a dress of bright green silk; and how lovely she looked in it is impossible to describe. The colour, which would have been ruinous to another person, simply set off her delicate complexion and bright brown hair in the most charming manner; while at the same time the green was not so brilliant as to make an obvious patch of colour wherever its wearer might be. Mrs. Wishart was a great enemy of startling effects, in any kind; and the hue was deep and rich and decided, without being flashy. "You never looked so well in anything," was Mrs. Wishart's comment. "I have hit just the right thing. My dear, I would put one of those white camellias in your hair--that will relieve the eye." "From what?" Lois asked, laughing. "Never mind; you do as I tell you." CHAPTER III. A LUNCHEON PARTY. Luncheon parties were not then precisely what they are now; nevertheless the entertainment was extremely handsome. Lois and her friend had first a long drive from their home in the country to a house in one of the older parts of the city. Old the house also was; but it was after a roomy and luxurious fashion, if somewhat antiquated; and the air of ancient respectability, even of ancient distinction, was stamped upon it, as upon the family that inhabited it. Mrs. Wishart and Lois were received with warm cordiality by Miss Caruthers; but the former did not fail to observe a shadow that crossed Mrs. Caruthers' face when Lois was presented to her. Lois did not see it, and would not have known how to interpret it if she had seen it. She is safe, thought Mrs. Wishart, as she noticed the calm unembarrassed air with which Lois sat down to talk with the younger of her hostesses. "You are making a long stay with Mrs. Wishart," was the unpromising opening remark. "Mrs. Wishart keeps me." "Do you often come to visit her?" "I was never here before." "Then this is your first acquain'tance with New York?" "Yes." "How does it strike you? One loves to get at new impressions of what one has known all one's life. Nothing strikes us here, I suppose. Do tell me what strikes you." "I might say, everything." "How delightful! Nothing strikes me. I have seen it all five hundred times. Nothing is new." "But people are new," said Lois. "I mean they are different from one another. There is continual variety there." "To me there seems continual sameness!" said the other, with a half shutting up of her eyes, as of one dazed with monotony. "They are all alike. I know beforehand exactly what every one will say to me, and how every one will behave." "That is not how it is at home," returned Lois. "It is different there." "People are _not_ all alike?" "No indeed. Perfectly unlike, and individual." "How agreeable! So that is one of the things that strike you here? the contrast?" "No," said Lois, laughing; "_I_ find here the same variety that I find at home. People are not alike to me." "But different, I suppose, from the varieties you are accustomed to at home?" Lois admitted that. "Well, now tell me how. I have never travelled in New England; I have travelled everywhere else. Tell me, won't you, how those whom you see here differ from the people you see at home." "In the same sort of way that a sea-gull differs from a land sparrow," Lois answered demurely. "I don't understand. Are we like the sparrows, or like the gulls?" "I do not know that. I mean merely that the different sorts are fitted to different spheres and ways of life." Miss Caruthers looked a little curiously at the girl. "I know _this_ sphere," she said. "I want you to tell me yours." "It is free space instead of narrow streets, and clear air instead of smoke. And the people all have something to do, and are doing it." "And you think _we_ are doing nothing?" asked Miss Caruthers, laughing. "Perhaps I am mistaken. It seems to me so." "O, you are mistaken. We work hard. And yet, since I went to school, I never had anything that I _must_ do, in my life." "That can be only because you did not know what it was." "I had nothing that I must do." "But nobody is put in this world without some thing to do," said Lois. "Do you think a good watchmaker would carefully make and finish a very costly pin or wheel, and put it in the works of his watch to do nothing?" Miss Caruthers stared now at the girl. Had this soft, innocent-looking maiden absolutely dared to read a lesson to her?--"You are religious!" she remarked dryly. Lois neither affirmed nor denied it. Her eye roved over the gathering throng; the rustle of silks, the shimmer of lustrous satin, the falls of lace, the drapery of one or two magnificent camels'-hair shawls, the carefully dressed heads, the carefully gloved hands; for the ladies did not keep on their bonnets then; and the soft murmur of voices, which, however, did not remain soft. It waxed and grew, rising and falling, until the room was filled with a breaking sea of sound. Miss Caruthers had been called off to attend to other guests, and then came to conduct Lois herself to the dining-room. The party was large, the table was long; and it was a mass of glitter and glisten with plate and glass. A superb old-fashioned épergne in the middle, great dishes of flowers sending their perfumed breath through the room, and bearing their delicate exotic witness to the luxury that reigned in the house. And not they alone. Before each guest's plate a semicircular wreath of flowers stood, seemingly upon the tablecloth; but Lois made the discovery that the stems were safe in water in crescent-shaped glass dishes, like little troughs, which the flowers completely covered up and hid. Her own special wreath was of heliotropes. Miss Caruthers had placed her next herself. There were no gentlemen present, nor expected, Lois observed. It was simply a company of ladies, met apparently for the purpose of eating; for that business went on for some time with a degree of satisfaction, and a supply of means to afford satisfaction, which Lois had never seen equalled. From one delicate and delicious thing to another she was required to go, until she came to a stop; but that was the case, she observed, with no one else of the party. "You do not drink wine?" asked Miss Caruthers civilly. "No, thank you." "Have you scruples?" said the young lady, with a half smile. Lois assented. "Why? what's the harm?" "We all have scruples at Shampuashuh." "About drinking wine?" "Or cider, or beer, or anything of the sort." "Do tell me why." "It does so much mischief." "Among low people," said Miss Caruthers, opening her eyes; "but not among respectable people." "We are willing to hinder mischief anywhere," said Lois with a smile of some fun. "But what good does _your_ not drinking it do? That will not hinder them." "It does hinder them, though," said Lois; "for we will not have liquor shops. And so, we have no crime in the town. We could leave our doors unlocked, with perfect safety, if it were not for the people that come wandering through from the next towns, where liquor is sold. We have no crime, and no poverty; or next to none." "Bless me! what an agreeable state of things! But that need not hinder your taking a glass of champagne _here?_ Everybody here has no scruple, and there are liquor shops at every corner; there is no use in setting an example." But Lois declined the wine. "A cup of coffee then?" Lois accepted the coffee. "I think you know my brother?" observed Miss Caruthers then, making her observations as she spoke. "Mr. Caruthers? yes; I believe he is your brother." "I have heard him speak of you. He has seen you at Mrs. Wishart's, I think." "At Mrs. Wishart's--yes." Lois spoke naturally, yet Miss Caruthers fancied she could discern a certain check to the flow of her words. "You could not be in a better place for seeing what New York is like, for everybody goes to Mrs. Wishart's; that is, everybody who is anybody." This did not seem to Lois to require any answer. Her eye went over the long tableful; went from face to face. Everybody was talking, nearly everybody was smiling. Why not? If enjoyment would make them smile, where could more means of enjoyment be heaped up, than at this feast? Yet Lois could not help thinking that the tokens of real pleasure-taking were not unequivocal. _She_ was having a very good time; full of amusement; to the others it was an old story. Of what use, then? Miss Caruthers had been engaged in a lively battle of words with some of her young companions; and now her attention came back to Lois, whose meditative, amused expression struck her. "I am sure," she said, "you are philosophizing! Let me have the results of your observations, do! What do your eyes see, that mine perhaps do not?" "I cannot tell," said Lois. "Yours ought to know it all." "But you know, we do not see what we have always seen." "Then I have an advantage," said Lois pleasantly. "My eyes see something very pretty." "But you were criticizing something.--O you unlucky boy!" This exclamation, and the change of tone with it, seemed to be called forth by the entrance of a new comer, even Tom Caruthers himself. Tom was not in company trim exactly, but with his gloves in his hand and his overcoat evidently just pulled off. He was surveying the company with a contented expression; then came forward and began a series of greetings round the table; not hurrying them, but pausing here and there for a little talk. "Tom!" cried his mother, "is that you?" "To command. Yes, Mrs. Badger, I am just off the cars. I did not know what I should find here." "How did you get back so soon, Tom?" "Had nothing to keep me longer, ma'am. Miss Farrel, I have the honour to remind you of a _phillipoena_." There was a shout of laughter. It bewildered Lois, who could not understand what they were laughing about, and could as little keep her attention from following Tom's progress round the table. Miss Caruthers observed this, and was annoyed. "Careless boy!" she said. "I don't believe he has done the half of what he had to do, Tom, what brought you home?" Tom was by this time approaching them. "Is the question to be understood in a physical or moral sense?" said he. "As you understand it!" said his sister. Tom disregarded the question, and paid his respects to Miss Lothrop. Julia's jealous eyes saw more than the ordinary gay civility in his face and manner. "Tom," she cried, "have you done everything? I don't believe you have." "Have, though," said Tom. And he offered to Lois a basket of bon-bons. "Did you see the carpenter?" "Saw him and gave him his orders." "Were the dogs well?" "I wish you had seen them bid me good morning!" "Did you look at the mare's foot?" "Yes." "What is the matter with it?" "Nothing--a nail--Miss Lothrop, you have no wine." "Nothing! and a nail!" cried Miss Julia as Lois covered her glass with her hand and forbade the wine. "As if a nail were not enough to ruin a horse! O you careless boy! Miss Lothrop is more of a philosopher than you are. She drinks no wine." Tom passed on, speaking to other ladies. Lois had scarcely spoken at all; but Miss Caruthers thought she could discern a little stir in the soft colour of the cheeks and a little additional life in the grave soft eyes; and she wished Tom heartily at a distance. At a distance, however, he was no more that day. He made himself gracefully busy indeed with the rest of his mother's guests; but after they quitted the table, he contrived to be at Lois's side, and asked if she would not like to see the greenhouse? It was a welcome proposition, and while nobody at the moment paid any attention to the two young people, they passed out by a glass door at the other end of the dining-room into the conservatory, while the stream of guests went the other way. Then Lois was plunged in a wilderness of green leafage and brilliant bloom, warm atmosphere and mixed perfume; her first breath was an involuntary exclamation of delight and relief. "Ah! you like this better than the other room, don't you?" said Tom. Lois did not answer; however, she went with such an absorbed expression from one plant to another, that Tom must needs conclude she liked this better than the other company too. "I never saw such a beautiful greenhouse," she said at last, "nor so large a one." "_This_ is not much," replied Tom. "Most of our plants are in the country--where I have come from to-day; this is just a city affair. Shampuashuh don't cultivate exotics, then?" "O no! Nor anything much, except the needful." "That sounds rather--tiresome," said Tom. "O, it is not tiresome. One does not get tired of the needful, you know." "Don't you! _I_ do," said Tom. "Awfully. But what do you do for pleasure then, up there in Shampuashuh?" "Pleasure? O, we have it--I have it-- But we do not spend much time in the search of it. O how beautiful! what is that?" "It's got some long name--Metrosideros, I believe. What _do_ you do for pleasure up there then, Miss Lothrop?" "Dig clams." "Clams!" cried Tom. "Yes. Long clams. It's great fun. But I find pleasure all over." "How come you to be such a philosopher?" "That is not philosophy." "What is it? I can tell you, there isn't a girl in New York that would say what you have just said." Lois thought the faces around the lunch table had quite harmonized with this statement. She forgot them again in a most luxuriant trailing Pelargonium covered with large white blossoms of great elegance. "But it is philosophy that makes you not drink wine? Or don't you like it?" "O no," said Lois, "it is not philosophy; it is humanity." "How? I think it is humanity to share in people's social pleasures." "If they were harmless." "This is harmless!" Lois shook her head. "To you, maybe." "And to you. Then why shouldn't we take it?" "For the sake of others, to whom it is not harmless." "They must look out for themselves." "Yes, and we must help them." "We _can't_ help them. If a man hasn't strength enough to stand, you cannot hold him up." "O yes," said Lois gently, "you can and you must. That is not much to do! When on one side it is life, and on the other side it is only a minute's taste of something sweet, it is very little, I think, to give up one for the other." "That is because you are so good," said Tom. "I am not so good." At this instant a voice was heard within, and sounds of the servants removing the lunch dishes. "I never heard anybody in my life talk as you do," Tom went on. Lois thought she had talked enough, and would say no more. Tom saw she would not, and gave her glance after glance of admiration, which began to grow into veneration. What a pure creature was this! what a gentle simplicity, and yet what a quiet dignity! what absolutely natural sweetness, with no airs whatever! and what a fresh beauty. "I think it must be easier to be good where you live," Tom added presently, and sincerely. "Why?" said Lois. "I assure you it ain't easy for a fellow here." "What do you mean by 'good,' Mr. Caruthers? not drinking wine?" said Lois, somewhat amused. "I mean, to be like you," said he softly. "You are better than all the rest of us here." "I hope not. Mr. Caruthers, we must go back to Mrs. Wishart, or certainly _she_ will not think me good." So they went back, through the empty lunch room. "I thought you would be here to-day," said Tom. "I was not going to miss the pleasure; so I took a frightfully early train, and despatched business faster than it had ever been despatched before, at our house. I surprised the people, almost as much as I surprised my mother and Julia. You ought always to wear a white camellia in your hair!" Lois smiled to herself. If he knew what things she had to do at her own home, and how such an adornment would be in place! Was it easier to be good there? she queried. It was easier to be pleased here. The guests were mostly gone. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Wishart on the drive home, "how have you enjoyed yourself?" Lois looked grave. "I am afraid it turns my head," she answered. "That shows your head is _not_ turned. It must carry a good deal of ballast too, somewhere." "It does," said Lois. "And I don't like to have my head turned." "Tom," said Miss Julia, as Mrs. Wishart's carriage drove off and Tom came back to the drawing-room, "you mustn't turn that little girl's head." "I can't," said Tom. "You are trying." "I am doing nothing of the sort." "Then what _are_ you doing? You are paying her a great deal of attention. She is not accustomed to our ways; she will not understand it. I do not think it is fair to her." "I don't mean anything that is not fair to her. She is worth attention ten times as much as all the rest of the girls that were here to-day." "But, Tom, she would not take it as coolly. She knows only country ways. She might think attentions mean more than they do." "I don't care," said Tom. "My dear boy," said his mother now, "it will not do, not to care. It would not be honourable to raise hopes you do not mean to fulfil; and to take such a girl for your wife, would be simply ruinous." "Where will you find such another girl?" cried Tom, flaring up. "But she has nothing, and she is nobody." "She is her own sweet self," said Tom. "But not an advantageous wife for you, my dear. Society does not know her, and she does not know society. Your career would be a much more humble one with her by your side. And money you want, too. You need it, to get on properly; as I wish to see you get on, and as you wish it your self. My dear boy, do not throw your chances away!" "It's my belief, that is just what you are trying to make me do!" said the young man; and he went off in something of a huff. "Mamma, we must do something. And soon," remarked Miss Julia. "Men are such fools! He rushed through with everything and came home to-day just to see that girl. A pretty face absolutely bewitches them." _N. B_. Miss Julia herself did not possess that bewitching power. "I will go to Florida," said Mrs. Caruthers, sighing. CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER LUNCHEON PARTY. A journey can be decided upon in a minute, but not so soon entered upon. Mrs. Caruthers needed a week to make ready; and during that week her son and heir found opportunity to make several visits at Mrs. Wishart's. A certain marriage connection between the families gave him somewhat the familiar right of a cousin; he could go when he pleased; and Mrs. Wishart liked him, and used no means to keep him away. Tom Caruthers was a model of manly beauty; gentle and agreeable in his manners; and of an evidently affectionate and kindly disposition. Why should not the young people like each other? she thought; and things were in fair train. Upon this came the departure for Florida. Tom spoke his regrets unreservedly out; he could not help himself, his mother's health required her to go to the South for the month of March, and she must necessarily have his escort. Lois said little. Mrs. Wishart feared, or hoped, she felt the more. A little absence is no harm, the lady thought; _may_ be no harm. But now Lois began to speak of returning to Shampuashuh; and that indeed might make the separation too long for profit. She thought too that Lois was a little more thoughtful and a trifle more quiet than she had been before this journey was talked of. One day, it was a cold, blustering day in March, Mrs. Wishart and her guest had gone down into the lower part of the city to do some particular shopping; Mrs. Wishart having promised Lois that they would take lunch and rest at a particular fashionable restaurant. Such an expedition had a great charm for the little country girl, to whom everything was new, and to whose healthy mental senses the ways and manners of the business world, with all the accessories thereof, were as interesting as the gayer regions and the lighter life of fashion. Mrs. Wishart had occasion to go to a banker's in Wall Street; she had business at the Post Office; she had something to do which took her to several furrier's shops; she visited a particular magazine of varieties in Maiden Lane, where things, she told Lois, were about half the price they bore up town. She spent near an hour at the Tract House in Nassau Street. There was no question of taking the carriage into these regions; an omnibus had brought them to Wall Street, and from there they went about on their own feet, walking and standing alternately, till both ladies were well tired. Mrs. Wishart breathed out a sigh of relief as she took her seat in the omnibus which was to carry them up town again. "Tired out, Lois, are you? I am." "I am not. I have been too much amused." "It's delightful to take you anywhere! You reverse the old fairy-tale catastrophe, and a little handful of ashes turns to fruit for you, or to gold. Well, I will make some silver turn to fruit presently. I want my lunch, and I know you do. I should like to have you with me always, Lois. I get some of the good of your fairy fruit and gold when you are along with me. Tell me, child, do you do that sort of thing at home?" "What sort?" said Lois, laughing. "Turning nothings into gold." "I don't know," said Lois. "I believe I do pick up a good deal of that sort of gold as I go along. But at home our life has a great deal of sameness about it, you know. _Here_ everything is wonderful." "Wonderful!" repeated Mrs. Wishart. "To you it is wonderful. And to me it is the dullest old story, the whole of it. I feel as dusty now, mentally, as I am outwardly. But we'll have some luncheon, Lois, and that will be refreshing, I hope." Hopes were to be much disappointed. Getting out of the omnibus near the locality of the desired restaurant, the whole street was found in confusion. There had been a fire, it seemed, that morning, in a house adjoining or very near, and loungers and firemen and an engine and hose took up all the way. No restaurant to be reached there that morning. Greatly dismayed, Mrs. Wishart put herself and Lois in one of the street cars to go on up town. "I am famishing!" she declared. "And now I do not know where to go. Everybody has had lunch at home by this time, or there are half-a-dozen houses I could go to." "Are there no other restaurants but that one?" "Plenty; but I could not eat in comfort unless I know things are clean. I know that place, and the others I don't know. Ha, Mr. Dillwyn!"-- This exclamation was called forth by the sight of a gentleman who just at that moment was entering the car. Apparently he was an old acquain'tance, for the recognition was eager on both sides. The new comer took a seat on the other side of Mrs. Wishart. "Where do you come from," said he, "that I find you here?" "From the depths of business--Wall Street--and all over; and now the depths of despair, that we cannot get lunch. I am going home starving." "What does that mean?" "Just a _contretemps_. I promised my young friend here I would give her a good lunch at the best restaurant I knew; and to-day of all days, and just as we come tired out to get some refreshment, there's a fire and firemen and all the street in a hubbub. Nothing for it but to go home fasting." "No," said he, "there is a better thing. You will do me the honour and give me the pleasure of lunching with me. I am living at the 'Imperial,'--and here we are!" He signalled the car to stop, even as he spoke, and rose to help the ladies out. Mrs. Wishart had no time to think about it, and on the sudden impulse yielded. They left the car, and a few steps brought them to the immense beautiful building called the Imperial Hotel. Mr. Dillwyn took them in as one at home, conducted them to the great dining-room; proposed to them to go first to a dressing-room, but this Mrs. Wishart declined. So they took places at a small table, near enough to one of the great clear windows for Lois to look down into the Avenue and see all that was going on there. But first the place where she was occupied her. With a kind of wondering delight her eye went down the lines of the immense room, reviewed its loftiness, its adornments, its light and airiness and beauty; its perfection of luxurious furnishing and outfitting. Few people were in it just at this hour, and the few were too far off to trouble at all the sense of privacy. Lois was tired, she was hungry; this sudden escape from din and motion and dust, to refreshment and stillness and a soft atmosphere, was like the changes in an Arabian Nights' enchantment. And the place was splendid enough and dainty enough to fit into one of those stories too. Lois sat back in her chair, quietly but intensely enjoying. It never occurred to her that she herself might be a worthy object of contemplation. Yet a fairer might have been sought for, all New York through. She was not vulgarly gazing; she had not the aspect of one strange to the place; quiet, grave, withdrawn into herself, she wore an air of most sweet reserve and unconscious dignity. Features more beautiful might be found, no doubt, and in numbers; it was not the mere lines, nor the mere colours of her face, which made it so remarkable, but rather the mental character. The beautiful poise of a spirit at rest within itself; the simplicity of unconsciousness; the freshness of a mind to which nothing has grown stale or old, and which sees nothing in its conventional shell; along with the sweetness that comes of habitual dwelling in sweetness. Both her companions occasionally looked at her; Lois did not know it; she did not think herself of sufficient importance to be looked at. And then came the luncheon. Such a luncheon! and served with a delicacy which became it. Chocolate which was a rich froth; rolls which were puff balls of perfection; salad, and fruit. Anything yet more substantial Mrs. Wishart declined. Also she declined wine. "I should not dare, before Lois," she said. Therewith came their entertainer's eyes round to Lois again. "Is she allowed to keep your conscience, Mrs. Wishart?" "Poor child! I don't charge her with that. But you know, Mr. Dillwyn, in presence of angels one would walk a little carefully!" "That almost sounds as if the angels would be uncomfortable companions," said Lois. "Not quite _sans gêne_"--the gentleman added, Then Lois's eyes met his full. "I do not know what that is," she said. "Only a couple of French words." "I do not know French," said Lois simply. He had not seen before what beautiful eyes they were; soft and grave, and true with the clearness of the blue ether. He thought he would like another such look into their transparent depths. So he asked, "But what is it about the wine?" "O, we are water-drinkers up about my home," Lois answered, looking, however, at her chocolate cup from which she was refreshing herself. "That is what the English call us as a nation, I am sure most inappropriately. Some of us know good wine when we see it; and most of the rest have an intimate acquain'tance with wine or some thing else that is _not_ good. Perhaps Miss Lothrop has formed her opinion, and practice, upon knowledge of this latter kind?" Lois did not say; she thought her opinions, or practice, could have very little interest for this fine gentleman. "Lois is unfashionable enough to form her own opinions," Mrs. Wishart remarked. "But not inconsistent enough to build them on nothing, I hope?" "I could tell you what they are built on," said Lois, brought out by this challenge; "but I do not know that you would see from that how well founded they are." "I should be very grateful for such an indulgence." "In this particular case we are speaking of, they are built on two foundation stones--both out of the same quarry," said Lois, her colour rising a little, while she smiled too. "One is this--'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' And the other--'I will neither eat meat, nor drink wine, nor _anything_, by which my brother stumbleth, or is offended, or made weak.'" Lois did not look up as she spoke, and Mrs. Wishart smiled with amusement. Their host's face expressed an undoubted astonishment. He regarded the gentle and yet bold speaker with steady attention for a minute or two, noting the modesty, and the gentleness, and the fearlessness with which she spoke. Noting her great beauty too. "Precious stones!" said he lightly, when she had done speaking. "I do not know whether they are broad enough for such a superstructure as you would build on them." And then he turned to Mrs. Wishart again, and they left the subject and plunged into a variety of other subjects where Lois scarce could follow them. What did they not talk of! Mr. Dillwyn, it appeared, had lately returned from abroad, where Mrs. Wishart had also formerly lived for some time; and now they went over a multitude of things and people familiar to both of them, but of which Lois did not even know the names. She listened, however, eagerly; and gleaned, as an eager listener generally may, a good deal. Places, until now unheard of, took a certain form and aspect in Lois's imagination; people were discerned, also in imagination, as being of different types and wonderfully different habits and manners of life from any Lois knew at home, or had even seen in New York. She heard pictures talked of, and wondered what sort of a world that art world might be, in which Mr. Dillwyn was so much at home. Lois had never seen any pictures in her life which were much to her. And the talk about countries sounded strange. She knew where Germany was on the map, and could give its boundaries no doubt accurately; but all this gossip about the Rhineland and its vineyards and the vintages there and in France, sounded fascinatingly novel. And she knew where Italy was on the map; but Italy's skies, and soft air, and mementos of past times of history and art, were unknown; and she listened with ever-quickening attention. The result of the whole at last was a mortifying sense that she knew nothing. These people, her friend and this other, lived in a world of mental impressions and mentally stored-up knowledge, which seemed to make their life unendingly broader and richer than her own. Especially the gentleman. Lois observed that it was constantly he who had something new to tell Mrs. Wishart, and that in all the ground they went over, he was more at home than she. Indeed, Lois got the impression that Mr. Dillwyn knew the world and everything in it better than anybody she had ever seen. Mr. Caruthers was extremely _au fait_ in many things; Lois had the thought, not the word; but Mr. Dillwyn was an older man and had seen much more. He was terrifically wise in it all, she thought; and by degrees she got a kind of awe of him. A little of Mrs. Wishart too. How much her friend knew, how at home she was in this big world! what a plain little piece of ignorance was she herself beside her. Well, thought Lois--every one to his place! My place is Shampuashuh. I suppose I am fitted for that. "Miss Lothrop," said their entertainer here, "will you allow me to give you some grapes?" "Grapes in March!" said Lois, smiling, as a beautiful white bunch was laid before her. "People who live in New York can have everything, it seems, that they want." "Provided they can pay for it," Mrs. Wishart put in. "How is it in your part of the world?" said Mr. Dillwyn. "You cannot have what you want?" "Depends upon what order you keep your wishes in," said Lois. "You can have strawberries in June--and grapes in September." "What order do you keep your wishes in?" was the next question. "I think it best to have as few as possible." "But that would reduce life to a mere framework of life,--if one had no wishes!" "One can find something else to fill it up," said Lois. "Pray what would you substitute? For with wishes I connect the accomplishment of wishes." "Are they always connected?" "Not always; but generally, the one are the means to the other." "I believe I do not find it so." "Then, pardon me, what would you substitute, Miss Lothrop, to fill up your life, and not have it a bare existence?" "There is always work--" said Lois shyly; "and there are the pleasures that come without being wished for. I mean, without being particularly sought and expected." "Does much come that way?" asked their entertainer, with an incredulous smile of mockery. "O, a great deal!" cried Lois; and then she checked herself. "This is a very interesting investigation, Mrs. Wishart," said the gentleman. "Do you think I may presume upon Miss Lothrop's good nature, and carry it further?" "Miss Lothrop's good nature is a commodity I never knew yet to fail." "Then I will go on, for I am curious to know, with an honest desire to enlarge my circle of knowledge. Will you tell me, Miss Lothrop, what are the pleasures in your mind when you speak of their coming unsought?" Lois tried to draw back. "I do not believe you would understand them," she said a little shyly. "I trust you do my understanding less than justice!" "No," said Lois, blushing, "for your enjoyments are in another line." "Please indulge me, and tell me the line of yours." He is laughing at me, thought Lois. And her next thought was, What matter! So, after an instant's hesitation, she answered simply. "To anybody who has travelled over the world, Shampuashuh is a small place; and to anybody who knows all you have been talking about, what we know at Shampuashuh would seem very little. But every morning it is a pleasure to me to wake and see the sun rise; and the fields, and the river, and the Sound, are a constant delight to me at all times of day, and in all sorts of weather. A walk or a ride is always a great pleasure, and different every time. Then I take constant pleasure in my work." "Mrs. Wishart," said the gentleman, "this is a revelation to me. Would it be indiscreet, if I were to ask Miss Lothrop what she can possibly mean under the use of the term '_work_'?" I think Mrs. Wishart considered that it _would_ be rather indiscreet, and wished Lois would be a little reticent about her home affairs. Lois, however, had no such feeling. "I mean work," she said. "I can have no objection that anybody should know what our life is at home. We have a little farm, very small; it just keeps a few cows and sheep. In the house we are three sisters; and we have an old grandmother to take care of, and to keep the house, and manage the farm." "But surely you cannot do that last?" said the gentleman. "We do not manage the cows and sheep," said Lois, smiling; "men's hands do that; but we make the butter, and we spin the wool, and we cultivate our garden. _That_ we do ourselves entirely; and we have a good garden too. And that is one of the things," added Lois, smiling, "in which I take unending pleasure." "What can you do in a garden?" "All there is to do, except ploughing. We get a neighbour to do that." "And the digging?" "I can dig," said Lois, laughing. "But do not?" "Certainly I do." "And sow seeds, and dress beds?" "Certainly. And enjoy every moment of it. I do it early, before the sun gets hot. And then, there is all the rest; gathering the fruit, and pulling the vegetables, and the care of them when we have got them; and I take great pleasure in it all. The summer mornings and spring mornings in the garden are delightful, and all the work of a garden is delightful, I think." "You will except the digging?" "You are laughing at me," said Lois quietly. "No, I do not except the digging. I like it particularly. Hoeing and raking I do not like half so well." "I am not laughing," said Mr. Dillwyn, "or certainly not at you. If at anybody, it is myself. I am filled with admiration." "There is no room for that either," said Lois. "We just have it to do, and we do it; that is all." "Miss Lothrop, I never have _had_ to do anything in my life, since I left college." Lois thought privately her own thoughts, but did not give them expression; she had talked a great deal more than she meant to do. Perhaps Mrs. Wishart too thought there had been enough of it, for she began to make preparations for departure. "Mrs. Wishart," said Mr. Dillwyn, "I have to thank you for the greatest pleasure I have enjoyed since I landed." "Unsought and unwished-for, too, according to Miss Lothrop's theory. Certainly we have to thank you, Philip, for we were in a distressed condition when you found us. Come and see me. And," she added _sotto voce_ as he was leading her out, and Lois had stepped on before them, "I consider that all the information that has been given you is strictly in confidence." "Quite delicious confidence!" "Yes, but not for all ears," added Mrs. Wishart somewhat anxiously. "I am glad you think me worthy. I will not abuse the trust." "I did not say I thought you worthy," said the lady, laughing; "I was not consulted. Young eyes see the world in the fresh colours of morning, and think daisies grow everywhere." They had reached the street. Mr. Dillwyn accompanied the ladies a part of their way, and then took leave of them. CHAPTER V. IN COUNCIL. Sauntering back to his hotel, Mr. Dillwyn's thoughts were a good deal engaged with the impressions of the last hour. It was odd, too; he had seen all varieties and descriptions of feminine fascination, or he thought he had; some of them in very high places, and with all the adventitious charms which wealth and place and breeding can add to those of nature's giving. Yet here was something new. A novelty as fresh as one of the daisies Mrs. Wishart had spoken of. He had seen daisies too before, he thought; and was not particularly fond of that style. No; this was something other than a daisy. Sauntering along and not heeding his surroundings, he was suddenly hailed by a joyful voice, and an arm was thrust within his own. "Philip! where did you come from? and when did you come?" "Only the other day--from Egypt--was coming to see you, but have been bothered with custom-house business. How do you all do, Tom?" "What are you bringing over? curiosities? or precious things?" "Might be both. How do you do, old boy?" "Very much put out, just at present, by a notion of my mother's; she will go to Florida to escape March winds." "Florida! Well, Florida is a good place, when March is stalking abroad like this. What are you put out for? I don't comprehend." "Yes, but you see, the month will be half over before she gets ready to be off; and what's the use? April will be here directly; she might just as well wait here for April." "You cannot pick oranges off the trees here in April. You forget that." "Don't want to pick 'em anywhere. But come along, and see them at home. They'll be awfully glad to see you." It was not far, and talking of nothings the two strolled that way. There was much rejoicing over Philip's return, and much curiosity expressed as to where he had been and what he had been doing for a long time past. Finally, Mrs. Caruthers proposed that he should go on to Florida with them. "Yes, do!" cried Tom. "You go, and I'll stay." "My dear Tom!" said his mother, "I could not possibly do without you." "Take Julia. I'll look after the house, and Dillwyn will look after your baggage." "And who will look after you, you silly boy?" said his sister. "You're the worst charge of all." "What is the matter?" Philip asked now. "Women's notions," said Tom. "Women are always full of notions! They can spy game at hawk's distance; only they make a mistake sometimes, which the hawk don't, I reckon; and think they see something when there is nothing." "We know what we see this time," said his sister. "Philip, he's dreadfully caught." "Not the first time?" said Dillwyn humorously. "No danger, is there?" "There is real danger," said Miss Julia. "He is caught with an impossible country girl." "Caught _by_ her? Fie, Tom! aren't you wiser?" "That's not fair!" cried Tom hotly. "She catches nobody, nor tries it, in the way you mean. I am not caught, either; that's more; but you shouldn't speak in that way." "Who is the lady? It is very plain Tom isn't caught. But where is she?" "She is a little country girl come to see the world for the first time. Of course she makes great eyes; and the eyes are pretty; and Tom couldn't stand it." Miss Julia spoke laughing, yet serious. "I should not think a little country girl would be dangerous to Tom." "No, would you? It's vexatious, to have one's confidence in one's brother so shaken." "What's the matter with her?" broke out Tom here. "I am not caught, as you call it, neither by her nor with her; but if you want to discuss her, I say, what's the matter with her?" "Nothing, Tom!" said his mother soothingly; "there is nothing whatever the matter with her; and I have no doubt she is a nice girl. But she has no education." "Hang education!" said Tom. "Anybody can pick that up. She can talk, I can tell you, better than anybody of all those you had round your table the other day. She's an uncommon good talker." "You are, you mean," said his sister; "and she listens and makes big eyes. Of course nothing can be more delightful. But, Tom, she knows nothing at all; not so much as how to dress herself." "Wasn't she well enough dressed the other day?" "Somebody arranged that for her." "Well, somebody could do it again. You girls think so much of _dressing_. It isn't the first thing about a woman, after all." "You men think enough about it, though. What would tempt you to go out with me if I wasn't _assez bien mise?_ Or what would take any man down Broadway with his wife if she hadn't a hoop on?" "Doesn't the lady in question wear a hoop?" inquired Philip. "No, she don't." "Singular want of taste!" "Well, you don't like them; but, after all, it's the fashion, and one can't help oneself. And, as I said, you may not like them, but you wouldn't walk with me if I hadn't one." "Then, to sum up--the deficiencies of this lady, as I understand, are,--education and a hoop? Is that all?" "By no means!" cried Mrs. Caruthers. "She is nobody, Philip. She comes from a family in the country--very respectable people, I have no doubt, but,--well, she is nobody. No connections, no habit of the world. And no money. They are quite poor people." "That _is_ serious," said Dillwyn. "Tom is in such straitened circumstances himself. I was thinking, he might be able to provide the hoop; but if she has no money, it is critical." "You may laugh!" said Miss Julia. "That is all the comfort one gets from a man. But he does not laugh when it comes to be his own case, and matters have gone too far to be mended, and he is feeling the consequences of his rashness." "You speak as if I were in danger! But I do not see how it should come to be 'my own case,' as I never even saw the lady. Who is she? and where is she? and how comes she--so dangerous--to be visiting you?" All spoke now at once, and Philip heard a confused medley of "Mrs. Wishart"--"Miss Lothrop"--"staying with her"--"poor cousin"--"kind to her of course." Mr. Dillwyn's countenance changed. "Mrs. Wishart!" he echoed. "Mrs. Wishart is irreproachable." "Certainly, but that does not put a penny in Miss Lothrop's pocket, nor give her position, nor knowledge of the world." "What do you mean by knowledge of the world?" Mr. Dillwyn inquired with slow words. "Why! you know. Just the sort of thing that makes the difference between the raw and the manufactured article," Miss Julia answered, laughing. She was comfortably conscious of being thoroughly "manufactured" herself. No crude ignorances or deficiencies there.--"The sort of thing that makes a person at home and _au fait_ everywhere, and in all companies, and shuts out awkwardnesses and inelegancies. "_Does_ it shut them out?" "Why, of course! How can you ask? What else will shut them out? All that makes the difference between a woman of the world and a milkmaid." "This little girl, I understand, then, is awkward and inelegant?" "She is nothing of the kind!" Tom burst out. "Ridiculous!" But Dillwyn waited for Miss Julia's answer. "I cannot call her just _awkward_," said Mrs. Caruthers. "N-o," said Julia, "perhaps not. She has been living with Mrs. Wishart, you know, and has got accustomed to a certain set of things. She does not strike you unpleasantly in society, seated at a lunch table, for instance; but of course all beyond the lunch table is like London to a Laplander." Tom flung himself out of the room. "And that is what you are going to Florida for?" pursued Dillwyn. "You have guessed it! Yes, indeed. Do you know, there seems to be nothing else to do. Tom is in actual danger. I know he goes very often to Mrs. Wishart's; and you know Tom is impressible; and before we know it he might do something he would be sorry for. The only thing is to get him away." "I think I will go to Mrs. Wishart's too," said Philip. "Do you think there would be danger?" "I don't know!" said Miss Julia, arching her brows. "I never can comprehend why the men take such furies of fancies for this girl or for that. To me they do not seem so different. I believe this girl takes just because she is not like the rest of what one sees every day." "That might be a recommendation. Did it never strike you, Miss Julia, that there is a certain degree of sameness in our world? Not in nature, for there the variety is simply endless; but in our ways of living. Here the effort seems to be to fall in with one general pattern. Houses and dresses; and entertainments, and even the routine of conversation. Generally speaking, it is all one thing." "Well," said Miss Julia, with spirit, "when anything is once recognized as the right thing, of course everybody wants to conform to it." "I have not recognized it as the right thing." "What?" "This uniformity." "What would you have?" "I think I would like to see, for a change, freedom and individuality. Why should a woman with sharp features dress her hair in a manner that sets off their sharpness, because her neighbour with a classic head can draw it severely about her in close bands and coils, and so only the better show its nobility of contour? Why may not a beautiful head of hair be dressed flowingly, because the fashion favours the people who have no hair at all? Why may not a plain dress set off a fine figure, because the mode is to leave no unbroken line or sweeping drapery anywhere? And I might go on endlessly." "I can't tell, I am sure," said Miss Julia; "but if one lives in the world, it won't do to defy the world. And that you know as well as I." "What would happen, I wonder?" "The world would quietly drop you. Unless you are a person of importance enough to set a new fashion." "Is there not some unworthy bondage about that?" "You can't help it, Philip Dillwyn, if there is. We have got to take it as it is; and make the best of it." "And this new Fate of Tom's--this new Fancy rather,--as I understand, she is quite out of the world?" "Quite. Lives in a village in New England somewhere, and grows onions." "For market?" said Philip, with a somewhat startled face. "No, no!" said Julia, laughing--"how could you think I meant that? No; I don't know anything about the onions; but she has lived among farmers and sailors all her life, and that is all she knows. And it is perfectly ridiculous, but Tom is so smitten with her that all we can do is to get him away. Fancy, Tom!" "He has got to come back," said Philip, rising. "You had better get somebody to take the girl away." "Perhaps you will do that?" said Miss Julia, laughing. "I'll think of it," said Dillwyn as he took leave. CHAPTER VI. HAPPINESS. Philip kept his promise. Thinking, however, he soon found, did not amount to much till he had seen more; and he went a few days after to Mrs. Wishart's house. It was afternoon. The sun was streaming in from the west, filling the sitting-room with its splendour; and in the radiance of it Lois was sitting with some work. She was as unadorned as when Philip had seen her the other day in the street; her gown was of some plain stuff, plainly made; she was a very unfashionable-looking person. But the good figure that Mr. Dillwyn liked to see was there; the fair outlines, simple and graceful, light and girlish; and the exquisite hair caught the light, and showed its varying, warm, bright tints. It was massed up somehow, without the least artificiality, in order, and yet lying loose and wavy; a beautiful combination which only a few heads can attain to. There was nobody else in the room; and as Lois rose to meet the visitor, he was not flattered to see that she did not recognize him. Then the next minute a flash of light came into her face. "I have had the pleasure," said Dillwyn. "I was afraid you were going to ignore the fact." "You gave us lunch the other day," said Lois, smiling. "Yes, I remember. I shall always remember." "You got home comfortably?" "O yes, after we were so fortified. Mrs. Wishart was quite exhausted, before lunch, I mean." "This is a pleasant situation," said Philip, going a step nearer the window. "Yes, very! I enjoy those rocks very much." "You have no rocks at home?" "No rocks," said Lois; "plenty of _rock_, or stone; but it comes up out of the ground just enough to make trouble, not to give pleasure. The country is all level." "And you enjoy the variety?" "O, not because it is variety. But I have been nowhere and have seen nothing in my life." "So the world is a great unopened book to you?" said Philip, with a smile regarding her. "It will always be that, I think," Lois replied, shaking her head. "Why should it?" "I live at Shampuashuh." "What then? Here you are in New York." "Yes, wonderfully. But I am going home again." "Not soon?" "Very soon. It will be time to begin to make garden in a few days." "Can the garden not be made without you?" "Not very well; for nobody knows, except me, just where things were planted last year." "And is that important?" "Very important." Lois smiled at his simplicity. "Because many things must be changed. They must not be planted where they were last year." "Why not?" "They would not do so well. They have all to shift about, like Puss-in-the-corner; and it is puzzling. The peas must go where the corn or the potatoes went; and the corn must find another place, and so on." "And you are the only one who keeps a map of the garden in your head?" "Not in my head," said Lois, smiling. "I keep it in my drawer." "Ah! That is being more systematic than I gave you credit for." "But you cannot do anything with a garden if you have not system." "Nor with anything else! But where did _you_ learn that?" "In the garden, I suppose," said Lois simply. She talked frankly and quietly. Mr. Dillwyn could see by her manner, he thought, that she would be glad if Mrs. Wishart would come in and take him off her hands; but there was no awkwardness or ungracefulness or unreadiness. In fact, it was the grace of the girl that struck him, not her want of it. Then she was so very lovely. A quiet little figure, in her very plain dress; but the features were exceedingly fair, the clear skin was as pure as a pearl, the head with its crown of soft bright hair might have belonged to one of the Graces. More than all, was the very rare expression and air of the face. That Philip could not read; he could not decide what gave the girl her special beauty. Something in the mind or soul of her, he was sure; and he longed to get at it and find out what it was. She is not commonplace, he said to himself, while he was talking something else to her;--but it is more than being not commonplace. She is very pure; but I have seen other pure faces. It is not that she is a Madonna; this is no creature ". . . . too bright and good For human nature's daily food." But what "daily food" for human nature she would be! She is a lofty creature; yet she is a half-timid country girl; and I suppose she does not know much beyond her garden. Yes, probably Mrs. Caruthers was right; she would not do for Tom. Tom is not a quarter good enough for her! She is a little country girl, and she does not know much; and yet--happy will be the man to whom she will give a free kiss of those wise, sweet lips! With these somewhat contradictory thoughts running through his mind, Mr. Dillwyn set himself seriously to entertain Lois. As she had never travelled, he told her of things he had seen--and things he had known without seeing--in his own many journeyings about the world. Presently Lois dropped her work out of her hands, forgot it, and turned upon Mr. Dillwyn a pair of eager, intelligent eyes, which it was a pleasure to talk to. He became absorbed in his turn, and equally; ministering to the attention and curiosity and power of imagination he had aroused. What listeners her eyes were! and how quick to receive and keen to pass judgement was the intelligence behind them. It surprised him; however, its responses were mainly given through the eyes. In vain he tried to get a fair share of words from her too; sought to draw her out. Lois was not afraid to speak; and yet, for sheer modesty and simpleness, that supposed her words incapable of giving pleasure and would not speak them as a matter of conventionality, she said very few. At last Philip made a determined effort to draw her out. "I have told you now about my home," he said. "What is yours like?" And his manner said, I am going to stop, and you are going to begin. "There is nothing striking about it, I think," said Lois. "Perhaps you think so, just because it is familiar to you." "No, it is because there is really not much to tell about it. There are just level farm fields; and the river, and the Sound." "The river?" "The Connecticut." "O, _that_ is where you are, is it? And are you near the river?" "Not very near. About as near the river on one side as we are to the Sound on the other; either of them is a mile and more away." "You wish they were nearer?" "No," said Lois; "I don't think I do; there is always the pleasure of going to them." "Then you should wish them further. A mile is a short drive." "O, we do not drive much. We walk to the shore often, and sometimes to the river." "You like the large water so much the best?" "I think I like it best," said Lois, laughing a little; "but we go for clams." "Can you get them yourself?" "Certainly! It is great fun. While you go to drive in the Park, we go to dig clams. And I think we have the best of it too, for a stand-by." "Do tell me about the clams." "Do you like them?" "I suppose I do. I do not know them. What are they? the usual little soup fish?" "I don't know about soup fish. O no! not those; they are _not_ the sort Mrs. Wishart has sometimes. These are long; ours in the Sound, I mean; longish and blackish; and do not taste like the clams you have here." "Better, I hope?" "A great deal better. There is nothing much pleasanter than a dish of long clams that you have dug yourself. At least we think so." "Because you have got them yourself!" "No; but I suppose that helps." "So you get them by digging?" "Yes. It is funny work. The clams are at the edge of the water, where the rushes grow, in the mud. We go for them when the tide is out. Then, in the blue mud you see quantities of small holes as big as a lead pencil would make; those are the clam holes." "And what then?" "Then we dig for them; dig with a hoe; and you must dig very fast, or the clam will get away from you. Then, if you get pretty near him he spits at you." "I suppose that is a harmless remonstrance." "It may come in your face." Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little, looking at this fair creature, who was talking to him, and finding it hard to imagine her among the rushes racing with a long clam. "It is wet ground I suppose, where you find the clams?" "O yes. One must take off shoes and stockings and go barefoot. But the mud is warm, and it is pleasant enough." "The clams must be good, to reward the trouble?" "We think it is as pleasant to get them as to eat them." "I believe you remarked, this sport is your substitute for our Central Park?" "Yes, it is a sort of a substitute." "And, in the comparison, you think you are the gainers?" "You cannot compare the two things," said Lois; "only that both are ways of seeking pleasure." "So you say; and I wanted your comparative estimate of the two ways." "Central Park is new to me, you know," said Lois; "and I am very fond of riding,--_driving_, Mrs. Wishart says I ought to call it; the scene is like fairyland to me. But I do not think it is better fun, really, than going after clams. And the people do not seem to enjoy it a quarter as much." "The people whom you see driving?" "Yes. They do not look as if they were taking much pleasure. Most of them." "Pray why should they go, if they do not find pleasure in it?" Lois looked at her questioner. "You can tell, better than I, Mr. Dillwyn. For the same reasons, I suppose, that they do other things." "Pardon me,--what things do you mean?" "I mean, _all_ the things they do for pleasure, or that are supposed to be for pleasure. Parties--luncheon parties, and dinners, and--" Lois hesitated. "_Supposed_ to be for pleasure!" Philip echoed the words. "Excuse me--but what makes you think they do not gain their end?" "People do not look really happy," said Lois. "They do not seem to me as if they really enjoyed what they were doing." "You are a nice observer!" "Am I?" "Pray, at--I forget the name--your home in the country, are the people more happily constituted?" "Not that I know of. Not more happily constituted; but I think they live more natural lives." "Instance!" said Philip, looking curious. "Well," said Lois, laughing and colouring, "I do not think they do things unless they want to. They do not ask people unless they want to see them; and when they _do_ make a party, everybody has a good time. It is not brilliant, or splendid, or wonderful, like parties here; but yet I think it is more really what it is meant to be." "And here you think things are not what they are meant to be?" "Perhaps I am mistaken," said Lois modestly. "I have seen so little." "You are not mistaken in your general view. It would be a mistake to think there are no exceptions." "O, I do not think that." "But it is matter of astonishment to me, how you have so soon acquired such keen discernment. Is it that you do not enjoy these occasions yourself?" "O, I enjoy them intensely," said Lois, smiling. "Sometimes I think I am the only one of the company that does; but _I_ enjoy them." "By the power of what secret talisman?" "I don't know;--being happy, I suppose," said Lois shyly. "You are speaking seriously; and therefore you are touching the greatest question of human life. Can you say of yourself that you are truly _happy?_" Lois met his eyes in a little wonderment at this questioning, and answered a plain "yes." "But, to be _happy_, with me, means, to be independent of circumstances. I do not call him _happy_, whose happiness is gone if the east wind blow, or a party miscarry, or a bank break; even though it were the bank in which his property is involved." "Nor do I," said Lois gravely. "And--pray forgive me for asking!--but, are you happy in this exclusive sense?" "I have no property in a bank," said Lois, smiling again; "I have not been tried that way; but I suppose it may do as well to have no property anywhere. Yes, Mr. Dillwyn." "But that is equal to having the philosopher's stone!" cried Dillwyn. "What is the philosopher's stone?" "The wise men of old time made themselves very busy in the search for some substance, or composition, which would turn other substances to gold. Looking upon gold as the source and sum of all felicity, they spent endless pains and countless time upon the search for this transmuting substance. They thought, if they could get gold enough, they would be happy. Sometimes some one of them fancied he was just upon the point of making the immortal discovery; but there he always broke down." "They were looking in the wrong place," said Lois thoughtfully. "Is there a _right_ place to look then?" Lois smiled. It was a smile that struck Philip very much, for its calm and confident sweetness; yes, more than that; for its gladness. She was not in haste to answer; apparently she felt some difficulty. "I do not think gold ever made anybody happy," she said at length. "That is what moralists tell us. But, after all, Miss Lothrop, money is the means to everything else in this world." "Not to happiness, is it?" "Well, what is, then? They say--and perhaps you will say--that friendships and affections can do more; but I assure you, where there are not the means to stave off grinding toil or crushing poverty, affections wither; or if they do not quite wither, they bear no golden fruit of happiness. On the contrary, they offer vulnerable spots to the stings of pain." "Money can do a great deal," said Lois. "What can do more?" Lois lifted up her eyes and looked at her questioner inquiringly. Did he know no better than that? "With money, one can do everything," he went on, though struck by her expression. "Yes," said Lois; "and yet--all that never satisfied anybody." "Satisfied!" cried Philip. "Satisfied is a very large word. Who is satisfied?" Lois glanced up again, mutely. "If I dared venture to say so--you look, Miss Lothrop, you absolutely look, as if _you_ were; and yet it is impossible." "Why is it impossible?" "Because it is what all the generations of men have been trying for, ever since the world began; and none of them ever found it." "Not if they looked for it in their money bags," said Lois. "It was never found there." "Was it ever found anywhere?" "Why, yes!" "Pray tell me where, that I may have it too!" The girl's cheeks flushed; and what was very odd to Philip, her eyes, he was sure, had grown moist; but the lids fell over them, and he could not see as well as he wished. What a lovely face it was, he thought, in this its mood of stirred gravity! "Do you ever read the Bible, Mr. Dillwyn?" The question occasioned him a kind of revulsion. The Bible! was _that_ to be brought upon his head? A confused notion of organ-song, the solemnity of a still house, a white surplice, and words in measured cadence, came over him. Nothing in that connection had ever given him the idea of being satisfied. But Lois's question-- "The Bible?" he repeated. "May I ask, why you ask?" "I thought you did not know something that is in it." "Very possibly. It is the business of clergymen, isn't it, to tell us what is in it? That is what they are paid for. Of what are you thinking?" "I was thinking of a person in it, mentioned in it, I mean,--who said just what you said a minute ago." "What was that? And who was that?" "It was a poor woman who once held a long talk with the Lord Jesus as he was resting beside a well. She had come to draw water, and Jesus asked her for some; and then he told her that whoever drank of that water would thirst again--as she knew; but whoever should drink of the water that _he_ would give, should never thirst. I was telling you of that water, Mr. Dillwyn. And the woman answered just what you answered--'Give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw.'" "Did she get it?" "I think she did." "You mean, something that satisfied her, and would satisfy me?" "It satisfies every one who drinks of it," said Lois. "But you know, I do not in the least understand you." The girl rose up and fetched a Bible which lay upon a distant table. Philip looked at the book as she brought it near; no volume of Mrs. Wishart's, he was sure. Lois had had her own Bible with her in the drawing-room. She must be one of the devout kind. He was sorry. He believed they were a narrow and prejudiced sort of people, given to laying down the law and erecting barricades across other people's paths. He was sorry this fair girl was one of them. But she was a lovely specimen. Could she unlearn these ways, perhaps? But now, what was she going to bring forth to him out of the Bible? He watched the fingers that turned the leaves; pretty fingers enough, and delicate, but not very white. Gardening probably was not conducive to the blanching of a lady's hand. It was a pity. She found her place so soon that he had little time to think his regrets. "You allowed that nobody is satisfied, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois then. "See if you understand this." "'Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money: come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money, and without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.'" Lois closed her book. "Who says that?" Philip inquired. "God himself, by his messenger." "And to whom?" "I think, just now, the words come to you, Mr. Dillwyn." Lois said this with a manner and look of such simplicity, that Philip was not even reminded of the class of monitors he had in his mind assigned her with. It was absolute simple matter of fact; she meant business. "May I look at it?" he said. She found the page again, and he considered it. Then as he gave it back, remarked, "This does not tell me yet _what_ this satisfying food is?" "No, that you can know only by experience." "How is the experience to be obtained?" Again Lois found the words in her book and showed them to him. "'Whosoever drinketh of the water _that I shall give him_'--and again, above, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of him, and _he would have given thee_ living water.' Christ gives it, and he must be asked for it." "And then--?" said Philip. "Then you would be _satisfied_." "You think it?" "I know it." "It takes a great deal to satisfy a man!" "Not more than it does for a woman." "And you are satisfied?" he asked searchingly. But Lois smiled as she gave her answer; and it was an odd and very inconsistent thing that Philip should be disposed to quarrel with her for that smile. I think he wished she were _not_ satisfied. It was very absurd, but he did not reason about it; he only felt annoyed. "Well, Miss Lothrop," he said as he rose, "I shall never forget this conversation. I am very glad no one came in to interrupt it." Lois had no phrases of society ready, and replied nothing. CHAPTER VII. THE WORTH OF THINGS. Mr. Dillwyn walked away from Mrs. Wishart's in a discontented mood, which was not usual with him. He felt almost annoyed with something; yet did not quite know what, and he did not stop to analyze the feeling. He walked away, wondering at himself for being so discomposed, and pondering with sufficient distinctness one or two questions which stood out from the discomposure. He was a man who had gone through all the usual routine of education and experience common to those who belong to the upper class of society, and can boast of a good name and family. He had lived his college life; he had travelled; he knew the principal cities of his own country, and many in other lands, with sufficient familiarity. Speaking generally, he had seen everything, and knew everybody. He had ceased to be surprised at anything, or to expect much from the world beyond what his own efforts and talents could procure him. His connections and associations had been always with good society and with the old and established portions of it; but he had come into possession of his property not so very long ago, and the pleasure of that was not yet worn off. He was a man who thought himself happy, and certainly possessed a very high place in the esteem of those who knew him; being educated, travelled, clever, and of noble character, and withal rich. It was the oddest thing for Philip to walk as he walked now, musingly, with measured steps, and eyes bent on the ground. There was a most strange sense of uneasiness upon him. The image of Lois busied him constantly. It was such a lovely image. But he had seen hundreds of handsomer women, he told himself. Had he? Yes, he thought so. Yet not one, not one of them all, had made as much impression upon him. It was inconvenient; and why was it inconvenient? Something about her bewitched him. Yes, he had seen handsomer women; but more or less they were all of a certain pattern; not alike in feature, or name, or place, or style, yet nevertheless all belonging to the general sisterhood of what is called the world. And this girl was different. How different? She was uneducated, but _that_ could not give a charm; though Philip thereby reflected that there was a certain charm in variety, and this made variety. She was unaccustomed to the great world and its ways; there could be no charm in that, for he liked the utmost elegance of the best breeding. Here he fetched himself up again. Lois was not in the least ill-bred. Nothing of the kind. She was utterly and truly refined, in every look and word and movement showing that she was so. Yet she had no "manner," as Mrs. Caruthers would have expressed it. No, she had not. She had no trained and inevitable way of speaking and looking; her way was her own, and sprang naturally from the truth of her thought or feeling at the moment. Therefore it could never be counted upon, and gave one the constant pleasure of surprises. Yes, Philip concluded that this was one point of interest about her. She had not learned how to hide herself, and the manner of her revelations was a continual refreshing variety, inasmuch as what she had to reveal was only fair and delicate and true. But what made the girl so provokingly happy? so secure in her contentment? Mr. Dillwyn thought himself a happy man; content with himself and with life; yet life had reached something too like a dead level, and himself, he was conscious, led a purposeless sort of existence. What purpose indeed was there to live for? But this little girl--Philip recalled the bright, soft, clear expression of eye with which she had looked at him; the very sweet curves of happy consciousness about her lips; the confident bearing with which she had spoken, as one who had found a treasure which, as she said, satisfied her. But it cannot! said Philip to himself. It is that she is pure and sweet, and takes happiness like a baby, sucking in what seems to her the pure milk of existence. It is true, the remembered expression of Lois's features did not quite agree with this explanation; pure and sweet, no doubt, but also grave and high, and sometimes evidencing a keen intellectual perception and wisdom. Not just like a baby; and he found he could not dismiss the matter so. What made her, then, so happy? Philip could not remember ever seeing a grown person who seemed so happy; whose happiness seemed to rest on such a steady foundation. Can she be in love? thought Dillwyn; and the idea gave him a most unreasonable thrill of displeasure. For a moment only; then his reason told him that the look in Lois's face was not like that. It was not the brilliance of ecstasy; it was the sunshine of deep and fixed content. Why in the world should Mr. Dillwyn wish that Lois were not so content? so beyond what he or anybody could give her? And having got to this point, Mr. Dillwyn pulled himself up again. What business was it of his, the particular spring of happiness she had found to drink of? and if it quenched her thirst, as she said it did, why should he be anything but glad of it? Why, even if Lois were happy in some new-found human treasure, should it move him, Philip Dillwyn, with discomfort? Was it possible that he too could be following in those steps of Tom Caruthers, from which Tom's mother was at such pains to divert her son? Philip began to see where he stood. Could it be?--and what if? He studied the question now with a clear view of its bearings. He had got out of a fog. Lois was all he had thought of her. Would she do for a wife for him? Uneducated--inexperienced--not in accord with the habits of the world--accustomed to very different habits and society--with no family to give weight to her name and honour to his choice,--all that Philip pondered; and, on the other side, the loveliness, the freshness, the intellect, the character, and the refinement, which were undoubted. He pondered and pondered. A girl who was nobody, and whom society would look upon as an intruder; a girl who had had no advantages of education--how she could express herself so well and so intelligently Philip could not conceive, but the fact was there; Lois had had no education beyond the most simple training of a school in the country;--would it do? He turned it all over and over, and shook his head. It would be too daring an experiment; it would not be wise; it would not do; he must give it up, all thought of such a thing; and well that he had come to handle the question so early, as else he might--he--might have got so entangled that he could not save himself. Poor Tom! But Philip had no mother to interpose to save _him;_ and his sister was not at hand. He went thinking about all this the whole way back to his hotel; thinking, and shaking his head at it. No, this kind of thing was for a boy to do, not for a man who knew the world. And yet, the image of Lois worried him. I believe, he said to himself, I had better not see the little witch again. Meanwhile he was not going to have much opportunity. Mrs. Wishart came home a little while after Philip had gone. Lois was stitching by the last fading light. "Do stop, my dear! you will put your eyes out. Stop, and let us have tea. Has anybody been here?" "Mr. Dillwyn came. He went away hardly a quarter of an hour ago." "Mr. Dillwyn! Sorry I missed him. But he will come again. I met Tom Caruthers; he is mourning about this going with his mother to Florida." "What are they going for?" asked Lois. "To escape the March winds, he says." "Who? Mr. Caruthers? He does not look delicate." Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Not very! And his mother don't either, does she? But, my dear, people are weak in different spots; it isn't always in their lungs." "Are there no March winds in Florida?" "Not where they are going. It is all sunshine and oranges--and orange blossoms. But Tom is not delighted with the prospect. What do you think of that young man?" "He is a very handsome man." "Is he not? But I did not mean that. Of course you have eyes. I want to know whether you have judgment." "I have not seen much of Mr. Caruthers to judge by." "No. Take what you have seen and make the most of it." "I don't think I have judgment," said Lois. "About people, I mean, and men especially. I am not accustomed to New York people, besides." "Are they different from Shampuashuh people?" "O, very." "How?" "Miss Caruthers asked me the same thing," said Lois, smiling. "I suppose at bottom all people are alike; indeed, I know they are. But in the country I think they show out more." "Less disguise about them?" "I think so." "My dear, are we such a set of masqueraders in your eyes?" "No," said Lois; "I did not mean that." "What do you think of Philip Dillwyn? Comare him with young Caruthers." "I cannot," said Lois. "Mr. Dillwyn strikes me as a man who knows everything there is in all the world." "And Tom, you think, does not?" "Not so much," said, Lois hesitating; "at least he does not impress me so." "You are more impressed with Mr. Dillwyn?" "In what way?" said Lois simply. "I am impressed with the sense of my own ignorance. I should be oppressed by it, if it was my fault." "Now you speak like a sensible girl, as you are. Lois, men do not care about women knowing much." "Sensible men must." "They are precisely the ones who do not. It is odd enough, but it is a fact. But go on; which of these two do you like best?" "I have seen most of Mr. Caruthers, you know. But, Mrs. Wishart, sensible men _must_ like sense in other people." "Yes, my dear; they do; unless when they want to marry the people; and then their choice very often lights upon a fool. I have seen it over and over and over again; the clever one of a family is passed by, and a silly sister is the one chosen." "Why?" "A pink and white skin, or a pair of black eyebrows, or perhaps some soft blue eyes." "But people cannot live upon a pair of black eyebrows," said Lois. "They find that out afterwards." "Mr. Dillwyn talks as if he liked sense," said Lois. "I mean, he talks about sensible things." "Do you mean that Tom don't, my dear?" A slight colour rose on the cheek Mrs. Wishart was looking at; and Lois said somewhat hastily that she was not comparing. "I shall try to find out what Tom talks to you about, when he comes back from Florida. I shall scold him if he indulges in nonsense." "It will be neither sense nor nonsense. I shall be gone long before then." "Gone whither?" "Home--to Shampuashuh. I have been wanting to speak to you about it, Mrs. Wishart. I must go in a very few days." "Nonsense! I shall not let you. I cannot get along without you. They don't want you at home, Lois." "The garden does. And the dairy work will be more now in a week or two; there will be more milk to take care of, and Madge will want help." "Dairy work! Lois, you must not do dairy work. You will spoil your hands." Lois laughed. "Somebody's hands must do it. But Madge takes care of the dairy. My hands see to the garden." "Is it necessary?" "Why, yes, certainly, if we would have butter or vegetables; and you would not counsel us to do without them. The two make half the living of the family." "And you really cannot afford a servant?" "No, nor want one," said Lois. "There are three of us, and so we get along nicely." "Apropos;--My dear, I am sorry that it is so, but must is must. What I wanted to say to you is, that it is not necessary to tell all this to other people." Lois looked up, surprised. "I have told no one but you, Mrs. Wishart. O yes! I did speak to Mr. Dillwyn about it, I believe." "Yes. Well, there is no occasion, my dear. It is just as well not." "Is it _better_ not? What is the harm? Everybody at Shampuashuh knows it." "Nobody knows it here; and there is no reason why they should. I meant to tell you this before." "I think I have told nobody but Mr. Dillwyn." "He is safe. I only speak for the future, my dear." "I don't understand yet," said Lois, half laughing. "Mrs. Wishart, we are not ashamed of it." "Certainly not, my dear; you have no occasion." "Then why _should_ we be ashamed of it?" Lois persisted. "My dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do not think I mean that. Only, people here would not understand it." "How could they _mis_understand it?" "You do not know the world, Lois. People have peculiar ways of looking at things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and of course they often make great blunders. And so it is just as well to keep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them the opportunity of blundering." Lois was silent a little while. "You mean," she said then,--"you think, that some of these people I have been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we do at home?" "They might, my dear. People are just stupid enough for that." "Then it seems to me I ought to let them know," Lois said, half laughing again. "I do not like to be taken for what I am not; and I do not want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." Her colour rose a bit at the same time. "My dear, it is nobody's business. And anybody that once knew you would judge you for yourself, and not upon any adventitious circumstances. They cannot, in my opinion, think of you too highly." "I think it is better they should know at once that I am a poor girl," said Lois. However, she reflected privately that it did not matter, as she was going away so soon. And she remembered also that Mr. Dillwyn had not seemed to think any the less of her for what she had told him. Did Tom Caruthers know? "But, Lois, my dear, about your going-- There is no garden work to be done yet. It is March." "It will soon be April. And the ground must be got ready, and potatoes must go in, and peas." "Surely somebody else can stick in potatoes and peas." "They would not know where to put them." "Does it matter where?" "To be sure it does!" said Lois, amused. "They must not go where they were last year." "Why not?" "I don't know! It seems that every plant wants a particular sort of food, and gets it, if it can; and so, the place where it grows is more or less impoverished, and would have less to give it another year. But a different sort of plant requiring a different sort of food, would be all right in that place." "Food?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Do you mean manure? you can have that put in." "No, I do not mean that. I mean something the plant gets from the soil itself." "I do not understand! Well, my dear, write them word where the peas must go." Lois laughed again. "I hardly know myself, till I have studied the map," she said. "I mean, the map of the garden. It is a more difficult matter than you can guess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to be changed; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where the cabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. It is a matter for study." "Can't somebody else do it for you?" Mrs. Wishart asked compassionately. "There is no one else. We have just our three selves; and all that is done we do; and the garden is under my management." "Well, my dear, you are wonderful women; that is all I have to say. But, Lois, you must pay me a visit by and by in the summer time; I must have that; I shall go to the Isles of Shoals for a while, and I am going to have you there." "If I can be spared from home, dear Mrs. Wishart, it would be delightful!" CHAPTER VIII. MRS. ARMADALE. It was a few days later, but March yet, and a keen wind blowing from the sea. A raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemed the good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling the farmhouse kitchen. The farmhouse was not very large, neither by consequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarily pleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so was furnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of the family, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place. The floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofa looked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, well cushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and a pretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. One person only sat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her a little table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. She was not reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, with hands folded in her lap. By the look of the hands they had done many a job of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of the person, one could see that the hard work was over. The hands were bony, thin, enlarged at the joints, so as age and long rough usage make them, but quiet hands now; and the face was steady and calm, with no haste or restlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweet and gracious repose. It was a hard-featured countenance; it had never been handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and the dignity of a well-lived life. Something more too; some thing of a more noble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restful repose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content than has its ground in the actual present. She was a most reverent person, to look at. Just now she was waiting for something, and listening; for her ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feet coming down the stair, and then Lois entered upon the scene; evidently fresh from her journey. She had been to her room to lay by her wrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, with an enveloping white apron. She came up and kissed once more the face which had watched her entrance. "You've been gone a good while, Lois!" "Yes, grandma. Too long, did you think?" "I don' know, child. That depends on what you stayed for." "Does it? Grandma, I don't know what I stayed for. I suppose because it was pleasant." "Pleasanter than here?" "Grandma, I haven't been home long enough to know. It all looks and feels so strange to me as you cannot think!" "What looks strange?" "Everything! The house, and the place, and the furniture--I have been living in such a different world till my eyes have grown unaccustomed. You can't think how odd it is." "What sort of a world have you been living in, Lois? Your letters didn't tell." The old lady spoke with a certain serious doubtfulness, looking at the girl by her side. "Didn't they?" Lois returned. "I suppose I did not give you the impression because I had it not myself. I had got accustomed to that, you see; and I did not realize how strange it was. I just took it as if I had always lived in it." "_What?_" "O grandma, I can never tell you so that you can understand! It was like living in the Arabian Nights." "I don't believe in no Arabian Nights." "And yet they were there, you see. Houses so beautiful, and filled with such beautiful things; and you know, grandmother, I like things to be pretty;--and then, the ease, I suppose. Mrs. Wishart's servants go about almost like fairies; they are hardly seen or heard, but the work is done. And you never have to think about it; you go out, and come home to find dinner ready, and capital dinners too; and you sit reading or talking, and do not know how time goes till it is tea-time, and then there comes the tea; and so it is in-doors and out of doors. All that is quite pleasant." "And you are sorry to be home again?" "No, indeed, I am glad. I enjoyed all I have been telling you about, but I think I enjoyed it quite long enough. It is time for me to be here. Is the frost well out of the ground yet?" "Mr. Bince has been ploughin'." "Has he? I'm glad. Then I'll put in some peas to-morrow. O yes! I am glad to be home, grandma." Her hand nestled in one of those worn, bony ones affectionately. "Could you live just right there, Lois?" "I tried, grandma." "Did all that help you?" "I don't know that it hindered. It might not be good for always; but I was there only for a little while, and I just took the pleasure of it." "Seems to me, you was there a pretty long spell to be called 'a little while.' Ain't it a dangerous kind o' pleasure, Lois? Didn't you never get tempted?" "Tempted to what, grandma?" "I don' know! To want to live easy." "Would that be wrong?" said Lois, putting her soft cheek alongside the withered one, so that her wavy hair brushed it caressingly. Perhaps it was unconscious bribery. But Mrs. Armadale was never bribed. "It wouldn't be right, Lois, if it made you want to get out o' your duties." "I think it didn't, grandma. I'm all ready for them. And your dinner is the first thing. Madge and Charity--you say they are gone to New Haven?" "Charity's tooth tormented her so, and Madge wanted to get a bonnet; and they thought they'd make one job of it. They didn't know you was comin' to-day, and they thought they'd just hit it to go before you come. They won't be back early, nother." "What have they left for your dinner?" said Lois, going to rummage. "Grandma, here's nothing at all!" "An egg'll do, dear. They didn't calkilate for you." "An egg will do for me," said Lois, laughing; "but there's only a crust of bread." "Madge calkilated to make tea biscuits after she come home." "Then I'll do that now." Lois stripped up the sleeves from her shapely arms, and presently was very busy at the great kitchen table, with the board before her covered with white cakes, and the cutter and rolling pin still at work producing more. Then the fire was made up, and the tin baker set in front of the blaze, charged with a panful for baking. Lois stripped down her sleeves and set the table, cut ham and fried it, fried eggs, and soon sat opposite Mrs. Armadale pouring her out a cup of tea. "This is cosy!" she exclaimed. "It is nice to have you all alone for the first, grandma. What's the news?" "Ain't no news, child. Mrs. Saddler's been to New London for a week." "And I have come home. Is that all?" "I don't make no count o' news, child. 'One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever.'" "But one likes to hear of the things that change, grandma." "Do 'ee? I like to hear of the things that remain." "But grandma! the earth itself changes; at least it is as different in different places as anything can be." "Some's cold, and some's hot," observed the old lady. "It is much more than that. The trees are different, and the fruits are different; and the animals; and the country is different, and the buildings, and the people's dresses." "The men and women is the same," said the old lady contentedly. "But no, not even that, grandma. They are as different as they can be, and still be men and women." "'As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.' Be the New York folks so queer, then, Lois?" "O no, not the New York people; though they are different too; quite different from Shampuashuh--" "How?" Lois did not want to say. Her grandmother, she thought, could not understand her; and if she could understand, she thought she would be perhaps hurt. She turned the conversation. Then came the clearing away the remains of dinner; washing the dishes; baking the rest of the tea-cakes; cleansing and putting away the baker; preparing flour for next day's bread-making; making her own bed and putting her room in order; doing work in the dairy which Madge was not at home to take care of; brushing up the kitchen, putting on the kettle, setting the table for tea. Altogether Lois had a busy two or three hours, before she could put on her afternoon dress and come and sit down by her grandmother. "It is a change!" she said, smiling. "Such a different life from what I have been living. You can't think, grandma, what a contrast between this afternoon and last Friday." "What was then?" "I was sitting in Mrs. Wishart's drawing-room, doing nothing but play work, and a gentleman talking to me." "Why was he talking to _you?_ Warn't Mrs. Wishart there?" "No; she was out." "What did he talk to you for?" "I was the only one there was," said Lois. But looking back, she could not avoid the thought that Mr. Dillwyn's long stay and conversation had not been solely a taking up with what he could get. "He could have gone away," said Mrs. Armadale, echoing her thought. "I do not think he wanted to go away. I think he liked to talk to me." It was very odd too, she thought. "And did you like to talk to him?" "Yes. You know I hare not much to talk about; but somehow he seemed to find out what there was." "Had _he_ much to talk about?" "I think there is no end to that," said Lois. "He has been all over the world and seen everything; and he is a man of sense, to care for the things that are worth while; and he is educated; and it is very entertaining to hear him talk." "Who is he? A young man?" "Yes, he is young. O, he is an old friend of Mrs. Wishart." "Did you like him best of all the people you saw?" "O no, not by any means. I hardly know him, in fact; not so well as others." "Who are the others?" "What others, grandmother?" "The other people that you like better." Lois named several ladies, among them Mrs. Wishart, her hostess. "There's no men's names among them," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "Didn't you see none, savin' that one?" "Plenty!" said Lois, smiling. "An' nary one that you liked?" "Why, yes, grandmother; several; but of course--" "What of course?" "I was going to say, of course I did not have much to do with them; but there was one I had a good deal to do with." "Who was he?" "He was a young Mr. Caruthers. O, I did not have much to do with _him;_ only he was there pretty often, and talked to me. He was pleasant." "Was he a real godly man?" "No, grandmother. He is not a Christian at all, I think." "And yet he pleased you, Lois?" "I did not say so, grandmother." "I heerd it in the tone of your voice." "Did you? Yes, he was pleasant. I liked him pretty well. People that you would call godly people never came there at all. I suppose there must be some in New York; but I did not see any." There was silence a while. "Eliza Wishart must keep poor company, if there ain't one godly one among 'em," Mrs. Armadale began again. But Lois was silent. "What do they talk about?" "Everything in the world, except that. People and things, and what this one says and what that one did, and this party and that party. I can't tell you, grandma. There seemed no end of talk; and yet it did not amount to much when all was done. I am not speaking of a few, gentlemen like Mr. Dillwyn, and a few more." "But he ain't a Christian?" "No." "Nor t'other one? the one you liked." "No." "I'm glad you've come away, Lois." "Yes, grandma, and so am I; but why?" "You know why. A Christian woman maunt have nothin' to do with men that ain't Christian." "Nothing to do! Why, we must, grandma. We cannot help seeing people and talking to them." "The snares is laid that way," said Mrs. Armadale. "What are we to do, then, grandmother?" "Lois Lothrop," said the old lady, suddenly sitting upright, "what's the Lord's will?" "About--what?" "About drawin' in a yoke with one that don't go your way?" "He says, don't do it." "Then mind you don't." "But, grandma, there is no talk of any such thing in this case," said Lois, half laughing, yet a little annoyed. "Nobody was thinking of such a thing." "You don' know what they was thinkin' of." "I know what they _could not_ have thought of. I am different from them; I am not of their world; and I am not educated, and I am poor. There is no danger, grandmother." "Lois, child, you never know where danger is comin'. It's safe to have your armour on, and keep out o' temptation. Tell me you'll never let yourself like a man that ain't Christian!" "But I might not be able to help liking him." "Then promise me you'll never marry no sich a one." "Grandma, I'm not thinking of marrying." "Lois, what is the Lord's will about it?" "I know, grandma," Lois answered rather soberly. "And you know why. 'Thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods.' I've seen it, Lois, over and over agin. I've been a woman--or a man--witched away and dragged down, till if they hadn't lost all the godliness they ever had, it warn't because they didn't seem so. And the children grew up to be scapegraces.'" "Don't it sometimes work the other way?" "Not often, if a Christian man or woman has married wrong with their eyes open. Cos it proves, Lois, _that_ proves, that the ungodly one of the two has the most power; and what he has he's like to keep. Lois, I mayn't be here allays to look after you; promise me that you'll do the Lord's will." "I hope I will, grandma," Lois answered soberly. "Read them words in Corinthians again." Lois got the Bible and obeyed, "'Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? and what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?'" "Lois, ain't them words plain?" "Very plain, grandma." "Will ye mind 'em?" "Yes, grandma; by his grace." "Ay, ye may want it," said the old lady; "but it's safe to trust the Lord. An' I'd rather have you suffer heartbreak follerin' the Lord, than goin' t'other way. Now you may read to me, Lois. We'll have it before they come home." "Who has read to you while I have been gone?" "O, one and another. Madge mostly; but Madge don't care, and so she don' know how to read." Mrs. Armadale's sight was not good; and it was the custom for one of the girls, Lois generally, to read her a verse or two morning and evening. Generally it was a small portion, talked over if they had time, and if not, then thought over by the old lady all the remainder of the day or evening, as the case might be. For she was like the man of whom it is written--"His delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night." "What shall I read, grandma?" "You can't go wrong." The epistle to the Corinthians lay open before Lois, and she read the words following those which had just been called for. "'And what agreement hath the temple of God with idols? for ye are the temple of the living God; as God hath said, I will dwell in them, and walk in them; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. Wherefore come ye out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you, and will be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.'" If anybody had been there to see, the two women made the loveliest picture at this moment. The one of them old, weather-worn, plain-featured, sitting with the quiet calm of the end of a work day and listening; the other young, blooming, fresh, lovely, with a wealth of youthful charms about her, bending a little over the big book on her lap; on both faces a reverent sweet gravity which was most gracious. Lois read and stopped, without looking up. "I think small of all the world, alongside o' that promise, Lois." "And so do I, grandmother." "But, you see, the Lord's sons and daughters has got to be separate from other folks." "In some ways." "Of course they've got to live among folks, but they've got to be separate for all; and keep their garments." "I do not believe it is easy in a place like New York," said Lois. "Seems to me I was getting all mixed up." "'Tain't easy nowheres, child. Only, where the way is very smooth, folks slides quicker." "How can one be 'separate' always, grandma, in the midst of other people?" "Take care that you keep nearest to God. Walk with him; and you'll be pretty sure to be separate from the most o' folks." There was no more said. Lois presently closed the book and laid it away, and the two sat in silence awhile. I will not affirm that Lois did not feel something of a stricture round her, since she had given that promise so clearly. Truly the promise altered nothing, it only made things somewhat more tangible; and there floated now and then past Lois's mental vision an image of a handsome head, crowned with graceful locks of luxuriant light brown hair, and a face of winning pleasantness, and eyes that looked eagerly into her eyes. It came up now before her, this vision, with a certain sense of something lost. Not that she had ever reckoned that image as a thing won; as belonging, or ever possibly to belong, to herself; for Lois never had such a thought for a moment. All the same came now the vision before her with the commentary,--'You never can have it. That acquain'tance, and that friendship, and that intercourse, is a thing of the past; and whatever for another it might have led to, it could lead to nothing for you.' It was not a defined thought; rather a floating semi-consciousness; and Lois presently rose up and went from thought to action. CHAPTER IX. THE FAMILY. The spring day was fading into the dusk of evening, when feet and voices heard outside announced that the travellers were returning. And in they came, bringing a breeze of business and a number of tied-up parcels with them into the quiet house. "The table ready! how good! and the fire. O, it's Lois! Lois is here!"--and then there were warm embraces, and then the old grandmother was kissed. There were two girls, one tall, the other very tall. "I'm tired to death!" said the former of these. "Charity would do no end of work; you know she is a steam-engine, and she had the steam up to-day, I can tell you. There's no saying how good supper will be; for our lunch wasn't much, and not good at that; and there's something good here, I can tell by my nose. Did you take care of the milk, Lois? you couldn't know where to set it." "There is no bread, Lois. I suppose you found out?" the other sister said. "O, she's made biscuits!" said Madge. "Aren't you a brick, though, Lois! I was expecting we'd have everything to do; and it's all done. Ain't that what you call comfortable? Is the tea made? I'll be ready in a minute." But that was easier said than done. "Lois! what sort of hats are they wearing in New York?" "Lois, are mantillas fashionable? The woman in New Haven, the milliner, said everybody was going to wear them. She wanted to make me get one." "We can make a mantilla as well as she can," Lois answered. "If we had the pattern! But is everybody wearing them in New York?" "I think it must be early for mantillas." "O, lined and wadded, of course. But is every body wearing them?" "I do not know. I do not recollect." "Not recollect!" cried the tall sister. "What are your eyes good for? What _do_ people wear?" "I wore my coat and cape. I do not know very well about other people. People wear different things." "O, but that they do not, Lois!" the other sister exclaimed. "There is always one thing that is the fashion; and that is the thing one wants to know about. Last year it was visites. Now what is it this year? And what are the hats like?" "They are smaller." "There! And that woman in New Haven said they were going to be large still. Who is one to trust!" "You may trust me," said Lois. "I am sure of so much. Moreover, there is my new straw bonnet which Mrs. Wishart gave me; you can see by that." This was very satisfactory; and talk ran on in the same line for some time. "And Lois, have you seen a great many people? At Mrs. Wishart's, I mean." "Yes, plenty; at her house and at other houses." "Was it great fun?" Madge asked. "Sometimes. But indeed, yes; it was great fun generally, to see the different ways of people, and the beautiful houses, and furniture, and pictures, and everything." "_Everything!_ Was everything beautiful?" "No, not beautiful; but everything in most of the houses where I went was handsome; often it was magnificent." "I suppose it seemed so to you," said Charity. "Tell us, Lois!" urged the other sister. "What do you think of solid silver dishes to hold the vegetables on the table, and solid silver pudding dishes, and gold teaspoons, in the most delicate little painted cups?" "I should say it was ridiculous," said the elder sister. "What's the use o' havin' your vegetables in silver dishes?" "What's the use of having them in dishes at all?" laughed Lois. "They might be served in big cabbage leaves; or in baskets." "That's nonsense," said Charity. "Of course they must be in dishes of some sort; but vegetables don't taste any better out o' silver." "The dinner does not taste any better," said Lois, "but it _looks_ a deal better, I can tell you. You have just no idea, girls, how beautiful a dinner table can be. The glass is beautiful; delicate, thin, clear glass, cut with elegant flowers and vines running over it. And the table linen is a pleasure to see, just the damask; it is so white, and so fine, and so smooth, and woven in such lovely designs. Mrs. Wishart is very fond of her table linen, and has it in beautiful patterns. Then silver is always handsome. Then sometimes there is a most superb centre-piece to the table; a magnificent tall thing of silver--I don't know what to call it; not a vase, and not a dish; but high, and with different bowls or shells filled with flowers and fruit. Why the mere ice-creams sometimes were in all sorts of pretty flower and fruit forms." "Ice-cream!" cried Madge. "And I say, what's the use of all that?" said Charity, who had not been baptized in character. "The use is, its looking so very pretty," Lois answered. "And so, I suppose you would like to have _your_ vegetables in silver dishes? I should like to know why things are any better for looking pretty, when all's done?" "They are not better, I suppose," said Madge. "I don't know _why,_ but I think they must be," said Lois, innocent of the personal application which the other two were making. For Madge was a very handsome girl, while Charity was hard-favoured, like her grandmother. "It does one good to see pretty things." "That's no better than pride," said Charity. "Things that ain't pretty are just as useful, and more useful. That's all pride, silver dishes, and flowers, and stuff. It just makes people stuck-up. Don't they think themselves, all those grand folks, don't they think themselves a hitch or two higher than Shampuashuh folks?" "Perhaps," said Lois; "but I do not know, so I cannot say." "O Lois," cried Madge, "are the people very nice?" "Some of them." "You haven't lost your heart, have you?" "Only part of it." "Part of it! O, to whom, Lois? Who is it?" "Mrs. Wishart's black horses." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Charity. "Haven't Shampuashuh folks got horses? Don't tell me!" "But, Lois!" pursued Madge, "who was the nicest person you saw?" "Madge, I don't know. A good many seemed to be nice." "Well, who was the handsomest? and who was the cleverest? and who was the kindest to you? I don't mean Mrs. Wishart. Now answer." "The handsomest, and the cleverest, and the kindest to me?" Lois repeated slowly. "Well, let me see. The handsomest was a Mr. Caruthers." "Who's he?" "Mr. Caruthers." "_What_ is he, then?" "He is a gentleman, very much thought of; rich, and knows everybody; that's about all I can tell." "Was he the cleverest, too, that you saw?" "No, I think not." "Who was that?" "Another gentleman; a Mr. Dillwyn." "Dillun!" Madge repeated. "That is the pronunciation of the name. It is spelt D, i, l, l, w, y, n,--Dilwin; but it is called Dillun." "And who was kindest to you? Go on, Lois." "O, everybody was kind to me," Lois said evasively. "Kind enough. I did not need kindness." "Whom did you like best, then?" "Of those two? They are both men of the world, and nothing to me; but of the two, I think I like the first best." "Caruthers. I shall remember," said Madge. "That is foolish talk, children," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "Yes, but grandma, you know children are bound to be foolish sometimes," returned Madge. "And then the rod of correction must drive it far from them," said the old lady. "That's the common way; but it ain't the easiest way. Lois said true; these people are nothing and can be nothing to her. I wouldn't make believe anything about it, if I was you." The conversation changed to other things. And soon took a fresh spring at the entrance of another of the family, an aunt of the girls; who lived in the neighbourhood, and came in to hear the news from New Haven as well as from New York. And then it knew no stop. While the table was clearing, and while Charity and Madge were doing up the dishes, and when they all sat down round the fire afterwards, there went on a ceaseless, restless, unending flow of questions, answers, and comments; going over, I am bound to say, all the ground already travelled during supper. Mrs. Armadale sometimes sighed to herself; but this, if the others heard it, could not check them. Mrs. Marx was a lively, clever, kind, good-natured woman; with plenty of administrative ability, like so many New England women, full of resources; quick with her head and her hands, and not slow with her tongue; an uneducated woman, and yet one who had made such good use of life-schooling, that for all practical purposes she had twice the wit of many who have gone through all the drill of the best institutions. A keen eye, a prompt judgment, and a fearless speech, all belonged to Mrs. Marx; universally esteemed and looked up to and welcomed by all her associates. She was not handsome; she was even strikingly deficient in the lines of beauty; and refinement was not one of her characteristics, other than the refinement which comes of kindness and unselfishness. Mrs. Marx would be delicately careful of another's feelings, when there was real need; she could show an exceeding great tenderness and tact then; while in ordinary life her voice was rather loud, her movements were free and angular, and her expressions very unconstrained. Nobody ever saw Mrs. Marx anything but neat, whatever she possibly might be doing; in other respects her costume was often extremely unconventional; but she could dress herself nicely and look quite as becomes a lady. Independent was Mrs. Marx, above all and in everything. "I guess she's come back all safe!" was her comment, made to Mrs. Armadale, at the conclusion of the long talk. Mrs. Armadale made no answer. "It's sort o' risky, to let a young thing like that go off by herself among all those highflyers. It's like sendin' a pigeon to sail about with the hawks." "Why, aunt Anne," said Lois at this, "whom can you possibly mean by the hawks?" "The sort o' birds that eat up pigeons." "I saw nobody that wanted to eat me up, I assure you." "There's the difference between you and a real pigeon. The pigeon knows the hawk when she sees it; you don't." "Do you think the hawks all live in cities?" "No, I don't," said Mrs. Marx. "They go swoopin' about in the country now and then. I shouldn't a bit wonder to see one come sailin' over our heads one of these fine days. But now, you see, grandma has got you under her wing again." Mrs. Marx was Mrs. Armadale's half-daughter only, and sometimes in company of others called her as her grandchildren did. "How does home look to you, Lois, now you're back in it?" "Very much as it used to look," Lois answered, smiling. "The taste ain't somehow taken out o' things? Ha' you got your old appetite for common doin's?" "I shall try to-morrow. I am going out into the garden to get some peas in." "Mine is in." "Not long, aunt Anne? the frost hasn't been long out of the ground." "Put 'em in to-day, Lois. And your garden has the sun on it; so I shouldn't wonder if you beat me after all. Well, I must go along and look arter my old man. He just let me run away now 'cause I told him I was kind o' crazy about the fashions; and he said 'twas a feminine weakness and he pitied me. So I come. Mrs. Dashiell has been a week to New London; but la! New London bonnets is no account." "You don't get much light from Lois," remarked Charity. "No. Did ye learn anything, Lois, while you was away?" "I think so, aunt Anne." "What, then? Let's hear. Learnin' ain't good for much, without you give it out." Lois, however, seemed not inclined to be generous with her stores of new knowledge. "I guess she's learned Shampuashuh ain't much of a place," the elder sister remarked further. "She's been spellin' her lesson backwards, then. Shampuashuh's a first-rate place." "But we've no grand people here. We don't eat off silver dishes, nor drink out o' gold spoons; and our horses can go without little lookin'-glasses over their heads," Charity proceeded. "Do you think there's any use in all that, Lois?" said her aunt. "I don't know, aunt Anne," Lois answered with a little hesitation. "Then I'm sorry for ye, girl, if you are left to think such nonsense. Ain't our victuals as good here, as what comes out o' those silver dishes?" "Not always." "Are New York folks better cooks than we be?" "They have servants that know how to do things." "Servants! Don't tell me o' no servants' doin's! What can they make that I can't make better?" "Can you make a soufflé, aunt Anne?" "What's that?" "Or biscuit glacé?" "_Biskwee glassy?_" repeated the indignant Shampuashuh lady. "What do you mean, Lois? Speak English, if I am to understand you." "These things have no English names." "Are they any the better for that?" "No; and nothing could make them better. They are as good as it is possible for anything to be; and there are a hundred other things equally good, that we know nothing about here." "I'd have watched and found out how they were done," said the elder woman, eyeing Lois with a mingled expression of incredulity and curiosity and desire, which it was comical to see. Only nobody there perceived the comicality. They sympathized too deeply in the feeling. "I would have watched," said Lois; "but I could not go down into the kitchen for it." "Why not?" "Nobody goes into the kitchen, except to give orders." "Nobody goes into the kitchen!" cried Mrs. Marx, sinking down again into a chair. She had risen to go. "I mean, except the servants." "It's the shiftlessest thing I ever heard o' New York. And do you think _that's_ a nice way o' livin', Lois?" "I am afraid I do, aunt Anne. It is pleasant to have plenty of time for other things." "What other things?" "Reading." "Reading! La, child! I can read more books in a year than is good for me, and do all my own work, too. I like play, as well as other folks; but I like to know my work's done first. Then I can play." "Well, there the servants do the work." "And you like that? That ain't a nat'ral way o' livin', Lois; and I believe it leaves folks too much time to get into mischief. When folks hasn't business enough of their own to attend to, they're free to put their fingers in other folks' business. And they get sot up, besides. My word for it, it ain't healthy for mind nor body. And you needn't think I'm doin' what I complain of, for your business is my business. Good-bye, girls. I'll buy a cook-book the next time I go to New London, and learn how to make suflles. Lois shan't hold that whip over me." CHAPTER X. LOIS'S GARDEN. Lois went at her gardening the next morning, as good as her word. It was the last of March, and an anticipation of April, according to the fashion the months have of sending promissory notes in advance of them; and this year the spring was early. The sun was up, but not much more, when Lois, with her spade and rake and garden line, opened the little door in the garden fence and shut it after her. Then she was alone with the spring. The garden was quite a roomy place, and pretty, a little later in the season; for some old and large apple and cherry trees shadowed parts of it, and broke up the stiff, bare regularity of an ordinary square bit of ground laid out in lesser squares. Such regularity was impossible here. In one place, two or three great apple trees in a group formed a canopy over a wide circuit of turf. The hoe and the spade must stand back respectfully; there was nothing to be done. One corner was quite given up to the occupancy of an old cherry tree, and its spread of grassy ground beneath and about it was again considerable. Still other trees stood here and there; and the stems of none of them were approached by cultivation. In the spaces between, Lois stretched her line and drew her furrows, and her rows of peas and patches of corn had even so room enough. Grass was hardly green yet, and tree branches were bare, and the upturned earth was implanted. There was nothing here yet but the Spring with Lois. It is wonderful what a way Spring has of revealing herself, even while she is hid behind the brown and grey wrappings she has borrowed from Winter. Her face is hardly seen; her form is not discernible; but there is a breath and a smile and a kiss, that are like nothing her brothers and sisters have to give. Of them all, Spring's smile brings most of hope and expectation with it. And there is a perfume Spring wears, which is the rarest, and most untraceable, and most unmistakeable, of all. The breath and the perfume, and the smile and the kiss, greeted Lois as she went into the old garden. She knew them well of old time, and welcomed them now. She even stood still a bit to take in the rare beauty and joy of them. And yet, the apple trees were bare, and the cherry trees; the turf was dead and withered; the brown ploughed-up soil had no relief of green growths. Only Spring was there with Lois, and yet that seemed enough; Spring and associations. How many hours of pleasant labour in that enclosed bit of ground there had been; how many lapfuls and basketfuls of fruits the rich reward of the labour; how Lois had enjoyed both! And now, here was spring again, and the implanted garden. Lois wanted no more. She took her stand under one of the bare old apple trees, and surveyed her ground, like a young general. She had it all mapped out, and knew just where things were last year. The patch of potatoes was in that corner, and a fine yield they had been. Corn had been here; yes, and here she would run her lines of early peas. Lois went to work. It was not very easy work, as you would know if you had ever tried to reduce ground that has been merely ploughed and harrowed, to the smooth evenness necessary for making shallow drills. Lois plied spade and rake with an earnest good-will, and thorough knowledge of her business. Do not imagine an untidy long skirt sweeping the soft soil and transferring large portions of it to the gardener's ankles; Lois was dressed for her work in a short stuff frock and leggins; and looked as nice when she came out as when she went in, albeit not in any costume ever seen in Fifth Avenue or Central Park. But what do I say? If she looked "nice" when she went out to her garden, she looked superb when she came in, or when she had been an hour or so delving. Her hat fallen back a little; her rich masses of hair just a little loosened, enough to show their luxuriance; the colour flushed into her cheeks with the exercise, and her eyes all alive with spirit and zeal--ah, the fair ones in Fifth or any other avenue would give a great deal to look so; but that sort of thing goes with the short frock and leggins, and will not be conjured up by a mantua-maker. Lois had after a while a strip of her garden ground nicely levelled and raked smooth; and then her line was stretched over it, and her drills drawn, and the peas were planted and were covered; and a little stick at each end marked how far the planted rows extended. Lois gathered up her tools then, to go in, but instead of going in she sat down on one of the wooden seats that were fixed under the great apple trees. She was tired and satisfied; and in that mood of mind and body one is easily tempted to musing. Aimlessly, carelessly, thoughts roved and carried her she knew not whither. She began to draw contrasts. Her home life, the sweets of which she was just tasting, set off her life at Mrs. Wishart's with its strange difference of flavour; hardly the brown earth of her garden was more different from the brilliant--coloured Smyrna carpets upon which her feet had moved in some people's houses. Life there and life here,--how diverse from one another! Could both be life? Suddenly it occurred to Lois that her garden fence shut in a very small world, and a world in which there was no room for many things that had seemed to her delightful and desirable in these weeks that were just passed. Life must be narrow within these borders. She had had several times in New York a sort of perception of this, and here it grew defined. Knowledge, education, the intercourse of polished society, the smooth ease and refinement of well-ordered households, and the habits of affluence, and the gratification of cultivated tastes; more yet, the _having_ cultivated tastes; the gratification of them seemed to Lois a less matter. A large horizon, a wide experience of men and things; was it not better, did it not make life richer, did it not elevate the human creature to something of more power and worth, than a very narrow and confined sphere, with its consequent narrow and confined way of looking at things? Lois was just tired enough to let all these thoughts pass over her, like gentle waves of an incoming tide, and they were emphazised here and there by a vision of a brown curly head, and a kindly, handsome, human face looking into hers. It was a vision that came and went, floated in and disappeared among the waves of thought that rose and fell. Was it not better to sit and talk even with Mr. Dillwyn, than to dig and plant peas? Was not the Lois who did _that_, a quite superior creature to the Lois who did _this?_ Any common, coarse man could plant peas, and do it as well as she; was this to be her work, this and the like, for the rest of her life? Just the labour for material existence, instead of the refining and forming and up-building of the nobler, inner nature, the elevation of existence itself? My little garden ground! thought Lois; is this indeed all? And what would Mr. Caruthers think, if he could see me now? Think he had been cheated, and that I am not what he thought I was. It is no matter what he thinks; I shall never see him again; it will not be best that I should ever pay Mrs. Wishart a visit again, even if she should ask me; not in New York. I suppose the Isles of Shoals would be safe enough. There would be nobody there. Well--I like gardening. And it is great fun to gather the peas when they are large enough; and it is fun to pick strawberries; and it is fun to do everything, generally. I like it all. But if I could, if I had a chance, which I cannot have, I would like, and enjoy, the other sort of thing too. I could be a good deal more than I am, _if_ I had the opportunity. Lois was getting rested by this time, and she gathered up her tools again, with the thought that breakfast would taste good. I suppose a whiff of the fumes of coffee preparing in the house was borne out to her upon the air, and suggested the idea. And as she went in she cheerfully reflected that their plain house was full of comfort, if not of beauty; and that she and her sisters were doing what was given them to do, and therefore what they were meant to do; and then came the thought, so sweet to the servant who loves his Master, that it is all _for_ the Master; and that if he is pleased, all is gained, the utmost, that life can do or desire. And Lois went in, trilling low a sweet Methodist hymn, to an air both plaintive and joyous, which somehow--as many of the old Methodist tunes do--expressed the plaintiveness and the joyousness together with a kind of triumphant effect. "O tell me no more of this world's vain store! The time for such trifles with me now is o'er." Lois had a voice exceedingly sweet and rich; an uncommon contralto; and when she sang one of these hymns, it came with its fall power. Mrs. Armadale heard her, and murmured a "Praise the Lord!" And Charity, getting the breakfast, heard her; and made a different comment. "Were you meaning, now, what you were singing when you came in?" she asked at breakfast. "What I was singing?" Lois repeated in astonishment. "Yes, what you were singing. You sang it loud enough and plain enough; ha' you forgotten? Did you mean it?" "One should always mean what one sings," said Lois gravely. "So I think; and I want to know, did you mean that? 'The time for such trifles'--is it over with you, sure enough?" "What trifles?" "You know best. What did you mean? It begins about 'this world's vain store;' ha' you done with the world?" "Not exactly." "Then I wouldn't say so." "But I didn't say so," Lois returned, laughing now. "The hymn means, that 'this world's vain store' is not my treasure; and it isn't. 'The time for such trifles with me now is o'er.' I have found something better. As Paul says, 'When I became a man, I put away childish things.' So, since I have learned to know something else, the world's store has lost its great value for me." "Thank the Lord!" said Mrs. Armadale. "You needn't say that, neither, grandma," Charity retorted. "I don't believe it one bit, all such talk. It ain't nature, nor reasonable. Folks say that just when somethin's gone the wrong way, and they want to comfort themselves with makin' believe they don't care about it. Wait till the chance comes, and see if they don't care! That's what I say." "I wish you wouldn't say it, then, Charity," remarked the old grandmother. "Everybody has a right to his views," returned Miss Charity. "That's what I always say." "You must leave her her views, grandma," said Lois pleasantly. "She will have to change them, some day." "What will make me change them?" "Coming to know the truth." "You think nobody but you knows the truth. Now, Lois, I'll ask you. Ain't you sorry to be back and out of 'this world's vain store'--out of all the magnificence, and back in your garden work again?" "No." "You enjoy digging in the dirt and wearin' that outlandish rig you put on for the garden?" "I enjoy digging in the dirt very much. The dress I admire no more than you do." "And you've got everythin' you want in the world?" "Charity, Charity, that ain't fair," Madge put in. "Nobody has that; you haven't, and I haven't; why should Lois?" "'Cos she says she's found 'a city where true joys abound;' now let's hear if she has." "Quite true," said Lois, smiling. "And you've got all you want?" "No, I would like a good many things I haven't got, if it's the Lord's pleasure to give them." "Suppose it ain't?" "Then I do not want them," said Lois, looking up with so clear and bright a face that her carping sister was for the moment silenced. And I suppose Charity watched; but she never could find reason to think that Lois had not spoken the truth. Lois was the life of the house. Madge was a handsome and quiet girl; could follow but rarely led in the conversation. Charity talked, but was hardly enlivening to the spirits of the company. Mrs. Armadale was in ordinary a silent woman; could talk indeed, and well, and much; however, these occasions were mostly when she had one auditor, and was in thorough sympathy with that one. Amidst these different elements of the household life Lois played the part of the flux in a furnace; she was the happy accommodating medium through which all the others came into best play and found their full relations to one another. Lois's brightness and spirit were never dulled; her sympathies were never wearied; her intelligence was never at fault. And her work was never neglected. Nobody had ever to remind Lois that it was time for her to attend to this or that thing which it was her charge to do. Instead of which, she was very often ready to help somebody else not quite so "forehanded." The garden took on fast its dressed and ordered look; the strawberries were uncovered; and the raspberries tied up, and the currant bushes trimmed; and pea-sticks and bean-poles bristled here and there promisingly. And then the green growths for which Lois had worked began to reward her labour. Radishes were on the tea-table, and lettuce made the dinner "another thing;" and rows of springing beets and carrots looked like plenty in the future. Potatoes were up, and rare-ripes were planted, and cabbages; and corn began to appear. One thing after another, till Lois got the garden all planted; and then she was just as busy keeping it clean. For weeds, we all know, do thrive as unaccountably in the natural as in the spiritual world. It cost Lois hard work to keep them under; but she did it. Nothing would have tempted her to bear the reproach of them among her vegetables and fruits. And so the latter had a good chance, and throve. There was not much time or much space for flowers; yet Lois had a few. Red poppies found growing room between the currant bushes; here and there at a corner a dahlia got leave to stand and rear its stately head. Rose-bushes were set wherever a rose-bush could be; and there were some balsams, and pinks, and balm, and larkspur, and marigolds. Not many; however, they served to refresh Lois's soul when she went to pick vegetables for dinner, and they furnished nosegays for the table in the hall, or in the sitting-room, when the hot weather drove the family out of the kitchen. Before that came June and strawberries. Lois picked the fruit always. She had been a good while one very warm afternoon bending down among the strawberry beds, and had brought in a great bowl full of fruit. She and Madge came together to their room to wash hands and get in order for tea. "I have worked over all that butter," said Madge, "and skimmed a lot of milk. I must churn again to-morrow. There is no end to work!" "No end to it," Lois assented. "Did you see my strawberries?" "No." "They are splendid. Those Black Princes are doing finely too. If we have rain they will be superb." "How many did you get to-day?" "Two quarts, and more." "And cherries to preserve to-morrow. Lois, I get tired once in a while!" "O, so do I; but I always get rested again." "I don't mean that. I mean it is _all_ work, work; day in and day out, and from one year's end to another. There is no let up to it. I get tired of that." "What would you have?" "I'd like a little play." "Yes, but in a certain sense I think it is all play." "In a nonsensical sense," said Madge. "How can work be play?" "That's according to how you look at it," Lois returned cheerfully. "If you take it as I think you can take it, it is much better than play." "I wish you'd make me understand you," said Madge discontentedly. "If there is any meaning to your words, that is." Lois hesitated. "I like work anyhow better than play," she said. "But then, if you look at it in a certain way, it becomes much better than play. Don't you know, Madge, I take it all, everything, as given me by the Lord to do;--to do for him;--and I do it so; and that makes every bit of it all pleasant." "But you can't!" said Madge pettishly. She was not a pettish person, only just now something in her sister's words had the effect of irritation. "Can't what?" "Do everything for the Lord. Making butter, for instance; or cherry sweetmeats. Ridiculous! And nonsense." "I don't mean it for nonsense. It is the way I do my garden work and my sewing." "What _do_ you mean, Lois? The garden work is for our eating, and the sewing is for your own back, or grandma's. I understand religion, but I don't understand cant." "Madge, it's not cant; it's the plain truth." "Only that it is impossible." "No. You do not understand religion, or you would know how it is. All these things are things given us to do; we must make the clothes and preserve the cherries, and I must weed strawberries, and then pick strawberries, and all the rest. God has given me these things to do, and I do them for him." "You do them for yourself, or for grandma, and for the rest of us." "Yes, but first for Him. Yes, Madge, I do. I do every bit of all these things in the way that I think will please and honour him best--as far as I know how." "Making your dresses!" "Certainly. Making my dresses so that I may look, as near as I can, as a servant of Christ in my place ought to look. And taking things in that way, Madge, you can't think how pleasant they are; nor how all sorts of little worries fall off. I wish you knew, Madge! If I am hot and tired in a strawberry bed, and the thought comes, whose servant I am, and that he has made the sun shine and put me to work in it,--then it's all right in a minute, and I don't mind any longer." Madge looked at her, with eyes that were half scornful, half admiring. "There is just one thing that does tempt me," Lois went on, her eye going forth to the world outside the window, or to a world more distant and in tangible, that she looked at without seeing,--"I _do_ sometimes wish I had time to read and learn." "Learn!" Madge echoed. "What?" "Loads of things. I never thought about it much, till I went to New York last winter; then, seeing people and talking to people that were different, made me feel how ignorant I was, and what a pleasant thing it would be to have knowledge--education--yes, and accomplishments. I have the temptation to wish for that sometimes; but I know it is a temptation; for if I was intended to have all those things, the way would have been opened, and it is not, and never was. Just a breath of longing comes over me now and then for that; not for play, but to make more of myself; and then I remember that I am exactly where the Lord wants me to be, and _as_ he chooses for me, and then I am quite content again." "You never said so before," the other sister answered, now sympathizingly. "No," said Lois, smiling; "why should I? Only just now I thought I would confess." "Lois, I have wished for that very thing!" "Well, maybe it is good to have the wish. If ever a chance comes, we shall know we are meant to use it; and we won't be slow!" CHAPTER XI. SUMMER MOVEMENTS. All things in the world, so far as the dwellers in Shampuashuh knew, went their usual course in peace for the next few months. Lois gathered her strawberries, and Madge made her currant jelly. Peas ripened, and green corn was on the board, and potatoes blossomed, and young beets were pulled, and peaches began to come. It was a calm, gentle life the little family lived; every day exceedingly like the day before, and yet every day with something new in it. Small pieces of novelty, no doubt; a dish of tomatoes, or the first yellow raspberries, or a new pattern for a dress, or a new receipt for cake. Or they walked down to the shore and dug clams, some fine afternoon; or Mrs. Dashiell lent them a new book; or Mr. Dashiell preached an extraordinary sermon. It was a very slight ebb and flow of the tide of time; however, it served to keep everything from stagnation. Then suddenly, at the end of July, came Mrs. Wishart's summons to Lois to join her on her way to the Isles of Shoals. "I shall go in about a week," the letter ran; "and I want you to meet me at the Shampuashuh station; for I shall go that way to Boston. I cannot stop, but I will have your place taken and all ready for you. You must come, Lois, for I cannot do without you; and when other people need you, you know, you never hesitate. Do not hesitate now." There was a good deal of hesitation, however, on one part and another, before the question was settled. "Lois has just got home," said Charity. "I don't see what she should be going again for. I should like to know if Mrs. Wishart thinks she ain't wanted at home!" "People don't think about it," said Madge; "only what they want themselves. But it is a fine chance for Lois." "Why don't she ask you?" said Charity. "She thought Madge would enjoy a visit to her in New York more," said Lois. "So she said to me." "And so I would," cried Madge. "I don't care for a parcel of little islands out at sea. But that would just suit Lois. What sort of a place _is_ the Isles of Shoals anyhow?" "Just that," said Lois; "so far as I know. A parcel of little islands, out in the sea." "Where at?" said Charity. "I don't know exactly." "Get the map and look." "They are too small to be down on the map." "What is Eliza Wishart wantin' to go there for?" asked Mrs. Armadale. "O, she goes somewhere every year, grandma; to one place and another; and I suppose she likes novelty." "That's a poor way to live," said the old lady. "But I suppose, bein' such a place, it'll be sort o' lonesome, and she wants you for company. May be she goes for her health." "I think quite a good many people go there, grandma." "There can't, if they're little islands out at sea. Most folks wouldn't like that. Do you want to go, Lois?" "I would like it, very much. I just want to see what they are like, grandmother. I never did see the sea yet." "You saw it yesterday, when we went for clams," said Charity scornfully. "That? O no. That's not the sea, Charity." "Well, it's mighty near it." It seemed to be agreed at last that Lois should accept her cousin's invitation; and she made her preparations. She made them with great delight. Pleasant as the home-life was, it was quite favourable to the growth of an appetite for change and variety; and the appetite in Lois was healthy and strong. The sea and the islands, and, on the other hand, an intermission of gardening and fruit-picking; Shampuashuh people lost sight of for a time, and new, new, strange forms of humanity and ways of human life; the prospect was happy. And a happy girl was Lois, when one evening in the early part of August she joined Mrs. Wishart in the night train to Boston. That lady met her at the door of the drawing-room car, and led her to the little compartment where they were screened off from the rest of the world. "I am so glad to have you!" was her salutation. "Dear me, how well you look, child! What have you been doing to yourself?" "Getting brown in the sun, picking berries." "You are not brown a bit. You are as fair as--whatever shall I compare you to? Roses are common." "Nothing better than roses, though," said Lois. "Well, a rose you must be; but of the freshest and sweetest. We don't have such roses in New York. Fact, we do not. I never see anything so fresh there. I wonder why?" "People don't live out-of-doors picking berries," suggested Lois. "What has berry-picking to do with it? My dear, it is a pity we shall have none of your old admirers at the Isles of Shoals; but I cannot promise you one. You see, it is off the track. The Caruthers are going to Saratoga; they stayed in town after the mother and son got back from Florida. The Bentons are gone to Europe. Mr. Dillwyn, by the way, was he one of your admirers, Lois?" "Certainly not," said Lois, laughing. "But I have a pleasant remembrance of him, he gave us such a good lunch one day. I am very glad I am not going to see anybody I ever saw before. Where _are_ the Isles of Shoals? and what are they, that you should go to see them?" "I'm not going to see them--there's nothing to see, unless you like sea and rocks. I am going for the air, and because I must go somewhere, and I am tired of everywhere else. O, they're out in the Atlantic--sea all round them--queer, barren places. I am so glad I've got you, Lois! I don't know a soul that's to be there--can't guess what we shall find; but I've got you, and I can get along." "Do people go there just for health?" "O, a few, perhaps; but the thing is what I am after--novelty; they are hardly the fashion yet." "That is the very oddest reason for doing or not doing things!" said Lois. "Because it's the fashion! As if that made it pleasant, or useful." "It does!" said Mrs. Wishart. "Of course it does. Pleasant, yes, and useful too. My dear, you don't want to be out of the fashion?" "Why not, if the fashion does not agree with me?" "O my dear, you will learn. Not to agree with the fashion, is to be out with the world." "With one part of it," said Lois merrily. "Just the part that is of importance. Never mind, you will learn. Lois, I am so sleepy, I can not keep up any longer. I must curl down and take a nap. I just kept myself awake till we reached Shampuashuh. You had better do as I do. My dear, I am very sorry, but I can't help it." So Mrs. Wishart settled herself upon a heap of bags and wraps, took off her bonnet, and went to sleep. Lois did not feel in the least like following her example. She was wide-awake with excitement and expectation, and needed no help of entertainment from anybody. With her thoroughly sound mind and body and healthy appetites, every detail and every foot of the journey was a pleasure to her; even the corner of a drawing-room car on a night train. It was such change and variety! and Lois had spent all her life nearly in one narrow sphere and the self-same daily course of life and experience. New York had been one great break in this uniformity, and now came another. Islands in the sea! Lois tried to fancy what they would be like. So much resorted to already, they must be very charming; and green meadows, shadowing trees, soft shores and cosy nooks rose up before her imagination. Mr. Caruthers and his family were at Saratoga, that was well; but there would be other people, different from the Shampuashuh type; and Lois delighted in seeing new varieties of humankind as well as new portions of the earth where they live. She sat wide-awake opposite to her sleeping hostess, and made an entertainment for herself out of the place and the night journey. It was a starlit, sultry night; the world outside the hurrying train covered with a wonderful misty veil, under which it lay half revealed by the heavenly illumination; soft, mysterious, vast; a breath now and then whispering of nature's luxuriant abundance and sweetness that lay all around, out there under the stars, for miles and hundreds of miles. Lois looked and peered out sometimes, so happy that it was not Shampuashuh, and that she was away, and that she would see the sun shine on new landscapes when the morning came round; and sometimes she looked within the car, and marvelled at the different signs and tokens of human life and character that met her there. And every yard of the way was a delight to her. Meanwhile, how weirdly and strangely do the threads of human life cross and twine and untwine in this world! That same evening, in New York, in the Caruthers mansion in Twenty-Third Street, the drawing-room windows were open to let in the refreshing breeze from the sea. The light lace curtains swayed to and fro as the wind came and went, but were not drawn; for Mrs. Caruthers liked, she said, to have so much of a screen between her and the passers-by. For that matter, the windows were high enough above the street to prevent all danger of any one's looking in. The lights were burning low in the rooms, on account of the heat; and within, in attitudes of exhaustion and helplessness sat mother and daughter in their several easy-chairs. Tom was on his back on the floor, which, being nicely matted, was not the worst place. A welcome break to the monotony of the evening was the entrance of Philip Dillwyn. Tom got up from the floor to welcome him, and went back then to his former position. "How come you to be here at this time of year?" Dillwyn asked. "It was mere accident my finding you. Should never have thought of looking for you. But by chance passing, I saw that windows were open and lights visible, so I concluded that something else might be visible if I came in." "We are only just passing through," Julia explained. "Going to Saratoga to-morrow. We have only just come from Newport." "What drove you away from Newport? This is the time to be by the sea." "O, who cares for the sea! or anything else? it's the people; and the people at Newport didn't suit mother. The Benthams were there, and that set; and mother don't like the Benthams; and Miss Zagumski, the daughter of the Russian minister, was there, and all the world was crazy about her. Nothing was to be seen or heard but Miss Zagumski, and her dancing, and her playing, and her singing. Mother got tired of it." "And yet Newport is a large place," remarked Philip. "Too large," Mrs. Caruthers answered. "What do you expect to find at Saratoga?" "Heat," said Mrs. Caruthers; "and another crowd." "I think you will not be disappointed, if this weather holds." "It is a great deal more comfortable here!" sighed the elder lady. "Saratoga's a dreadfully hot place! Home is a great deal more comfortable." "Then why not stay at home? Comfort is what you are after." "O, but one can't! Everybody goes somewhere; and one must do as everybody does." "Why?" "Philip, what makes you ask such a question?" "I assure you, a very honest ignorance of the answer to it." "Why, one must do as everybody does?" "Yes." The lady's tone and accent had implied that the answer was self-evident; yet it was not given. "Really,"--Philip went on. "What should hinder you from staying in this pleasant house part of the summer, or all of the summer, if you find yourselves more comfortable here?" "Being comfortable isn't the only thing," said Julia. "No. What other consideration governs the decision? that is what I am asking." "Why, Philip, there is nobody in town." "That is better than company you do not like." "I wish it was the fashion to stay in town," said Mrs. Caruthers. "There is everything here, in one's own house, to make the heat endurable, and just what we miss when we go to a hotel. Large rooms, and cool nights, and clean servants, and gas, and baths--hotel rooms are so stuffy." "After all, one does not live in one's rooms," said Julia. "But," said Philip, returning to the charge, "why should not you, Mrs. Caruthers, do what you like? Why should you be displeased in Saratoga, or anywhere, merely because other people are pleased there? Why not do as you like?" "You know one can't do as one likes in this world," Julia returned. "Why not, if one can,--as you can?" said Philip, laughing. "But that's ridiculous," said Julia, raising herself up with a little show of energy. "You know perfectly well, Mr. Dillwyn, that people belonging to the world must do as the rest of the world do. Nobody is in town. If we stayed here, people would get up some unspeakable story to account for our doing it; that would be the next thing." "Dillwyn, where are you going?" said Tom suddenly from the floor, where he had been more uneasy than his situation accounted for. "I don't know--perhaps I'll take your train and go to Saratoga too. Not for fear, though." "That's capital!" said Tom, half raising himself up and leaning on his elbow. "I'll turn the care of my family over to you, and I'll seek the wilderness." "What wilderness?" asked his sister sharply. "Some wilderness--some place where I shall not see crinoline, nor be expected to do the polite thing. I'll go for the sea, I guess." "What have you in your head, Tom?" "Refreshment." "You've just come from the sea." "I've just come from the sea where it was fashionable. Now I'll find some place where it is unfashionable. I don't favour Saratoga any more than you do. It's a jolly stupid; that's what it is." "But where do you want to go, Tom? you have some place in your head." "I'd as lief go off for the Isles of Shoals as anywhere," said Tom, lying down again. "They haven't got fashionable yet. I've a notion to see 'em first." "I doubt about that," remarked Philip gravely. "I am not sure but the Isles of Shoals are about the most distinguished place you could go to." "Isles of Shoals. Where are they? and what are they?" Julia asked. "A few little piles of rock out in the Atlantic, on which it spends its wrath all the year round; but of course the ocean is not always raging; and when it is not raging, it smiles; and they say the smile is nowhere more bewitching than at the Isles of Shoals," Philip answered. "But will nobody be there?" "Nobody you would care about," returned Tom. "Then what'll you do?" "Fish." "Tom! you're not a fisher. You needn't pretend it." "Sun myself on the rocks." "You are brown enough already." "They say, everything gets bleached there." "Then I should like to go. But I couldn't stand the sea and solitude, and I don't believe you can stand it. Tom, this is ridiculous. You're not serious?" "Not often," said Tom; "but this time I am. I am going to the Isles of Shoals. If Philip will take you to Saratoga, I'll start to-morrow; otherwise I will wait till I get you rooms and see you settled." "Is there a hotel there?" "Something that does duty for one, as I understand." "Tom, this is too ridiculous, and vexatious," remonstrated his sister. "We want you at Saratoga." "Well, it is flattering; but you wanted me at St. Augustine a little while ago, and you had me. You can't always have a fellow. I'm going to see the Isles of Shoals before they're the rage. I want to get cooled off, for once, after Florida and Newport, besides." "Isn't that the place where Mrs. Wishart is gone," said Philip now. "I don't know--yes, I believe so." "Mrs. Wishart!" exclaimed Julia in a different tone. "_She_ gone to the Isles of Shoals?" "'Mrs. Wishart!" Mrs. Caruthers echoed. "Has she got that girl with her?" Silence. Then Philip remarked with a laugh, that Tom's plan of "cooling off" seemed problematical. "Tom," said his sister solemnly, "_is_ Miss Lothrop going to be there?" "Don't know, upon my word," said Tom. "I haven't heard." "She is, and that's what you're going for. O Tom, Tom!" cried his sister despairingly. "Mr. Dillwyn, what shall we do with him?" "Can't easily manage a fellow of his size, Miss Julia. Let him take his chance." "Take his chance! Such a chance!" "Yes, Philip," said Tom's mother; "you ought to stand by us." "With all my heart, dear Mrs. Caruthers; but I am afraid I should be a weak support. Really, don't you think Tom might do worse?" "Worse?" said the elder lady; "what could be worse than for him to bring such a wife into the house?" Tom gave an inarticulate kind of snort just here, which was not lacking in expression. Philip went on calmly. "Such a wife--" he repeated. "Mrs. Caruthers, here is room for discussion. Suppose we settle, for example, what Tom, or anybody situated like Tom, ought to look for and insist upon finding, in a wife. I wish you and Miss Julia would make out the list of qualifications." "Stuff!" muttered Tom. "It would be hard lines, if a fellow must have a wife of his family's choosing!" "His family can talk about it," said Philip, "and certainly will. Hold your tongue, Tom. I want to hear your mother." "Why, Mr. Dillwyn," said the lady, "you know as well as I do; and you think just as I do about it, and about this Miss Lothrop." "Perhaps; but let us reason the matter out. Maybe it will do Tom good. What ought he to have in a wife, Mrs. Caruthers? and we'll try to show him he is looking in the wrong quarter." "I'm not looking anywhere!" growled Tom; but no one believed him. "Well, Philip," Mrs. Caruthers began, "he ought to marry a girl of good family." "Certainly. By 'good family' you mean--?" "Everybody knows what I mean." "Possibly Tom does not." "I mean, a girl that one knows about, and that everybody knows about; that has good blood in her veins." "The blood of respectable and respected ancestors," Philip said. "Yes! that is what I mean. I mean, that have been respectable and respected for a long time back--for years and years." "You believe in inheritance." "I don't know about that," said Mrs. Caruthers. "I believe in family." "Well, _I_ believe in inheritance. But what proof is there that the young lady of whom we were speaking has no family?" Julia raised herself up from her reclining position, and Mrs. Caruthers sat suddenly forward in her chair. "Why, she is nobody!" cried the first. "Nobody knows her, nor anything about her." "_Here_--" said Philip. "Here! Of course. Where else?" "Yes, just listen to that!" Tom broke in. "I xxow should anybody know her here, where she has never lived! But that's the way--" "I suppose a Sandwich Islander's family is known in the Sandwich Islands," said Mrs. Caruthers. "But what good is that to us?" "Then you mean, the family must be a New York family?" "N--o," said Mrs. Caruthers hesitatingly; "I don't mean that exactly. There are good Southern families--" "And good Eastern families!" put in Tom. "But nobody knows anything about this girl's family," said the ladies both in a breath. "Mrs. Wishart does," said Philip. "She has even told me. The family dates back to the beginning of the colony, and boasts of extreme respectability. I forget how many judges and ministers it can count up; and at least one governor of the colony; and there is no spot or stain upon it anywhere." There was silence. "Go on, Mrs. Caruthers. What else should Tom look for in a wife?" "It is not merely what a family has been, but what its associations have been," said Mrs. Caruthers. "These have evidently been respectable." "But it is not that only, Philip. We want the associations of good society; and we want position. I want Tom to marry a woman of good position." "Hm!" said Philip. "This lady has not been accustomed to anything that you would call 'society,' and 'position'--But your son has position enough, Mrs. Caruthers. He can stand without much help." "Now, Philip, don't you go to encourage Tom in this mad fancy. It's just a fancy. The girl has nothing; and Tom's wife ought to be-- I shall break my heart if Tom's wife is not of good family and position, and good manners, and good education. That's the least I can ask for." "She has as good manners as anybody you know!" said Tom flaring up. "As good as Julia's, and better." "I should say, she has no manner whatever," remarked Miss Julia quietly. "What is 'manner'?" said Tom indignantly. "I hate it. Manner! They all have 'manner'--except the girls who make believe they have none; and their 'manner' is to want manner. Stuff!" "But the girl knows nothing," persisted Mrs. Caruthers. "She knows absolutely _nothing_,"--Julia confirmed this statement. Silence. "She speaks correct English," said Dillwyn. "That at least." "English!--but not a word of French or of any other language. And she has no particular use for the one language she does know; she cannot talk about anything. How do you know she speaks good grammar, Mr. Dillwyn? did you ever talk with her?" "Yes--" said Philip, making slow admission. "And I think you are mistaken in your other statement; she _can_ talk on some subjects. Probably you did not hit the right ones." "Well, she does not know anything," said Miss Julia. "That is bad. Perhaps it might be mended." "How? Nonsense! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dillwyn; but you cannot make an accomplished woman out of a country girl, if you don't begin before she is twenty. And imagine Tom with such a wife! and me with such a sister!" "I cannot imagine it. Don't you see, Tom, you must give it up?" Dillwyn said lightly. "I'll go to the Isles of Shoals and think about that," said Tom. Wherewith he got up and went off. "Mamma," said Julia then, "he's going to that place to meet that girl. Either she is to be there with Mrs. Wishart, or he is reckoning to see her by the way; and the Isles of Shoals are just a blind. And the only thing left for you and me is to go too, and be of the party!" "Tom don't want us along," said Tom's mother. "Of course he don't want us along; and I am sure we don't want it either; but it is the only thing left for us to do. Don't you see? She'll be there, or he can stop at her place by the way, going and coming; maybe Mrs. Wishart is asking her on purpose--I shouldn't be at all surprised--and they'll make up the match between them. It would be a thing for the girl, to marry Tom Caruthers!" Mrs. Caruthers groaned, I suppose at the double prospect before her and before Tom. Philip was silent. Miss Julia went on discussing and arranging; till her brother returned. "Tom," said she cheerfully, "we've been talking over matters, and I'll tell you what we'll do--if you won't go with us, we will go with you!" "Where?" "Why, to the Isles of Shoals, of course." "You and mother!" said Tom. "Yes. There is no fun in going about alone. We will go along with you." "What on earth will _you_ do at a place like that?" "Keep you from being lonely." "Stuff, Julia! You will wish yourself back before you've been there an hour; and I tell you, I want to go fishing. What would become of mother, landed on a bare rock like that, with nobody to speak to, and nothing but crabs to eat?" "Crabs!" Julia echoed. Philip burst into a laugh. "Crabs and mussels," said Tom. "I don't believe you'll get anything else." "But is Mrs. Wishart gone there?" "Philip says so." "Mrs. Wishart isn't a fool." And Tom was unable to overthrow this argument. CHAPTER XII. APPLEDORE. It was a very bright, warm August day when Mrs. Wishart and her young companion steamed over from Portsmouth to the Isles of Shoals. It was Lois's first sight of the sea, for the journey from New York had been made by land; and the ocean, however still, was nothing but a most wonderful novelty to her. She wanted nothing, she could well-nigh attend to nothing, but the movements and developments of this vast and mysterious Presence of nature. Mrs. Wishart was amused and yet half provoked. There was no talk in Lois; nothing to be got out of her; hardly any attention to be had from her. She sat by the vessel's side and gazed, with a brow of grave awe and eyes of submissive admiration; rapt, absorbed, silent, and evidently glad. Mrs. Wishart was provoked at her, and envied her. "What _do_ you find in the water, Lois?" "O, the wonder of it!" said the girl, with a breath of rapture. "Wonder! what wonder? I suppose everything is wonderful, if you look at it. What do you see there that seems so very wonderful?" "I don't know, Mrs. Wishart. It is so great! and it is so beautiful! and it is so awful!" "Beautiful?" said Mrs. Wishart. "I confess I do not see it. I suppose it is your gain, Lois. Yes, it is awful enough in a storm, but not to-day. The sea is quiet." Quiet! with those low-rolling, majestic soft billows. The quiet of a lion asleep with his head upon his paws. Lois did not say what she thought. "And you have never seen the sea-shore yet," Mrs. Wishart went on. "Well, you will have enough of the sea at the Isles. And those are they, I fancy, yonder. Are those the Isles of Shoals?" she asked a passing man of the crew; and was answered with a rough voiced, "Yaw, mum; they be th' oisles." Lois gazed now at those distant brown spots, as the vessel drew nearer and nearer. Brown spots they remained, and, to her surprise, _small_ brown spots. Nearer and nearer views only forced the conviction deeper. The Isles seemed to be merely some rough rocky projections from old Ocean's bed, too small to have beauty, too rough to have value. Were those the desired Isles of Shoals? Lois felt deep disappointment. Little bits of bare rock in the midst of the sea; nothing more. No trees, she was sure; as the light fell she could even see no green. Why would they not be better relegated to Ocean's domain, from which they were only saved by a few feet of upheaval? why should anybody live there? and still more, why should anybody make a pleasure visit there? "I suppose the people are all fishermen?" she said to Mrs. Wishart. "I suppose so. O, there is a house of entertainment--a sort of hotel." "How many people live there?" "My dear, I don't know. A handful, I should think, by the look of the place. What tempts _them_, I don't see." Nor did Lois. She was greatly disappointed. All her fairy visions were fled. No meadows, no shady banks, no soft green dales; nothing she had ever imagined in connection with country loveliness. Her expectations sank down, collapsed, and vanished for ever. She showed nothing of all this. She helped Mrs. Wishart gather her small baggage together, and followed her on shore, with her usual quiet thoughtfulness; saw her established in the hotel, and assisted her to get things a little in order. But then, when the elder lady lay down to "catch a nap," as she said, before tea, Lois seized her flat hat and fled out of the house. There was grass around it, and sheep and cows to be seen. Alas, no trees. But there were bushes certainly growing here and there, and Lois had not gone far before she found a flower. With that in her hand she sped on, out of the little grassy vale, upon the rocks that surrounded it, and over them, till she caught sight of the sea. Then she made her way, as she could, over the roughnesses and hindrances of the rocks, till she got near the edge of the island at that place; and sat down a little above where the billows of the Atlantic were rolling in. The wide sea line was before her, with its mysterious and infinite depth of colour; at her feet the waves were coming in and breaking, slow and gently to-day, yet every one seeming to make an invasion of the little rocky domain which defied it, and to retire unwillingly, foiled, beaten, and broken, to gather new forces and come on again for a new attack. Lois watched them, fascinated by their persistence, their sluggish power, and yet their ever-recurring discomfiture; admired the changing colours and hues of the water, endlessly varying, cool and lovely and delicate, contrasting with the wet washed rocks and the dark line of sea-weed lying where high tide had cast it up. The breeze blew in her face gently, but filled with freshness, life, and pungency of the salt air; sea-birds flew past hither and thither, sometimes uttering a cry; there was no sound in earth or heaven but that of the water and the wild birds. And by and by the silence, and the broad freedom of nature, and the sweet freshness of the life-giving breeze, began to take effect upon the watcher. She drank in the air in deep breaths; she watched with growing enjoyment the play of light and colour which offered such an endless variety; she let slip, softly and insensibly, every thought and consideration which had any sort of care attached to it; her heart grew light, as her lungs took in the salt breath, which had upon her somewhat the effect of champagne. Lois was at no time a very heavy-hearted person; and I lack a similitude which should fitly image the elastic bound her spirits made now. She never stirred from her seat, till it suddenly came into her head to remember that there might be dinner or supper in prospect somewhere. She rose then and made her way back to the hotel, where she found Mrs. Wishart just arousing from her sleep. "Well, Lois" said the lady, with the sleep still in her voice, "where have you been? and what have you got? and what sort of a place have we come to?" "Look at that, Mrs. Wishart!" "What's that? A white violet! Violets here, on these rocks?" "Did you ever see _such_ a white violet? Look at the size of it, and the colour of it. And here's pimpernel. And O, Mrs. Wishart, I am so glad we came here, that I don't know what to do! It is just delightful. The air is the best air I ever saw." "Can you _see_ it, my dear? Well, I am glad you are pleased. What's that bell for, dinner or supper? I suppose all the meals here are alike. Let us go down and see." Lois had an excellent appetite. "This fish is very good, Mrs. Wishart." "O my dear, it is just fish! You are in a mood to glorify everything. I am envious of you, Lois." "But it is really capital; it is so fresh. I don't believe you can get such blue fish in New York." "My dear, it is your good appetite. I wish I was as hungry, for anything, as you are." "Is it Mrs. Wishart?" asked a lady who sat opposite them at the table. She spoke politely, with an accent of hope and expectation. Mrs. Wishart acknowledged the identity. "I am very happy to meet you. I was afraid I might find absolutely no one here that I knew. I was saying only the other day--three days ago; this is Friday, isn't it? yes; it was last Tuesday. I was saying to my sister after our early dinner--we always have early dinner at home, and it comes quite natural here--we were sitting together after dinner, and talking about my coming. I have been meaning to come ever since three years ago; wanting to make this trip, and never could get away, until this summer things opened out to let me. I was saying to Lottie I was afraid I should find nobody here that I could speak to; and when I saw you, I said to myself, Can that be Mrs. Wishart?--I am so very glad. You have just come?" "To-day,"--Mrs. Wishart assented. "Came by water?" "From Portsmouth." "Yes--ha, ha!" said the affable lady. "Of course. You could not well help it. But from New York?" "By railway. I had occasion to come by land." "I prefer it always. In a steamer you never know what will happen to you. If it's good weather, you may have a pleasant time; but you never can tell. I took the steamer once to go to Boston--I mean to Stonington, you know; and the boat was so loaded with freight of some sort or other that she was as low down in the water as she could be and be safe; and I didn't think she was safe. And we went so slowly! and then we had a storm, a regular thunderstorm and squall, and the rain poured in torrents, and the Sound was rough, and people were sick, and I was very glad and thankful when we got to Stonington. I thought it would never be for pleasure that I would take a boat again." "The Fall River boats are the best." "I daresay they are, but I hope to be allowed to keep clear of them all. You had a pleasant morning for the trip over from Portsmouth." "Very pleasant." "It is such a gain to have the sea quiet! It roars and beats here enough in the best of times. I am sure I hope there will not a storm come while we are here; for I should think it must be dreadfully dreary. It's all sea here, you know." "I should like to see what a storm here is like," Lois remarked. "O, don't wish that!" cried the lady, "or your wish may bring it. Don't think me a heathen," she added, laughing; "but I have known such queer things. I must tell you--" "You never knew a wish bring fair weather?" said Lois, smiling, as the lady stopped for a mouthful of omelet. "O no, not fair weather; I am sure, if it did, we should have fair weather a great deal more than we do. But I was speaking of a storm, and I must tell you what I have seen.--These fish are very deliciously cooked!" "They understand fish, I suppose, here," said Lois. "We were going down the bay to escort some friends who were going to Europe. There was my cousin Llewellyn and his wife, and her sister, and one or two others in the party; and Lottie and I went to see them off. I always think it's rather a foolish thing to do, for why shouldn't one say good-bye at the water's edge, when they go on board, instead of making a journey of miles out to sea to say it there?--but this time Lottie wanted to go. She had never seen the ocean, except from the land; and you know that is very different; so we went. Lottie always likes to see all she can, and is never satisfied till she has got to the bottom of everything--" "She would be satisfied with something less than that in this case?" said Lois. "Hey? She was satisfied," said the lady, not apparently catching Lois's meaning; "she was more delighted with the sea than I was; for though it was quiet, they said, there was unquietness enough to make a good deal of motion; the vessel went sailing up and down a succession of small rolling hills, and I began to think there was nothing steady inside of me, any more than _out_side. I never can bear to be rocked, in any shape or form." "You must have been a troublesome baby," said Lois. "I don't know how that was; naturally I have forgotten; but since I have been old enough to think for myself, I never could bear rocking-chairs. I like an easy-chair--as easy as you please--but I want it to stand firm upon its four legs. So I did not enjoy the water quite as well as my sister did. But she grew enthusiastic; she wished she was going all the way over, and I told her she would have to drop _me_ at some wayside station--" "Where?" said Lois, as the lady stopped to carry her coffee cup to her lips. The question seemed not to have been heard. "Lottie wished she could see the ocean in a mood not quite so quiet; she wished for a storm; she said she wished a little storm would get up before we got home, that she might see how the waves looked. I begged and prayed her not to say so, for our wishes often fulfil themselves. Isn't it extraordinary how they do? Haven't you often observed it, Mrs. Wishart?" "In cases where wishes could take effect," returned that lady. "In the case of the elements, I do not see how they could do that." "But I don't know how it is," said the other; "I have observed it so often." "You call me by name," Mrs. Wishart went on rather hastily; "and I have been trying in vain to recall yours. If I had met you anywhere else, of course I should be at no loss; but at the Isles of Shoals one expects to see nobody, and one is surprised out of one's memory." "I am never surprised out of my memory," said the other, chuckling. "I am poor enough in all other ways, I am sure, but my memory is good. I can tell you where I first saw you. You were at the Catskill House, with a large party; my brother-in-law Dr. Salisbury was there, and he had the pleasure of knowing you. It was two years ago." "I recollect being at the Catskill House very well," said Mrs. Wishart, "and of course it was there I became acquain'ted with you; but you must excuse me, at the Isles of Shoals, for forgetting all my connections with the rest of the world." "O, I am sure you are very excusable," said Dr. Salisbury's sister-in-law. "I am delighted to meet you again. I think one is particularly glad of a friend's face where one had not expected to see it; and I really expected nothing at the Isles of Shoals--but sea air." "You came for sea air?" "Yes, to get it pure. To be sure, Coney Island beach is not far off--for we live in Brooklyn; but I wanted the sea air wholly sea air--quite unmixed; and at Coney Island, somehow New York is so near, I couldn't fancy it would be the same thing. I don't want to smell the smoke of it. And I was curious about this place too; and I have so little opportunity for travelling, I thought it was a pity now when I _had_ the opportunity, not to take the utmost advantage of it. They laughed at me at home, but I said no, I was going to the Isles of Shoals or nowhere. And now I am very glad I came."-- "Lois," Mrs. Wishart said when they went back to their own room, "I don't know that woman from Adam. I have not the least recollection of ever seeing her. I know Dr. Salisbury--and he might be anybody's brother-in-law. I wonder if she will keep that seat opposite us? Because she is worse than a smoky chimney!" "O no, not that," said Lois. "She amuses me." "Everything amuses you, you happy creature! You look as if the fairies that wait upon young girls had made you their special care. Did you ever read the 'Rape of the Lock'?" "I have never read anything," Lois answered, a little soberly. "Never mind; you have so much the more pleasure before you. But the 'Rape of the Lock'--in that story there is a young lady, a famous beauty, whose dressing-table is attended by sprites or fairies. One of them colours her lips; another hides in the folds of her gown; another tucks himself away in a curl of her hair.--You make me think of that young lady." CHAPTER XIII. A SUMMER HOTEL. Mrs. Wishart was reminded of Belinda again the next morning. Lois was beaming. She managed to keep their talkative neighbour in order during breakfast; and then proposed to Mrs. Wishart to take a walk. But Mrs. Wishart excused herself, and Lois set off alone. After a couple of hours she came back with her hands full. "O, Mrs. Wishart!" she burst forth,--"this is the very loveliest place you ever saw in your life! I can never thank you enough for bringing me! What can I do to thank you?" "What makes it so delightful?" said the elder lady, smiling at her. "There is nothing here but the sea and the rocks. You have found the philosopher's stone, you happy girl!" "The philosopher's stone?" said Lois. "That was what Mr. Dillwyn told me about." "Philip? I wish he was here." "It would be nice for you. _I_ don't want anybody. The place is enough." "What have you found, child?" "Flowers--and mosses--and shells. O, the flowers are beautiful! But it isn't the flowers, nor any one thing; it is the place. The air is wonderful; and the sea, O, the sea is a constant delight to me!" "The philosopher's stone!" repeated the lady. "What is it, Lois? You are the happiest creature I ever saw.--You find pleasure in everything." "Perhaps it is that," said Lois simply. "Because I am happy." "But what business have you to be so happy?--living in a corner like Shampuashuh. I beg your pardon, Lois, but it is a corner of the earth. What makes you happy?" Lois answered lightly, that perhaps it was easier to be happy in a corner than in a wide place; and went off again. She would not give Mrs. Wishart an answer she could by no possibility understand. Some time later in the day, Mrs. Wishart too, becoming tired of the monotony of her own room, descended to the piazza; and was sitting there when the little steamboat arrived with some new guests for the hotel. She watched one particular party approaching. A young lady in advance, attended by a gentleman; then another pair following, an older lady, leaning on the arm of a cavalier whom Mrs. Wishart recognized first of them all. She smiled to herself. "Mrs. Wishart!" Julia Caruthers exclaimed, as she came upon the verandah. "You _are_ here. That is delightful! Mamma, here is Mrs. Wishart. But whatever did bring you here? I am reminded of Captain Cook's voyages, that I used to read when I was a child, and I fancy I have come to one of his savage islands; only I don't see the salvages. They will appear, perhaps. But I don't see anything else; cocoanut trees, or palms, or bananas, the tale of which used to make my mouth water. There are no trees here at all, that I can see, nor anything else. What brought you here, Mrs. Wishart? May I present Mr. Lenox?--What brought you here, Mrs. Wishart?" "What brought _you_ here?" was the smiling retort. The answer was prompt. "Tom." Mrs. Wishart looked at Tom, who came up and paid his respects in marked form; while his mother, as if exhausted, sank down on one of the chairs. "Yes, it was Tom," she repeated. "Nothing would do for Tom but the Isles of Shoals; and so, Julia and I had to follow in his train. In my grandmother's days that would have been different. What is here, dear Mrs. Wishart, besides you? You are not alone?" "Not quite. I have brought my little friend, Lois Lothrop, with me; and she thinks the Isles of Shoals the most charming place that was ever discovered, by Captain Cook or anybody else." "Ah, she is here!" said Mrs. Caruthers dryly; while Julia and Mr. Lenox exchanged glances. "Much other company?" "Not much; and what there is comes more from New Hampshire than New York, I fancy." "Ah!--And what else is here then, that anybody should come here for?" "I don't know yet. You must ask Miss Lothrop. Yonder she comes. She has been exploring ever since five o'clock, I believe." "I suppose she is accustomed to get up at that hour," remarked the other, as if the fact involved a good deal of disparagement. And then they were all silent, and watched Lois, who was slowly and unconsciously approaching her reviewers. Her hands were again full of different gleanings from the wonderful wilderness in which she had been exploring; and she came with a slow step, still busy with them as she walked. Her hat had fallen back a little; the beautiful hair was a trifle disordered, showing so only the better its rich abundance and exquisite colour; the face it framed and crowned was fair and flushed, intent upon her gains from rock and meadow--for there was a little bit of meadow ground at Appledore;--and so happy in its sweet absorption, that an involuntary tribute of homage to its beauty was wrung from the most critical. Lois walked with a light, steady step; her careless bearing was free and graceful; her dress was not very fashionable, but entirely proper for the place; all eyes consented to this, and then all eyes came back to the face. It was so happy, so pure, so unconscious and unshadowed; the look was of the sort that one does not see in the assemblies of the world's pleasure-seekers; nor ever but in the faces of heaven's pleasure-finders. She was a very lovely vision, and somehow all the little group on the piazza with one consent kept silence, watching her as she came. She drew near with busy, pleased thoughts, and leisurely happy steps, and never looked up till she reached the foot of the steps leading to the piazza. Nor even then; she had picked up her skirt and mounted several steps daintily before she heard her name and raised her eyes. Then her face changed. The glance of surprise, it is true, was immediately followed by a smile of civil greeting; but the look of rapt happiness was gone; and somehow nobody on the piazza felt the change to be flattering. She accepted quietly Tom's hand, given partly in greeting, partly to assist her up the last steps, and faced the group who were regarding her. "How delightful to find you here, Miss Lothrop!" said Julia,--"and how strange that people should meet on the Isles of Shoals." "Why is it strange?" "O, because there is really nothing to come here for, you know. I don't know how we happen to be here ourselves.--Mr. Lenox, Miss Lothrop.--What have you found in this desert?" "You have been spoiling Appledore?" added Tom. "I don't think I have done any harm," said Lois innocently. "There is enough more, Mr. Caruthers." "Enough of what?" Tom inquired, while Julia and her friend exchanged a swift glance again, of triumph on the lady's part. "There is a shell," said Lois, putting one into his hand. "I think that is pretty, and it certainly is odd. And what do you say to those white violets, Mr. Caruthers? And here is some very beautiful pimpernel--and here is a flower that I do not know at all,--and the rest is what you would call rubbish," she finished with a smile, so charming that Tom could not see the violets for dazzled eyes. "Show me the flowers, Tom," his mother demanded; and she kept him by her, answering her questions and remarks about them; while Julia asked where they could be found. "I find them in quite a good many places," said Lois; "and every time it is a sort of surprise. I gathered only a few; I do not like to take them away from their places; they are best there." She said a word or two to Mrs. Wishart, and passed on into the house. "That's the girl," Julia said in a low voice to her lover, walking off to the other end of the verandah with him. "Tom might do worse," was the reply. "George! How can you say so? A girl who doesn't know common English!" "She might go to school," suggested Lenox. "To school! At her age! And then, think of her associations, and her ignorance of everything a lady should be and should know. O you men! I have no patience with you. See a face you like, and you lose your wits at once, the best of you. I wonder you ever fancied me!" "Tastes are unaccountable," the young man returned, with a lover-like smile. "But do you call that girl pretty?" Mr. Lenox looked portentously grave. "She has handsome hair," he ventured. "Hair! What's hair! Anybody can have handsome hair, that will pay for it." "She has not paid for hers." "No, and I don't mean that Tom shall. Now George, you must help. I brought you along to help. Tom is lost if we don't save him. He must not be left alone with this girl; and if he gets talking to her, you must mix in and break it up, make love to her yourself, if necessary. And we must see to it that they do not go off walking together. You must help me watch and help me hinder. Will you?" "Really, I should not be grateful to anyone who did _me_ such kind service." "But it is to save Tom." "Save him! From what?" "From a low marriage. What could be worse?" "Adjectives are declinable. There is low, lower, lowest." "Well, what could be lower? A poor girl, uneducated, inexperienced, knowing nobody, brought up in the country, and of no family in particular, with nothing in the world but beautiful hair! Tom ought to have something better than that." "I'll study her further, and then tell you what I think." "You are very stupid to-day, George!" Nobody got a chance to study Lois much more that day. Seeing that Mrs. Wishart was for the present well provided with company, she withdrew to her own room; and there she stayed. At supper she appeared, but silent and reserved; and after supper she went away again. Next morning Lois was late at breakfast; she had to run a gauntlet of eyes, as she took her seat at a little distance. "Overslept, Lois?" queried Mrs. Wishart. "Miss Lothrop looks as if she never had been asleep, nor ever meant to be," quoth Tom. "What a dreadful character!" said Miss Julia. "Pray, Miss Lothrop, excuse him; the poor boy means, I have no doubt, to be complimentary." "Not so bad, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Lenox. "Ladies always like to be thought bright-eyed, I believe." "But never to sleep!" said Julia. "Imagine the staring effect." "_You_ are complimentary without effort," Tom remarked pointedly. "Lois, my dear, have you been out already?" Mrs. Wishart asked. Lois gave a quiet assent and betook herself to her breakfast. "I knew it," said Tom. "Morning air has a wonderful effect, if ladies would only believe it. They won't believe it, and they suffer accordingly." "Another compliment!" said Miss Julia, laughing. "But what do you find, Miss Lothrop, that can attract you so much before breakfast? or after breakfast either, for that matter?" "Before breakfast is the best time in the twenty-four hours," said Lois. "Pray, for what?" "If _you_ were asked, you would say, for sleeping," put in Tom. "For what, Miss Lothrop? Tom, you are troublesome." "For doing what, do you mean?" said Lois. "I should say, for anything; but I was thinking of enjoying." "We are all just arrived," Mr. Lenox began; "and we are slow to believe there is anything to enjoy at the Isles. Will Miss Lothrop enlighten us?" "I do not know that I can," said Lois. "You might not find what I find." "What do you find?" "If you will go out with me to-morrow morning at five o'clock, I will show you," said Lois, with a little smile of amusement, or of archness, which quite struck Mr. Lenox and quite captivated Tom. "Five o'clock!" the former echoed. "Perhaps he would not then see what you see," Julia suggested. "Perhaps not," said Lois. "I am by no means sure." She was let alone after that; and as soon as breakfast was over she escaped again. She made her way to a particular hiding-place she had discovered, in the rocks, down near the shore; from which she had a most beautiful view of the sea and of several of the other islands. Her nook of a seat was comfortable enough, but all around it the rocks were piled in broken confusion, sheltering her, she thought, from any possible chance comer. And this was what Lois wanted; for, in the first place, she was minded to keep herself out of the way of the newly-arrived party, each and all of them; and, in the second place, she was intoxicated with the delights of the ocean. Perhaps I should say rather, of the ocean and the rocks and the air and the sky, and of everything at Appledore, Where she sat, she had a low brown reef in sight, jutting out into the sea just below her; and upon this reef the billows were rolling and breaking in a way utterly and wholly entrancing. There was no wind, to speak of, yet there was much more motion in the sea than yesterday; which often happens from the effect of winds that have been at work far away; and the breakers which beat and foamed upon that reef, and indeed upon all the shore, were beyond all telling graceful, beautiful, wonderful, mighty, and changeful. Lois had been there to see the sunrise; now that fairy hour was long past, and the day was in its full bright strength; but still she sat spellbound and watched the waves; watched the colours on the rocks, the brown and the grey; the countless, nameless hues of ocean, and the light on the neighbouring islands, so different now from what they had been a few hours ago. Now and then a thought or two went to the hotel and its new inhabitants, and passed in review the breakfast that morning. Lois had taken scarce any part in the conversation; her place at table put her at a distance from Mr. Caruthers; and after those few first words she had been able to keep very quiet, as her wish was. But she had listened, and observed. Well, the talk had not been, as to quality, one whit better than what Shampuashuh could furnish every day; nay, Lois thought the advantage of sense and wit and shrewdness was decidedly on the side of her country neighbours; while the staple of talk was nearly the same. A small sort of gossip and remark, with commentary, on other people and other people's doings, past, present, and to come. It had no interest whatever to Lois's mind, neither subject nor treatment. But the _manner_ to-day gave her something to think about. The manner was different; and the manner not of talk only, but of all that was done. Not so did Shampuashuh discuss its neighbours, and not so did Shampuashuh eat bread and butter. Shampuashuh ways were more rough, angular, hurried; less quietness, less grace, whether of movement or speech; less calm security in every action; less delicacy of taste. It must have been good blood in Lois which recognized all this, but recognize it she did; and, as I said, every now and then an involuntary thought of it came over the girl. She felt that she was unlike these people; not of their class or society; she was sure they knew it too, and would act accordingly; that is, not rudely or ungracefully making the fact known, but nevertheless feeling, and showing that they felt, that she belonged to a detached portion of humanity. Or they; what did it matter? Lois did not misjudge or undervalue herself; she knew she was the equal of these people, perhaps more than their equal, in true refinement of feeling and delicacy of perception; she knew she was not awkward in manner; yet she knew, too, that she had not their ease of habit, nor the confidence given by knowledge of the world and all other sorts of knowledge. Her up-bringing and her surroundings had not been like theirs; they had been rougher, coarser, and if of as good material, of far inferior form. She thought with herself that she would keep as much out of their company as she properly could. For there was beneath all this consciousness an unrecognized, or at least unacknowledged, sense of other things in Lois's mind; of Mr. Caruthers' possible feelings, his people's certain displeasure, and her own promise to her grandmother. She would keep herself out of the way; easy at Appledore-- "Have I found you, Miss Lothrop?" said a soft, gracious voice, with a glad accent. CHAPTER XIV. WATCHED. "Have I found you, Miss Lothrop?" Looking over her shoulder, Lois saw the handsome features of Mr. Caruthers, wearing a smile of most undoubted satisfaction. And, to the scorn of all her previous considerations, she was conscious of a flush of pleasure in her own mind. This was not suffered to appear. "I thought I was where nobody could find me," she answered. "Do you think there is such a place in the whole world?" said Tom gallantly. Meanwhile he scrambled over some inconvenient rocks to a place by her side. "I am very glad to find you, Miss Lothrop, both ways,--first at Appledore, and then here." To this compliment Lois made no reply. "What has driven you to this little out-of-the-way nook?" "You mean Appledore?" "No, no! this very uncomfortable situation among the rocks here? What drove you to it?" "You think there is no attraction?" "I don't see what attraction there is here for you." "Then you should not have come to Appledore." "Why not?" "There is nothing here for you." "Ah, but! What is there for you? Do you find anything here to like now, really?" "I have been down in this 'uncomfortable place' ever since near five o'clock--except while we were at breakfast." "What for?" "What for?" said Lois, laughing. "If you ask, it is no use to tell you, Mr. Caruthers." "Ah, be generous!" said Tom. "I'm a stupid fellow, I know; but do try and help me a little to a sense of the beautiful. _Is_ it the beautiful, by the way, or is it something else?" Lois's laugh rang softly out again. She was a country girl, it is true; but her laugh was as sweet to hear as the ripple of the waters among the stones. The laugh of anybody tells very much of what he is, making revelations undreamt of often by the laugher. A harsh croak does not come from a mind at peace, nor an empty clangour from a heart full of sensitive happiness; nor a coarse laugh from a person of refined sensibilities, nor a hard laugh from a tender spirit. Moreover, people cannot dissemble successfully in laughing; the truth comes out in a startling manner. Lois's laugh was sweet and musical; it was a pleasure to hear. And Tom's eyes said so. "I always knew I was a stupid fellow," he said; "but I never felt myself so stupid as to-day! What is it, Miss Lothrop?" "What is what, Mr. Caruthers?--I beg your pardon." "What is it you find in this queer place?" "I am afraid it is waste trouble to tell you." "Good morning!" cried a cheery voice here from below them; and looking towards the water they saw Mr. Lenox, making his way as best he could over slippery seaweed and wet rocks. "Hollo, George!" cried Tom in a different tone--"What are you doing there?" "Trying to keep out of the water, don't you see?" "To an ordinary mind, that object would seem more likely to be attained if you kept further away from it." "May I come up where you are?" "Certainly!" said Lois. "But take care how you do it." A little scrambling and the help of Tom's hand accomplished the feat; and the new comer looked about him with much content. "You came the other way," he said. "I see. I shall know how next time. What a delightful post, Miss Lothrop!" "I have been trying to find what she came here for; and she won't tell me," said Tom. "You know what you came here for," said his friend. "Why cannot you credit other people with as much curiosity as you have yourself?" "I credit them with more," said Tom. "But curiosity on Appledore will find itself baffled, I should say." "Depends on what curiosity is after," said Lenox. "Tell him, Miss Lothrop; he will not be any the wiser." "Then why should I tell him?" said Lois. "Perhaps I shall!" Lois's laugh came again. "Seriously. If any one were to ask me, not only what we but what anybody should come to this place for, I should be unprepared with an answer. I am forcibly reminded of an old gentleman who went up Mount Washington on one occasion when I also went up. It came on to rain--a sudden summer gust and downpour, hiding the very mountain it self from our eyes; hiding the path, hiding the members of the party from each other. We were descending the mountain by that time, and it was ticklish work for a nervous person; every one was committed to his own sweet guidance; and as I went blindly stumbling along, I came every now and then upon the old gentleman, also stumbling along, on his donkey. And whenever I was near enough to him, I could hear him dismally soliloquizing, 'Why am I here!'--in a tone of mingled disgust and self-reproach which was in the highest degree comical." "So that is your state of mind now, is it?" said Tom. "Not quite yet, but I feel it is going to be. Unless Miss Lothrop can teach me something." "There are some things that cannot be taught," said Lois. "And people--hey? But I am not one of those, Miss Lothrop." He looked at her with such a face of demure innocence, that Lois could not keep her gravity. "Now Tom _is_," Lenox went on. "You cannot teach him anything, Miss Lothrop. It would be lost labour." "I am not so stupid as you think," said Tom. "He's not stupid--he's obstinate," Lenox went on, addressing himself to Lois. "He takes a thing in his head. Now that sounds intelligent; but it isn't, or _he_ isn't; for when you try, you can't get it out of his head again. So he took it into his head to come to the Isles of Shoals, and hither he has dragged his mother and his sister, and hither by consequence he has dragged me. Now I ask you, as one who can tell--what have we all come here for?" Half-quizzically, half-inquisitively, the young man put the question, lounging on the rocks and looking up into Lois's face. Tom grew impatient. But Lois was too humble and simple-minded to fall into the snare laid for her. I think she had a half-discernment of a hidden intent under Mr. Lenox's words; nevertheless in the simple dignity of truth she disregarded it, and did not even blush, either with consciousness or awkwardness. She was a little amused. "I suppose experience will have to be your teacher, as it is other people's." "I have heard so; I never saw anybody who had learned much that way." "Come, George, that's ridiculous. Learning by experience is proverbial," said Tom. "I know!--but it's a delusion nevertheless. You sprain your ankle among these stones, for instance. Well--you won't put your foot in that particular hole again; but you will in another. That's the way you do, Tom. But to return--Miss Lothrop, what has experience done for you in the Isles of Shoals?" "I have not had much yet." "Does it pay to come here?" "I think it does." "How came anybody to think of coming here at first? that is what I should like to know. I never saw a more uncompromising bit of barrenness. Is there no desolation anywhere else, that men should come to the Isles of Shoals?" "There was quite a large settlement here once," said Lois. "Indeed! When?" "Before the war of the revolution. There were hundreds of people; six hundred, somebody told me." "What became of them?" "Well," said Lois, smiling, "as that is more than a hundred years ago, I suppose they all died." "And their descendants?--" "Living on the mainland, most of them. When the war came, they could not protect themselves against the English." "Fancy, Tom," said Lenox. "People liked it so well on these rocks, that it took ships of war to drive them away!" "The people that live here now are just as fond of them, I am told." "What earthly or heavenly inducement?--" "Yes, I might have said so too, the first hour of my being here, or the first day. The second, I began to understand it." "Do make me understand it!" "If you will come here at five o'clock to-morrow, Mr. Leno--xin the morning, I mean,--and will watch the wonderful sunrise, the waking up of land and sea; if you will stay here then patiently till ten o'clock, and see the changes and the colours on everything--let the sea and the sky speak to you, as they will; then they will tell you--all you can understand!" "All I can understand. H'm! May I go home for breakfast?" "Perhaps you must; but you will wish you need not." "Will you be here?" "No," said Lois. "I will be somewhere else." "But I couldn't stand such a long talk with myself as that," said the young man. "It was a talk with Nature I recommended to you." "All the same. Nature says queer things if you let her alone." "Best listen to them, then." "Why?" "She tells you the truth." "Do you like the truth?" "Certainly. Of course. Do not you?" "_Always?_" "Yes, always. Do not you?" "It's fearfully awkward!" said the young man. "Yes, isn't it?" Tom echoed. "Do you like falsehood, Mr. Lenox?" "I dare not say what I like--in this presence. Miss Lothrop, I am very much afraid you are a Puritan." "What is a Puritan?" asked Lois simply. "He doesn't know!" said Tom. "You needn't ask him." "I will ask you then, for I do not know. What does he mean by it?" "He doesn't know that," said Lenox, laughing. "I will tell you, Miss Lothrop--if I can. A Puritan is a person so much better than the ordinary run of mortals, that she is not afraid to let Nature and Solitude speak to her--dares to look roses in the face, in fact;--has no charity for the crooked ways of the world or for the people entangled in them; a person who can bear truth and has no need of falsehood, and who is thereby lifted above the multitudes of this world's population, and stands as it were alone." "I'll report that speech to Julia," said Tom, laughing. "But that is not what a 'Puritan' generally means, is it?" said Lois. They both laughed now at the quain't simplicity with which this was spoken. "That is what it _is_," Tom answered. "I do not think the term is complimentary," Lois went on, shaking her head, "however Mr. Lenox's explanation may be. Isn't it ten o'clock?" "Near eleven." "Then I must go in." The two gentlemen accompanied her, making themselves very pleasant by the way. Lenox asked her about flowers; and Tom, who was some thing of a naturalist, told her about mosses and lichens, more than she knew; and the walk was too short for Lois. But on reaching the hotel she went straight to her own room and stayed there. So also after dinner, which of course brought her to the company, she went back to her solitude and her work. She must write home, she said. Yet writing was not Lois's sole reason for shutting herself up. She would keep herself out of the way, she reasoned. Probably this company of city people with city tastes would not stay long at Appledore; while they were there she had better be seen as little as possible. For she felt that the sight of Tom Caruthers' handsome face had been a pleasure; and she felt--and what woman does not?--that there is a certain very sweet charm in being liked, independently of the question how much you like in return. And Lois knew, though she hardly in her modesty acknowledged it to herself, that Mr. Caruthers liked her. Eyes and smiles and manner showed it; she could not mistake it; nay, engaged man though he was, Mr. Lenox liked her too. She did not quite understand him or his manner; with the keen intuition of a true woman she felt vaguely what she did not clearly discern, and was not sure of the colour of his liking, as she was sure of Tom's. Tom's--it might not be deep, but it was true, and it was pleasant; and Lois remembered her promise to her grandmother. She even, when her letter was done, took out her Bible and opened it at that well-known place in 2nd Corinthians; "Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers"--and she looked hard at the familiar words. Then, said Lois to herself, it is best to keep at a distance from temptation. For these people were unbelievers. They could not understand one word of Christian hope or joy, if she spoke them. What had she and they in common? Yet Lois drew rather a long breath once or twice in the course of her meditations. These "unbelievers" were so pleasant. Yes, it was an undoubted fact; they were pleasant people to be with and to talk to. They might not think with her, or comprehend her even, in the great questions of life and duty; in the lesser matters of everyday experience they were well versed. They understood the world and the things in the world, and the men; and they were skilled and deft and graceful in the arts of society. Lois knew no young men,--nor old, for that matter,--who were, as gentlemen, as social companions, to be compared with these and others their associates in graces of person and manner, and interest of conversation. She went over again and again in memory the interview and the talk of that morning; and not without a secret thrill of gratification, although also not without a vague half perception of something in Mr. Lenox's manner that she could not quite read and did not quite trust. What did he mean? He was Miss Caruthers' property; how came he to busy himself at all with her own insignificant self? Lois was too innocent to guess; at the same time too finely gifted as a woman to be entirely hoodwinked. She rose at last with a third little sigh, as she concluded that her best way was to keep as well away as she could from this pleasant companionship. But she could not stay in-doors. For once in her life she was at Appledore; she must not miss her chance. The afternoon was half gone; the house all still; probably everybody was in his room, and she could slip out safely. She went down on soft feet; she found nobody on the piazza, not a creature in sight; she was glad; and yet, she would not have been sorry to see Tom Caruthers' genial face, which was always so very genial towards her. Inconsistent!--but who is not inconsistent? Lois thought herself free, and had half descended the steps from the verandah, when she heard a voice and her own name. She paused and looked round. "Miss Lothrop!--are you going for a walk? may I come with you?"--and therewith emerged the form of Miss Julia from the house. "Are you going for a walk? will you let me go along?" "Certainly," said Lois. "I am regularly cast away here," said the young lady, joining her. "I don't know what to do with myself. _Is_ there anything to do or to see in this place?" "I think so. Plenty." "Then do show me what you have found. Where are you going?" "I am going down to the shore somewhere. I have only begun to find things yet; but I never in my life saw a place where there was so much to find." "What, pray? I cannot imagine. I see a little wild bit of ground, and that is all I see; except the sea beating on the rocks. It is the forlornest place of amusement I ever heard of in my life!" "Are you fond of flowers, Miss Caruthers?" "Flowers? No, not very. O, I like them to dress a dinner table, or to make rooms look pretty, of course; but I am not what you call 'fond' of them. That means, loving to dig in the dirt, don't it?" Lois presently stooped and gathered a flower or two. "Did yon ever see such lovely white violets?" she said; "and is not that eyebright delicate, with its edging of colour? There are quantities of flowers here. And have you noticed how deep and rich the colours are? No, you have not been here long enough perhaps; but they are finer than any I ever saw of their kinds." "What do you find down at the shore?" said Miss Caruthers, looking very disparagingly at the slight beauties in Lois's fingers. "There are no flowers there, I suppose?" "I can hardly get away from the shore, every time I go to it," said Lois. "O, I have only begun to explore yet. Over on that end of Appledore there are the old remains of a village, where the people used to live, once upon a time. I want to go and see that, but I haven't got there yet. Now take care of your footing, Miss Caruthers--" They descended the rocks to one of the small coves of the island. Out of sight now of all save rocks and sea and the tiny bottom of the cove filled with mud and sand. Even the low bushes which grow so thick on Appledore were out of sight, huckleberry and bayberry and others; the wildness and solitude of the spot were perfect. Miss Caruthers found a dry seat on a rock. Lois began to look carefully about in the mud and sand. "What are you looking for?" her companion asked, somewhat scornfully. "Anything I can find!" "What can you find in that mud?" "_This_ is gravel, where I am looking now." "Well, what is in the gravel?" "I don't know," said Lois, in the dreamy tone of rapt enjoyment. "I don't know yet. Plenty of broken shells." "Broken shells!" ejaculated the other. "Are you collecting broken shells?" "Look," said Lois, coming to her and displaying her palm full of sea treasures. "See the colours of those bits of shell--that's a bit of a mussel; and that is a piece of a snail shell, I think; and aren't those little stones lovely?" "That is because they are wet!" said the other in disgust. "They will be nothing when they are dry." Lois laughed and went back to her search; and Miss Julia waited awhile with impatience for some change in the programme. "Do you enjoy this, Miss Lothrop?" "Very much! More than I can in any way tell you!" cried Lois, stopping and turning to look at her questioner. Her face answered for her; it was all flushed and bright with delight and the spirit of discovery; a pretty creature indeed she looked as she stood there on the wet gravel of the cove; but her face lost brightness for a moment, as Lois discerned Tom's head above the herbs and grasses that bordered the bank above the cove. Julia saw the change, and then the cause of it. "Tom!" said she, "what brought you here?" "What brought you, I suppose," said Mr. Tom, springing down the bank. "Miss Lothrop, what can you be doing?" Passing his sister he went to the other girl's side. And now there were _two_ searching and peering into the mud and gravel which the tide had left wet and bare; and Miss Caruthers, sitting on a rock a little above them, looked on; much marvelling at the follies men will be guilty of when a pretty face draws them on. "Tom--Tom!--what do you expect to find?" she cried after awhile. But Tom was too busy to heed her. And then appeared Mr. Lenox upon the scene. "You too!" said Miss Caruthers. "Now you have only to go down into the mud like the others and complete the situation. Look at Tom! Poking about to see if he can find a whole snail shell in the wet stuff there. Look at him! George, a brother is the most vexatious thing to take care of in the world. Look at Tom!" Mr. Lenox did, with an amused expression of feature. "Bad job, Julia," he said. "It is in one way, but it isn't in another, for I am not going to be baffled. He shall not make a fool of himself with that girl." "She isn't a fool." "What then?" said Julia sharply. "Nothing. I was only thinking of the materials upon which your judgment is made up." "Materials!" echoed Julia. "Yours is made up upon a nice complexion. That bewilders all men's faculties. Do _you_ think she is very pretty, George?" Mr. Lenox had no time to answer, for Lois, and of course Tom, at this moment left the cove bottom and came towards them. Lois was beaming, like a child, with such bright, pure pleasure; and coming up, showed upon her open palm a very delicate little white shell, not a snail shell by any means. "I have found that!" she proclaimed. "What is that?" said Julia disdainfully, though not with rudeness. "You see. Isn't it beautiful? And isn't it wonderful that it should not be broken? If you think of the power of the waves here, that have beat to pieces almost everything--rolled and ground and crushed everything that would break--and this delicate little thing has lived through it." "There is a power of life in some delicate things," said Tom. "Power of fiddlestick!" said his sister. "Miss Lothrop, I think this place is a terrible desert!" "Then we will not stay here any longer," said Lois. "I am very fond of these little coves." "No, no, I mean Appledore generally. It is the stupidest place I ever was in in my life. There is nothing here." Lois looked at the lady with an expression of wondering compassion. "Your experience does not agree with that of Miss Caruthers?" said Lenox. "No," said Lois. "Let us take her to the place where you found me this morning; maybe she would like that." "We must go, I suppose," groaned Julia, as Mr. Lenox helped her up over the rocks after the lighter-footed couple that preceded them. "George, I believe you are in the way." "Thanks!" said the young man, laughing. "But you will excuse me for continuing to be in the way." "I don't know--you see, it just sets Tom free to attend to her. Look at him--picking those purple irises--as if iris did not grow anywhere else! And now elderberry blossoms! And he will give her lessons in botany, I shouldn't wonder. O, Tom's a goose!" "That disease is helpless," said Lenox, laughing again. "But George, it is madness!" Mr. Lenox's laugh rang out heartily at this. His sovereign mistress was not altogether pleased. "I do certainly consider--and so do you,--I do certainly consider unequal marriages to be a great misfortune to all concerned." "Certainly--inequalities that cannot be made up. For instance, too tall and too short do not match well together. Or for the lady to be rich and the man to be poor; that is perilous." "Nonsense, George! don't be ridiculous! Height is nothing, and money is nothing; but family--and breeding--and habits--" "What is her family?" asked Mr. Lenox, pursing up his lips as if for a whistle. "No family at all. Just country people, living at Shampuashuh." "Don't you know, the English middle class is the finest in the world?" "No! no better than ours." "My dear, we have no middle class." "But what about the English middle class? why do you bring it up?" "It owes its great qualities to its having the mixed blood of the higher and the lower." "Ridiculous! What is that to us, if we have no middle class? But don't you _see_, George, what an unhappy thing it would be for Tom to marry this girl?" Mr. Lenox whistled slightly, smiled, and pulled a purple iris blossom from a tuft growing in a little spot of wet ground. He offered it to his disturbed companion. "There is a country flower for you," he observed. But Miss Caruthers flung the flower impatiently away, and hastened her steps to catch up with her brother and Lois, who made better speed than she. Mr. Lenox picked up the iris and followed, smiling again to himself. They found Lois seated in her old place, where the gentlemen had seen her in the morning. She rose at once to give the seat to Miss Caruthers, and herself took a less convenient one. It was almost a new scene to Lois, that lay before them now. The lights were from a different quarter; the colours those of the sinking day; the sea, from some inexplicable reason, was rolling higher than it had done six hours ago, and dashed on the rocks and on the reef in beautiful breakers, sending up now and then a tall jet of foam or a shower of spray. The hazy mainland shore line was very indistinct under the bright sky and lowering sun; while every bit of west-looking rock, and every sail, and every combing billow was touched with warm hues or gilded with a sharp reflection. The air was like the air nowhere but at the Isles of Shoals; with the sea's salt strength and freshness, and at times a waft of perfumes from the land side. Lois drank it with an inexpressible sense of exhilaration; while her eye went joyously roving from the lovely light on a sail, to the dancing foam of the breakers, to the colours of driftwood or seaweed or moss left wet and bare on the rocks, to the line of the distant ocean, or the soft vapoury racks of clouds floating over from the west. She well-nigh forgot her companions altogether; who, however, were less absorbed. Yet for a while they all sat silent, looking partly at Lois, partly at each other, partly no doubt at the leaping spray from the broken waves on the reef. There was only the delicious sound of the splash and gurgle of waters--the scream of a gull--the breath of the air--the chirrup of a few insects; all was wild stillness and freshness and pureness, except only that little group of four human beings. And then, the puzzled vexation and perplexity in Tom's face, and the impatient disgust in the face of his sister, were too much for Mr. Lenox's sense of the humorous; and the silence was broken by a hearty burst of laughter, which naturally brought all eyes to himself. "Pardon!" said the young gentleman. "The delight in your face, Julia, was irresistible." "Delight!" she echoed. "Miss Lothrop, do you find something here in which you take pleasure?" Lois looked round. "Yes," she said simply. "I find something everywhere to take pleasure in." "Even at Shampuashuh?" "At Shampuashuh, of course. That is my home." "But I never take pleasure in anything at home. It is all such an old story. Every day is just like any other day, and I know beforehand exactly how everything will be; and one dress is like another, and one party is like another. I must go away from home to get any real pleasure." Lois wondered if she succeeded. "That's a nice look-out for you, George," Caruthers remarked. "I shall know how to make home so agreeable that she will not want to wander any more," said the other. "That is what the women do for the men, down our way," said Lois, smiling. She began to feel a little mischief stirring. "What sort of pleasures do you find, or make, at home, Miss Lothrop?" Julia went on. "You are very quiet, are you not?" "There is always one's work," said Lois lightly. She knew it would be in vain to tell her questioner the instances that came up in her memory; the first dish of ripe strawberries brought in to surprise her grandmother; the new potatoes uncommonly early; the fine yield of her raspberry bushes; the wonderful beauty of the early mornings in her garden; the rarer, sweeter beauty of the Bible reading and talk with old Mrs. Armadale; the triumphant afternoons on the shore, from which she and her sisters came back with great baskets of long clams; and countless other visions of home comfort and home peace, things accomplished and the fruit of them enjoyed. Miss Caruthers could not understand all this; so Lois answered simply, "There is always one's work." "Work! I hate work," cried the other woman. "What do you call work?" "Everything that is to be done," said Lois. "Everything, except what we do for mere pleasure. We keep no servant; my sisters and I do all that there is to do, in doors and out." "_Out_--of--doors!" cried Miss Caruthers. "What do you mean? You cannot do the farming?" "No," said Lois, smiling merrily; "no; not the farming. That is done by men. But the gardening I do." "Not seriously?" "Very seriously. If you will come and see us, I will give you some new potatoes of my planting. I am rather proud of them. I was just thinking of them." "Planting potatoes!" repeated the other lady, not too politely. "Then _that_ is the reason why you find it a pleasure to sit here and see those waves beat." The logical concatenation of this speech was not so apparent but that it touched all the risible nerves of the party; and Miss Caruthers could not understand why all three laughed so heartily. "What did you expect when you came here?" asked Lois, still sparkling with fun. "Just what I found!" returned the other rather grumbly. CHAPTER XV. TACTICS. Miss Caruthers carried on the tactics with which she had begun. Lois had never in her life found her society so diligently cultivated. If she walked out, Miss Caruthers begged to be permitted to go along; she wished to learn about the Islands. Lois could not see that she advanced much in learning; and sometimes wondered that she did not prefer her brother or her lover as instructors. True, her brother and her lover were frequently of the party; yet even then Miss Julia seemed to choose to take her lessons from Lois; and managed as much as possible to engross her. Lois could see that at such times Tom was often annoyed, and Mr. Lenox amused, at something, she could not quite tell what; and she was too inexperienced, and too modest withal, to guess. She only knew that she was not as free as she would have liked to be. Sometimes Tom found a chance for a little walk and talk with her alone; and those quarters of an hour were exceedingly pleasant; Tom told her about flowers, in a scientific way, that is; and made himself a really charming companion. Those minutes flew swiftly. But they never were many. If not Julia, at least Mr. Lenox was sure to appear upon the scene; and then, though he was very pleasant too, and more than courteous to Lois, somehow the charm was gone. It was just as well, Lois told herself; but that did not make her like it. Except with Tom, he did not enjoy herself thoroughly in the Caruthers society. She felt, with a sure, secret, fine instinct, what they were not high-bred enough to hide;--that they did not accept her as upon their own platform. I do not think the consciousness was plain enough to be put into words; nevertheless it was decided enough to make her quite willing to avoid their company. She tried, but she could not avoid it. In the house as out of the house. Tom would seek her out and sit down beside her; and then Julia would come to learn a crochet stitch, or Mrs. Caruthers would call her to remedy a fault in her knitting, or to hold her wool to be wound; refusing to let Mr. Lenox hold it, under the plea that Lois did it better; which was true, no doubt. Or Mr. Lenox himself would join them, and turn everything Tom said into banter; till Lois could not help laughing, though yet she was vexed. So days went on. And then something happened to relieve both parties of the efforts they were making; a very strange thing to happen at the Isles of Shoals. Mrs. Wishart was taken seriously ill. She had not been quite well when she came; and she always afterwards maintained that the air did not agree with her. Lois thought it could not be the air, and must be some imprudence; but however it was, the fact was undoubted. Mrs. Wishart was ill; and the doctor who was fetched over from Portsmouth to see her, said she could not be moved, and must be carefully nursed. Was it the air? It couldn't be the air, he answered; nobody ever got sick at the Isles of Shoals. Was it some imprudence? Couldn't be, he said; there was no way in which she could be imprudent; she could not help living a natural life at Appledore. No, it was something the seeds of which she had brought with her; and the strong sea air had developed it. Reasoning which Lois did not understand; but she understood nursing, and gave herself to it, night and day. There was a sudden relief to Miss Julia's watch and ward; nobody was in danger of saying too many words to Lois now; nobody could get a chance; she was only seen by glimpses. "How long is this sort of thing going on?" inquired Mr. Lenox one afternoon. He and Julia had been spending a very unrefreshing hour on the piazza doing nothing. "Impossible to say." "I'm rather tired of it. How long has Mrs. Wishart been laid up now?" "A week; and she has no idea of being moved." "Well, are we fixtures too?" "You know what I came for, George. If Tom will go, I will, and thankful." "Tom," said the gentleman, as Tom at this minute came out of the house, "have you got enough of Appledore?" "I don't care about Appledore. It's the fishing." Tom, I may remark, had been a good deal out in a fishing-boat during this past week. "That's glorious." "But you don't care for fishing, old boy." "O, don't I!" "No, not a farthing. Seriously, don't you think we might mend our quarters?" "You can," said Tom. "Of course I can't go while Mrs. Wishart is sick. I can't leave those two women alone here to take care of themselves. You can take Julia and my mother away, where you like." "And a good riddance," muttered Lenox, as the other ran down the steps and went off. "He won't stir," said Julia. "You see how right I was." "Are you sure about it?" "Why, of course I am! Quite sure. What are you thinking about?" "Just wondering whether you might have made a mistake." "A mistake! How? I don't make mistakes." "That's pleasant doctrine! But I am not so certain. I have been thinking whether Tom is likely ever to get anything better." "Than this girl? George, don't you think he _deserves_ something better? My brother? What are you thinking of?" "Tom has got an enormous fancy for her; I can see that. It's not play with him. And upon my honour, Julia, I do not think she would do any thing to wear off the fancy." "Not if she could help it!" returned Julia scornfully. "She isn't a bit of a flirt." "You think that is a recommendation? Men like flirts. This girl don't know how, that is all." "I do not believe she knows how to do anything wrong." "Now do set up a discourse in praise of virtue! What if she don't? That's nothing to the purpose. I want Tom to go into political life." "A virtuous wife wouldn't hurt him there." "And an ignorant, country-bred, untrained woman wouldn't help him, would she?" "Tom will never want help in political life, for he will never go into it. Well, I have said my say, and resign myself to Appledore for two weeks longer. Only, mind you, I question if Tom will ever get anything as good again in the shape of a wife, as you are keeping him from now. It is something of a responsibility to play Providence." The situation therefore remained unchanged for several days more. Mrs. Wishart needed constant attention, and had it; and nobody else saw Lois for more than the merest snatches of time. I think Lois made these moments as short as she could. Tom was in despair, but stuck to his post and his determination; and with sighs and groans his mother and sister held fast to theirs. The hotel at Appledore made a good thing of it. Then one day Tom was lounging on the piazza at the time of the steamer's coming in from Portsmouth; and in a short time thereafter a new guest was seen advancing towards the hotel. Tom gave her a glance or two; he needed no more. She was middle-aged, plain, and evidently not from that quarter of the world where Mr. Tom Caruthers was known. Neatly dressed, however, and coming with an alert, business step over the grass, and so she mounted to the piazza. There she made straight for Tom, who was the only person visible. "Is this the place where a lady is lying sick and another lady is tendin' her?" "That _is_ the case here," said Tom politely. "Miss Lothrop is attending upon a sick friend in this house." "That's it--Miss Lothrop. I'm her aunt. How's the sick lady? Dangerous?" "Not at all, I should say," returned Tom; "but Miss Lothrop is very much confined with her. She will be very glad to see you, I have no doubt. Allow me to see about your room." And so saying, he would have relieved the new comer of a heavy handbag. "Never mind," she said, holding fast. "You're very obliging--but when I'm away from home I always hold fast to whatever I've got; and I'll go to Miss Lothrop's room. Are there more folks in the house?" "Certainly. Several. This way--I will show you." "Then I s'pose there's plenty to help nurse, and they have no call for me?" "I think Miss Lothrop has done the most of the nursing. Your coming will set her a little more at liberty. She has been very much confined with her sick friend." "What have the other folks been about?" "Not helping much, I am afraid. And of course a man is at a disadvantage at such a time." "Are they all men?" inquired Mrs. Marx suddenly. "No--I was thinking of my own case. I would have been very glad to be useful." "O!" said the lady. "That's the sort o' world we live in; most of it ain't good for much when it comes to the pinch. Thank you--much obliged." Tom had guided her up-stairs and along a gallery, and now indicated the door of Lois's room. Lois was quite as glad to see her aunt as Tom had supposed she would be. "Aunty!--Whatever has brought you here, to the Isles of Shoals?" "Not to see the Isles, you may bet. I've come to look after you." "Why, I'm well enough. But it's very good of you." "No, it ain't, for I wanted an excuse to see what the place is like. You haven't grown thin yet. What's all the folks about, that they let you do all the nursing?" "O, it comes to me naturally, being with Mrs. Wishart. Who should do it?" "To be sure," said Mrs. Marx; "who should do it? Most folks are good at keepin' out o' the way when they are wanted. There's one clever chap in the house--he showed me the way up here; who's he?" "Fair hair?" "Yes, and curly. A handsome fellow. And he knows you." "O, they all know me by this time." "This one particularly?" "Well--I knew him in New York." "I see! What's the matter with this sick woman?" "I don't know. She is nervous, and feverish, and does not seem to get well as she ought to do." "Well, if I was going to get sick, I'd choose some other place than a rock out in the middle of the ocean. _Seems_ to me I would. One never knows what one may be left to do." "One cannot generally choose where one will be sick," said Lois, smiling. "Yes, you can," said the other, as sharp as a needle. "If one's in the wrong place, one can keep up till one can get to the right one. You needn't tell me. I know it, and I've done it. I've held up when I hadn't feet to stand upon, nor a head to hold. If you're a mind to, you can. Nervous, eh? That's the trouble o' folks that haven't enough to do. Mercy! I don't wonder they get nervous. But you've had a little too much, Lois, and you show it. Now, you go and lie down. I'll look after the nerves." "How are they all at home?" "Splendid! Charity goes round like a bee in a bottle, as usual. Ma's well; and Madge is as handsome as ever. Garden's growin' up to weeds, and I don't see as there's anybody to help it; but that corner peach tree's ripe, and as good as if you had fifteen gardeners." "It's time I was home!" said Lois, sighing. "No, it ain't,--not if you're havin' a good time here. _Are_ you havin' a good time?" "Why, I've been doing nothing but take care of Mrs. Wishart for this week past." "Well, now I'm here. You go off. Do you like this queer place, I want to know?" "Aunty, it is just perfectly delightful!" "Is it? I don't see it. Maybe I will by and by. Now go off, Lois." Mrs. Marx from this time took upon herself the post of head nurse. Lois was free to go out as much as she pleased. Yet she made less use of this freedom than might have been expected, and still confined herself unnecessarily to the sick-room. "Why don't you go?" her aunt remonstrated. "Seems to me you ain't so dreadful fond of the Isles of Shoals after all." "If one could be alone!" sighed Lois; "but there is always a pack at my heels." "Alone! Is that what you're after? I thought half the fun was to see the folks." "Well, some of them," said Lois. "But as sure as I go out to have a good time with the rocks and the sea, as I like to have it, there comes first one and then another and then another, and maybe a fourth; and the game is up." "Why? I don't see how they should spoil it." "O, they do not care for the things I care for; the sea is nothing to them, and the rocks less than nothing; and instead of being quiet, they talk nonsense, or what seems nonsense to me; and I'd as lieve be at home." "What do they go for then?" "I don't know. I think they do not know what to do with themselves." "What do they stay here for, then, for pity's sake? If they are tired, why don't they go away?" "I can't tell. That is what I have asked myself a great many times. They are all as well as fishes, every one of them." Mrs. Marx held her peace and let things go their train for a few days more. Mrs. Wishart still gave her and Lois a good deal to do, though her ailments aroused no anxiety. After those few days, Mrs. Marx spoke again. "What keeps you so mum?" she said to Lois. "Why don't you talk, as other folks do?" "I hardly see them, you know, except at meals." "Why don't you talk at meal times? that's what I am askin' about. You can talk as well as anybody; and you sit as mum as a stick." "Aunty, they all talk about things I do not understand." "Then I'd talk of something _they_ don't understand. Two can play at that game." "It wouldn't be amusing," said Lois, laughing. "Do you call _their_ talk amusing? It's the stupidest stuff I ever did hear. I can't make head or tail of it; nor I don't believe they can. Sounds to me as if they were tryin' amazin' hard to be witty, and couldn't make it out." "It sounds a good deal like that," Lois assented. "They go on just as if you wasn't there!" "And why shouldn't they?" "Because you are there." "I am nothing to them," said Lois quietly. "Nothing to them! You are worth the whole lot." "They do not think so." "And politeness is politeness." "I sometimes think," said Lois, "that politeness is rudeness." "Well, I wouldn't let myself be put in a corner so, if I was you." "But I am in a corner, to them. All the world is where _they_ live; and I live in a little corner down by Shampuashuh." "Nobody's big enough to live in more than a corner--if you come to that; and one corner's as good as another. That's nonsense, Lois." "Maybe, aunty. But there is a certain knowledge of the world, and habit of the world, which makes some people very different from other people; you can't help that." "I don't want to help it?" said Mrs. Marx. "I wouldn't have you like them, for all the black sheep in my flock." CHAPTER XVI. MRS. MARX'S OPINION. A few more days went by; and then Mrs. Wishart began to mend; so much that she insisted her friends must not shut themselves up with her. "Do go down-stairs and see the people!" she said; "or take your kind aunt, Lois, and show her the wonders of Appledore. Is all the world gone yet?" "Nobody's gone," said Mrs. Marx; "except one thick man and one thin one; and neither of 'em counts." "Are the Caruthers here?" "Every man of 'em." "There is only one man of them; unless you count Mr. Lenox." "I don't count him. I count that fair-haired chap. All the rest of 'em are stay in' for him." "Staying for him!" repeated Mrs. Wishart. "That's what they say. They seem to take it sort o' hard, that Tom's so fond of Appledore." Mrs. Wishart was silent a minute, and then she smiled. "He spends his time trollin' for blue fish," Mrs. Marx went on. "Ah, I dare say. Do go down, Mrs. Marx, and take a walk, and see if he has caught anything." Lois would not go along; she told her aunt what to look for, and which way to take, and said she would sit still with Mrs. Wishart and keep her amused. At the very edge of the narrow valley in which the house stood, Mrs. Marx came face to face with Tom Caruthers. Tom pulled off his hat with great civility, and asked if he could do anything for her. "Well, you can set me straight, I guess," said the lady. "Lois told me which way to go, but I don't seem to be any wiser. Where's the old dead village? South, she said; but in such a little place south and north seems all alike. _I_ don' know which is south." "You are not far out of the way," said Tom. "Let me have the pleasure of showing you. Why did you not bring Miss Lothrop out?" "Best reason in the world; I couldn't. She would stay and see to Mrs. Wishart." "That's the sort of nurse I should like to have take care of me," said Tom, "if ever I was in trouble." "Ah, wouldn't you!" returned Mrs. Marx. "That's a kind o' nurses that ain't in the market. Look here, young man--where are we going?" "All right," said Tom. "Just round over these rocks. The village was at the south end of the island, as Miss Lois said. I believe she has studied up Appledore twice as much as any of the rest of us." It was a fresh, sunny day in September; everything at Appledore was in a kind of glory, difficult to describe in words, and which no painter ever yet put on canvas. There was wind enough to toss the waves in lively style; and when the two companions came out upon the scene of the one-time settlement of Appledore, all brilliance of light and air and colour seemed to be sparkling together. Under this glory lay the ruins and remains of what had been once homes and dwelling-places of men. Grass-grown cellar excavations, moss-grown stones and bits of walls; little else; but a number of those lying soft and sunny in the September light. Soft, and sunny, and lonely; no trace of human habitation any longer, where once human activity had been in full play. Silence, where the babble of voices had been; emptiness, where young feet and old feet had gone in and out; barrenness, where the fruits of human industry had been busily gathered and dispensed. Something in the quiet, sunny scene stilled for a moment the not very sensitive spirits of the two who had come to visit it; while the sea waves rose and broke in their old fashion, as they had done on those same rocks in old time, and would do for generation after generation yet to come. That was always the same. It made the contrast greater with what had passed and was passing away. "There was a good many of 'em."--Mrs. Marx' voice broke the pause which had come upon the talk. "Quite a village," her companion assented. "Why ain't they here now?" "Dead and gone?" suggested Tom, half laughing. "Of course! I mean, why ain't the village here, and the people? The people are somewhere--the children and grandchildren of those that lived here; what's become of 'em?" "That's true," said Tom; "they are somewhere. I believe they are to be found scattered along the coast of the mainland." "Got tired o' livin' between sea and sky with no ground to speak of. Well, I should think they would!" "Miss Lothrop says, on the contrary, that they never get tired of it, the people who live here; and that nothing but necessity forced the former inhabitants to abandon Appledore." "What sort of necessity?" "Too exposed, in the time of the war." "Ah! likely. Well, we'll go, Mr. Caruthers; this sort o' thing makes me melancholy, and that' against my principles to be." Yet she stood still, looking. "Miss Lothrop likes this place," Tom remarked. "Then it don't make her melancholy." "Does anything?" "I hope so. She's human." "But she seems to me always to have the sweetest air of happiness about her, that ever I saw in a human being." "Have you got where you can see _air?_" inquired Mrs. Marx sharply. Tom laughed. "I mean, that she finds something everywhere to like and to take pleasure in. Now I confess, this bit of ground, full of graves and old excavations, has no particular charms for me; and my sister will not stay here a minute." "And what does Lois find here to delight her? "Everything!" said Tom with enthusiasm. "I was with her the first time she came to this corner of the island,--and it was a lesson, to see her delight. The old cellars and the old stones, and the graves; and then the short green turf that grows among them, and the flowers and weeds--what _I_ call weeds, who know no better--but Miss Lois tried to make me see the beauty of the sumach and all the rest of it." "And she couldn't!" said Mrs. Marx. "Well, I can't. The noise of the sea, and the sight of it, eternally breaking there upon the rocks, would drive me out of my mind, I believe, after a while." And yet Mrs. Marx sat down upon a turfy bank and looked contentedly about her. "Mrs. Marx," said Tom suddenly, "you are a good friend of Miss Lothrop, aren't you?" "Try to be a friend to everybody. I've counted sixty-six o' these old cellars!" "I believe there are more than that. I think Miss Lothrop said seventy." "She seems to have told you a good deal." "I was so fortunate as to be here alone with her. Miss Lothrop is often very silent in company." "So I observe," said Mrs. Marx dryly. "I wish you'd be my friend too!" said Tom, now taking a seat by her side. "You said you are a friend of everybody." "That is, of everybody who needs me," said Mrs. Marx, casting a side look at Tom's handsome, winning countenance. "I judge, young man, that ain't your case." "But it is, indeed!" "Maybe," said Mrs. Marx incredulously. "Go on, and let's hear." "You will let me speak to you frankly?" "Don't like any other sort." "And you will answer me also frankly?" "I don't know," said the lady, "but one thing I can say, if I've got the answer, I'll give it to you." "I don't know who should," said Tom flatteringly, "if not you. I thought I could trust you, when I had seen you a few times." "Maybe you won't think so after to-day. But go on. What's the business?" "It is very important business," said Tom slowly; "and it concerns--Miss Lothrop." "You have got hold of me now," said Lois's aunt. "I'll go into the business, you may depend upon it. What _is_ the business?" "Mrs. Marx, I have a great admiration for Miss Lothrop." "I dare say. So have some other folks." "I have had it for a long while. I came here because I heard she was coming. I have lost my heart to her, Mrs. Marx." "Ah!--What are you going to do about it? or what can _I_ do about it? Lost hearts can't be picked up under every bush." "I want you to tell me what I shall do." "What hinders your making up your own mind?" "It is made up!--long ago." "Then act upon it. What hinders you? I don't see what I have got to do with that." "Mrs. Marx, do you think she would have me if I asked her? As a friend, won't you tell me?" "I don't see why I should,--if I knew,--which I don't. I don't see how it would be a friend's part. Why should I tell you, supposin' I could? She's the only person that knows anything about it." Tom pulled his moustache right and left in a worried manner. "Have you asked her?" "Haven't had a ghost of a chance, since I have been here!" cried the young man; "and she isn't like other girls; she don't give a fellow a bit of help." Mrs. Marx laughed out. "I mean," said Tom, "she is so quiet and steady, and she don't talk, and she don't let one see what she thinks. I think she must know I like her--but I have not the least idea whether she likes me." "The shortest way would be to ask her." "Yes, but you see I can't get a chance. Miss Lothrop is always up-stairs in that sick-room; and if she comes down, my sister or my mother or somebody is sure to be running after her." "Besides you," said Mrs. Marx. "Yes, besides me." "Perhaps they don't want to let you have her all to yourself." "That's the disagreeable truth!" said Tom in a burst of vexed candour. "Perhaps they are afraid you will do something imprudent if they do not take care." "That's what they call it, with their ridiculous ways of looking at things. Mrs. Marx, I wish people had sense." "Perhaps they are right. Perhaps they _have_ sense, and it would be imprudent." "Why? Mrs. Marx, I am sure _you_ have sense. I have plenty to live upon, and live as I like. There is no difficulty in my case about ways and means." "What is the difficulty, then?" "You see, I don't want to go against my mother and sister, unless I had some encouragement to think that Miss Lothrop would listen to me; and I thought--I hoped--you would be able to help me." "How can I help you?" "Tell me what I shall do." "Well, when it comes to marryin'," said Mrs. Marx, "I always say to folks, If you can live and get along without gettin' married--don't!" "Don't get married?" "Just so," said Mrs. Marx. "Don't get married; not if you can live without." "You to speak so!" said Tom. "I never should have thought, Mrs. Marx, you were one of that sort." "What sort?" "The sort that talk against marriage." "I don't!--only against marryin' the wrong one; and unless it's somebody that you can't live without, you may be sure it ain't the right one." "How many people in the world do you suppose are married on that principle?" "Everybody that has any business to be married at all," responded the lady with great decision. "Well, honestly, I don't feel as if I could live without Miss Lothrop. I've been thinking about it for months." "I wouldn't stay much longer in that state," said Mrs. Marx, "if I was you. When people don' know whether they're goin' to live or die, their existence ain't much good to 'em." "Then you think I may ask her?" "Tell me first, what would happen if you did--that is, supposin' she said yes to you, about which I don't know anything, no more'n the people that lived in these old cellars. What would happen if you did? and if she did?" "I would make her happy, Mrs. Marx!" "Yes," said the lady slowly--"I guess you would; for Lois won't say yes to anybody _she_ can live without; and I've a good opinion of your disposition; but what would happen to other people?" "My mother and sister, you mean?" "Them, or anybody else that's concerned." "There is nobody else concerned," said Tom, idly defacing the rocks in his neighbourhood by tearing the lichen from them. And Mrs. Marx watched him, and patiently waited. "There is no sense in it!" he broke out at last. "It is all folly. Mrs. Marx, what is life good for, but to be happy?" "Just so," assented Mrs. Marx. "And haven't I a right to be happy in my own way?" "If you can." "So I think! I will ask Miss Lothrop if she will have me, this very day. I'm determined." "But I said, _if you can_. Happiness is somethin' besides sugar and water. What else'll go in?" "What do you mean?" asked Tom, looking at her. "Suppose you're satisfied, and suppose _she's_ satisfied. Will everybody else be?" Tom went at the rocks again. "It's my affair--and hers," he said then. "And what will your mother and sister say?" "Julia has chosen for herself." "I should say, she has chosen very well. Does she like your choice." "Mrs. Marx," said the poor young man, leaving the lichens, "they bother me to death!" "Ah? How is that?" "Always watching, and hanging around, and giving a fellow no chance for his life, and putting in their word. They call themselves very wise, but I think it is the other thing." "They don't approve, then?" "I don't want to marry money!" cried Tom; "and I don't care for fashionable girls. I'm tired of 'em. Lois is worth the whole lot. Such absurd stuff! And she is handsomer than any girl that was in town last winter." "They want a fashionable girl," said Mrs. Marx calmly. "Well, you see," said Tom, "they live for that. If an angel was to come down from heaven, they would say her dress wasn't cut right, and they wouldn't ask her to dinner!" "I don't suppose they'd know how to talk to her either, if they did," said Mrs. Marx. "It would be uncomfortable--for them; I don't suppose an angel can be uncomfortable. But Lois ain't an angel. I guess you'd better give it up, Mr. Caruthers." Tom turned towards her a dismayed kind of look, but did not speak. "You see," Mrs. Marx went on, "things haven't gone very far. Lois is all right; and you'll come back to life again. A fish that swims in fresh water couldn't go along very well with one that lives in the salt. That's how I look at it. Lois is one sort, and you're another. I don't know but both sorts are good; but they are different, and you can't make 'em alike." "I would never want her to be different!" burst out Tom. "Well, you see, she ain't your sort exactly," Mrs. Marx added, but not as if she were depressed by the consideration. "And then, Lois is religious." "You don't think that is a difficulty? Mrs. Marx, I am not a religious man myself; at least I have never made any profession; but I assure you I have a great respect for religion." "That is what folks say of something a great way off, and that they don't want to come nearer." "My mother and sister are members of the church; and I should like my wife to be, too." "Why?" "I told you, I have a great respect for religion; and I believe in it especially for women." "I don't see why what's good for them shouldn't be good for you." "That need be no hindrance," Tom urged. "Well, I don' know. I guess Lois would think it was. And maybe you would think it was, too,--come to find out. I guess you'd better let things be, Mr. Caruthers." Tom looked very gloomy. "You think she would not have me?" he repeated. "I think you will get over it," said Mrs. Marx, rising. "And I think you had better find somebody that will suit your mother and sister." And after that time, it may be said, Mrs. Marx was as careful of Lois on the one side as Mrs. and Miss Caruthers were of Tom on the other. Two or three more days passed away. "How _is_ Mrs. Wishart?" Miss Julia asked one afternoon. "First-rate," answered Mrs. Marx. "She's sittin' up. She'll be off and away before you know it." "Will you stay, Mrs. Marx, to help in the care of her, till she is able to move?" "Came for nothin' else." "Then I do not see, mother, what good we can do by remaining longer. Could we, Mrs. Marx?" "Nothin', but lose your chance o' somethin' better, I should say." "Tom, do you want to do any more fishing? Aren't you ready to go?" "Whenever you like," said Tom gloomily. CHAPTER XVII. TOM'S DECISION. The Caruthers family took their departure from Appledore. "Well, we have had to fight for it, but we have saved Tom," Julia remarked to Mr. Lenox, standing by the guards and looking back at the Islands as the steamer bore them away. "Saved!--" "Yes!" she said decidedly,--"we have saved him." "It's a responsibility," said the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. "I am not clear that you have not 'saved' Tom from a better thing than he'll ever find again." "Perhaps _you'd_ like her!" said Miss Julia sharply. "How ridiculous all you men are about a pretty face!" The remaining days of her stay in Appledore Lois roved about to her heart's content. And yet I will not say that her enjoyment of rocks and waves was just what it had been at her first arrival. The island seemed empty, somehow. Appledore is lovely in September and October; and Lois sat on the rocks and watched the play of the waves, and delighted herself in the changing colours of sea, and sky, and clouds, and gathered wild-flowers, and picked up shells; but there was somehow very present to her the vision of a fair, kindly, handsome face, and eyes that sought hers eagerly, and hands that were ready gladly with any little service that there was room to render. She was no longer troubled by a group of people dogging her footsteps; and she found now that there had been, however inopportune, a little excitement in that. It was very well they were gone, she acknowledged; for Mr. Caruthers _might_ have come to like her too well, and that would have been inconvenient; and yet it is so pleasant to be liked! Upon the sober humdrum of Lois's every day home life, Tom Caruthers was like a bit of brilliant embroidery; and we know how involuntarily the eyes seek out such a spot of colour, and how they return to it. Yes, life at home was exceedingly pleasant, but it was a picture in grey; this was a dash of blue and gold. It had better be grey, Lois said to herself; life is not glitter. And yet, a little bit of glitter on the greys and browns is so delightful. Well, it was gone. There was small hope now that anything so brilliant would ever illuminate her quiet course again. Lois sat on the rocks and looked at the sea, and thought about it. If they, Tom and his friends, had not come to Appledore at all, her visit would have been most delightful; nay, it had been most delightful, whether or no; but--this and her New York experience had given Lois a new standard by which to measure life and men. From one point of view, it is true, the new lost in comparison with the old. Tom and his people were not "religious." They knew nothing of what made her own life so sweet; they had not her prospects or joys in looking on towards the far future, nor her strength and security in view of the trials and vicissitudes of earth and time. She had the best of it; as she joyfully confessed to herself, seeing the glorious breaking waves and watching the play of light on them, and recalling Cowper's words-- "My Father made them all!" But there remained another aspect of the matter which raised other feelings in the girl's mind. The difference in education. Those people could speak French, and Mr. Caruthers could speak Spanish, and Mr. Lenox spoke German. Whether well or ill, Lois did not know; but in any case, how many doors, in literature and in life, stood open to them; which were closed and locked doors to her! And we all know, that ever since Bluebeard's time--I might go back further, and say, ever since Eve's time--Eve's daughters have been unable to stand before a closed door without the wish to open it. The impulse, partly for good, partly for evil, is incontestable. Lois fairly longed to know what Tom and his sister knew in the fields of learning. And there were other fields. There was a certain light, graceful, inimitable habit of the world and of society; familiarity with all the pretty and refined ways and uses of the more refined portions of society; knowledge and practice of proprieties, as the above-mentioned classes of the world recognize them; which all seemed to Lois greatly desirable and becoming. Nay, the said "proprieties" and so forth were not always of the most important kind; Miss Caruthers could be what Lois considered coolly rude, upon occasion; and her mother could be carelessly impolite; and Mr. Lenox could be wanting in the delicate regard which a gentleman should show to a lady; "I suppose," thought Lois, "he did not think I would know any better." In these things, these essential things, some of the farmers of Shampuashuh and their wives were the peers at least, if not the superiors, of these fine ladies and gentlemen. But in lesser things! These people knew how to walk gracefully, sit gracefully, eat gracefully. Their manner and address in all the little details of life, had the ease, and polish, and charm which comes of use, and habit, and confidence. The way Mr. Lenox and Tom would give help to a lady in getting over the rough rocks of Appledore; the deference with which they would attend to her comfort and provide for her pleasure; the grace of a bow, the good breeding of a smile; the ease of action which comes from trained physical and practised mental nature; these and a great deal more, even the details of dress and equipment which are only possible to those who know how, and which are instantly seen to be excellent and becoming, even by those who do not know how; all this had appealed mightily to Lois's nature, and raised in her longings and regrets more or less vague, but very real. All that, she would like to have. She wanted the familiarity with books, and also the familiarity with the world, which some people had; the secure _à plomb_ and the easy facility of manner which are so imposing and so attractive to a girl like Lois. She felt that to these people life was richer, larger, wider than to her; its riches more at command; the standpoint higher from which to take a view of the world; the facility greater which could get from the world what it had to give. And it was a closed door before which Lois stood. Truly on her side of the door there was very much that she had and they had not; she knew that, and did not fail to recognize it and appreciate it. What was the Lord's beautiful creation to them? a place to kill time in, and get rid of it as fast as possible. The ocean, to them, was little but a great bath-tub; or a very inconvenient separating medium, which prevented them from going constantly to Paris and Rome. To judge by all that appeared, the sky had no colours for them, and the wind no voices, and the flowers no speech. And as for the Bible, and the hopes and joys which take their source there, they knew no more of it _so_ than if they had been Mahometans. They took no additional pleasure in the things of the natural world, because those things were made by a Hand that they loved. Poor people! and Lois knew they were poor; and yet--she said to herself, and also truly, that the possession of her knowledge would not be lessened by the possession of _theirs_. And a little pensiveness mingled for a few days with her enjoyment of Appledore. Meanwhile Mrs. Wishart was getting well. "So they have all gone!" she said, a day or two after the Caruthers party had taken themselves away. "Yes, and Appledore seems, you can't think how lonely," said Lois. She had just come in from a ramble. "You saw a great deal of them, dear?" "Quite a good deal. Did you ever see such bright pimpernel? Isn't it lovely?" "I don't understand how Tom could get away." "I believe he did not want to go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I!" said Lois with an astonished start. "Why should I keep him, Mrs. Wishart?" "Because he likes you so much." "Does he?" said Lois a little bitterly. "Yes! Don't you like him? How do you like him, Lois?" "He is nice, Mrs. Wishart. But if you ask me, I do not think he has enough strength of character." "If Tom has let them carry him off against his will, he _is_ rather weak." Lois made no answer. Had he? and had they done it? A vague notion of what might be the truth of the whole transaction floated in and out of her mind, and made her indignant. Whatever one's private views of the danger may be, I think no one likes to be taken care of in this fashion. Of course Tom Caruthers was and could be nothing to her, Lois said to herself; and of course she could be nothing to him; but that his friends should fear the contrary and take measures to prevent it, stirred her most disagreeably. Yes; if things had gone _so_, then Tom certainly was weak; and it vexed her that he should be weak. Very inconsistent, when it would have occasioned her so much trouble if he had been strong! But when is human nature consistent? Altogether this visit to Appledore, the pleasure of which began so spicily, left rather a flat taste upon her tongue; and she was vexed at that. There was another person who probably thought Tom weak, and who was curious to know how he had come out of this trial of strength with his relations; but Mr. Dillwyn had wandered off to a distance, and it was not till a month later that he saw any of the Caruthers. By that time they were settled in their town quarters for the winter, and there one evening he called upon them. He found only Julia and her mother. "By the way," said he, when the talk had rambled on for a while, "how did you get on at the Isles of Shoals?" "We had an awful time," said Julia. "You cannot conceive of anything so slow." "How long did you stay?" "O, ages! We were there four or five weeks. Imagine, if you can. Nothing but sea and rocks, and no company!" "No company! What kept you there?" "O, Tom!" "What kept Tom?" "Mrs. Wishart got sick, you see, and couldn't get away, poor soul! and that made her stay so long." "And you had to stay too, to nurse her?" "No, nothing of that. Miss Lothrop was there, and she did the nursing; and then a ridiculous aunt of hers came to help her." "You staid for sympathy?" "Don't be absurd, Philip! You know we were kept by Tom. We could not get him away." "What made Tom want to stay?" "O, that girl." "How did you get him away at last?" "Just because we stuck to him. No other way. He would undoubtedly have made a fool of himself with that girl--he was just ready to do it--but we never left him a chance. George and I, and mother, we surrounded him," said Julia, laughing; "we kept close by him; we never left them alone. Tom got enough of it at last, and agreed, very melancholy, to come away. He is dreadfully in the blues yet." "You have a good deal to answer for, Julia." "Now, don't, Philip! That's what George says. It is _too_ absurd. Just because she has a pretty face. All you men are bewitched by pretty faces." "She has a good manner, too." "Manner? She has no manner at all; and she don't know anything, out of her garden. We have saved Tom from a great danger. It would be a terrible thing, perfectly _terrible_, to have him marry a girl who is not a lady, nor even an educated woman." "You think you could not have made a lady of her?" "Mamma, do hear Philip! isn't he too bad? Just because that girl has a little beauty. I wonder what there is in beauty, it turns all your heads! Mamma, do you hear Mr. Dillwyn? he wishes we had let Tom have his head and marry that little gardening girl." "Indeed I do not," said Philip seriously. "I am very glad you succeeded in preventing it But allow me to ask if you are sure you _have_ succeeded? Is it quite certain Tom will not have his head after all? He may cheat you yet." "O no! He's very melancholy, but he has given it up. If he don't, we'll take him abroad in the spring. I think he has given it up. His being melancholy looks like it." "True. I'll sound him when I get a chance." The chance offered itself very soon; for Tom came in, and when Dillwyn left the house, Tom went to walk with him. They sauntered along Fifth Avenue, which was pretty full of people still, enjoying the mild air and beautiful starlight. "Tom, what did you do at the Isles of Shoals?" Mr. Dillwyn asked suddenly. "Did a lot of fishing. Capital trolling." "All your fishing done on the high seas, eh?" "All my successful fishing." "What was the matter? Not a faint heart?" "No. It's disgusting, the whole thing!" Tom broke out with hearty emphasis. "You don't like to talk about it? I'll spare you, if you say so." "I don't care what you do to me," said Tom; "and I have no objection to talk about it--to you." Nevertheless he stopped. "Have you changed your mind?" "I shouldn't change my mind, if I lived to be as old as Methuselah!" "That's right. Well, then,--the thing is going on?" "It _isn't_ going on! and I suppose it never will!" "Had the lady any objection? I cannot believe that." "I don't know," said Tom, with a big sigh. "I almost think she hadn't; but I never could find that out." "What hindered you, old fellow?" "My blessed relations. Julia and mother made such a row. I wouldn't have minded the row neither; for a man must marry to please himself and not his mother; and I believe no man ever yet married to please his sister; but, Philip, they didn't give me a minute. I could never join her anywhere, but Julia would be round the next corner; or else George would be there before me. George must put his oar in; and between them they kept it up." "And you think she liked you?" Tom was silent a while. "Well," said he at last, "I won't swear; for you never know where a woman is till you've got her; but if she didn't, all I have to say is, signs aren't good for anything." It was Philip now who was silent, for several minutes. "What's going to be the upshot of it?" "O, I suppose I shall go abroad with Julia and George in the spring, and end by taking an orthodox wife some day; somebody with blue blood, and pretension, and nothing else. My people will be happy, and the family name will be safe." "And what will become of her?" "O, she's all right. She won't break her heart about me. She isn't that sort of girl," Tom Caruthers said gloomily. "Do you know, I admire her immensely, Philip! I believe she's good enough for anything. Maybe she's too good. That's what her aunt hinted." "Her aunt! Who's she?" "She's a sort of a snapping turtle. A good sort of woman, too. I took counsel with her, do you know, when I found it was no use for me to try to see Lois. I asked her if she would stand my friend. She was as sharp as a fish-hook, and about as ugly a customer; and she as good as told me to go about my business." "Did she give reasons for such advice?" "O yes! She saw through Julia and mother as well as I did; and she spoke as any friend of Lois would, who had a little pride about her. I can't blame her." Silence fell again, and lasted while the two young men walked the length of several blocks. Then Mr. Dillwyn began again. "Tom, there ought to be no more shilly-shallying about this matter." "No _more!_ Yes, you're right. I ought to have settled it long ago, before Julia and mother got hold of it. That's where I made a mistake." "And you think it too late?" Tom hesitated. "It's too late. I've lost my time. _She_ has given me up, and mother and Julia have set their hearts that I should give her up. I am not a match for them. Is a man ever a match for a woman, do you think, Dillwyn, if she takes something seriously in hand?" "Will you go to Europe next spring?" "Perhaps. I suppose so." "If you do, perhaps I will join the party--that is, if you will all let me." So the conversation went over into another channel. CHAPTER XVIII. MR. DILLWYN'S PLAN. Two or three evenings after this, Philip Dillwyn was taking his way down the Avenue, not up it. He followed it down to nearly its lower termination, and turned up into Clinton Place, where he presently run up the steps of a respectable but rather dingy house, rang the bell, and asked for Mrs. Barclay. The room where he awaited her was one of those dismal places, a public parlour in a boarding-house of second or third rank. Respectable, but forlorn. Nothing was ragged or untidy, but nothing either had the least look of home comfort or home privacy. As to home elegance, or luxury, the look of such a room is enough to put it out of one's head that there can be such things in the world. The ugly ingrain carpet, the ungraceful frame of the small glass in the pier, the abominable portraits on the walls, the disagreeable paper with which they were hung, the hideous lamps on the mantelpiece;--wherever the eye looked, it came back with uneasy discomfort. Philip's eye came back to the fire; and _that_ was not pleasant to see; for the fireplace was not properly cared for, the coals were lifeless, and evidently more economical than useful. Philip looked very out of place in these surroundings. No one could for a moment have supposed him to be living among them. His thoroughly well-dressed figure, the look of easy refinement in his face, the air of one who is his own master, so inimitable by one whose circumstances master him; all said plainly that Mr. Dillwyn was here only on account of some one else. It could be no home of his. As little did it seem fitted to be the home of the lady who presently entered. A tall, elegant, dignified woman; in the simplest of dresses, indeed, which probably bespoke scantiness of means, but which could not at all disguise or injure the impression of high breeding and refinement of manners which her appearance immediately produced. She was a little older than her visitor, yet not much; a woman in the prime of life she would have been, had not life gone hard with her; and she had been very handsome, though the regular features were shadowed with sadness, and the eyes had wept too many tears not to have suffered loss of their original brightness. She had the slow, quiet manner of one whose life is played out; whom the joys and sorrows of the world have both swept over, like great waves, and receding, have left the world a barren strand for her; where the tide is never to rise again. She was a sad-eyed woman, who had accepted her sadness, and could be quietly cheerful on the surface of it. Always, at least, as far as good breeding demanded. She welcomed Mr. Dilhvyn with a smile and evident genuine pleasure. "How do I find you?" he said, sitting down. "Quite well. Where have you been all summer? I need not ask how _you_ are." "Useless things always thrive," he said. "I have been wandering about among the mountains and lakes in the northern part of Maine." "That is very wild, isn't it?" "Therein lies its charm." "There are not roads and hotels?" "The roads the lumberers make. And I saw one hotel, and did not want to see any more." "How did you find your way?" "I had a guide--an Indian, who could speak a little English." "No other company?" "Rifle and fishing-rod." "Good work for them there, I suppose?" "Capital. Moose, and wild-fowl, and fish, all of best quality. I wished I could have sent you some." "Thank you for thinking of me. I should have liked the game too." "Are you comfortable here?" he asked, lowering his voice. Just then the door opened; a man's head was put in, surveyed the two people in the room, and after a second's deliberation disappeared again. "You have not this room to yourself?" inquired Dilhvyn. "O no. It is public property." "Then we may be interrupted?" "At any minute. Do you want to talk to me, '_unter vier Augen_'?" "I want no more, certainly. Yes, I came to talk to you; and I cannot, if people keep coming in." A woman's head had now shown itself for a moment. "I suppose in half an hour there will be a couple of old gentlemen here playing backgammon. I see a board. Have you not a corner to yourself?" "I have a corner," she said, hesitating; "but it is only big enough to hold me. However, if you will promise to make no remarks, and to 'make believe,' as the children say, that the place is six times as large as it is, I will, for once take you to it. I would take no one else." "The honour will not outweigh the pleasure," said Dillwyn as he rose. "But why must I put such a force upon my imagination?" "I do not want you to pity me. Do you mind going up two flights of stairs?" "I would not mind going to the top of St. Peter's!" "The prospect will be hardly like that." She led the way up two flights of stairs. At the top of them, in the third story, she opened the door of a little end room, cut off the hall. Dillwyn waited outside till she had found her box of matches and lit a lamp; then she let him come in and shut the door. It was a little bit of a place indeed, about six feet by twelve. A table, covered with books and papers, hanging shelves with more books, a work-basket, a trunk converted into a divan by a cushion and chintz cover, and a rocking-chair, about filled the space. Dillwyn took the divan, and Mrs. Barclay the chair. Dillwyn looked around him. "I should never dream of pitying the person who can be contented here," he said. "Why?" "The mental composition must be so admirable! I suppose you have another corner, where to sleep?" "Yes," she said, smiling; "the other little room like this at the other end of the hall. I preferred this arrangement to having one larger room where I must sit and sleep both. Old habits are hard to get rid of. Now tell me more about the forests of Maine. I have always had a curiosity about that portion of the country." He did gratify her for a while; told of his travels, and camping out; and of his hunting and fishing; and of the lovely scenery of the lakes and hills. He had been to the summit of Mount Kataydin, and he had explored the waters in 'birches;' and he told of odd specimens of humanity he had found on his way; but after a while of this talk Philip came suddenly back to his starting point. "Mrs. Barclay, you are not comfortable here?" "As well as I can expect," she said, in her quiet, sad manner. The sadness was not obtrusive, not on the surface; it was only the background to everything. "But it is not comfort. I am not insulting you with pity, mind; but I am thinking. Would you not like better to be in the country? in some pleasant place?" "You do not call this a pleasant place?" she said, with her faint smile. "Now I do. When I get up here, and shut the door, I am my own mistress." "Would you not like the country?" "It is out of my reach, Philip. I must do something, you know, to keep even this refuge." "I think you said you would not be averse to doing something in the line of giving instruction?" "If I had the right pupils. But there is no chance of that. There are too many competitors. The city is overstocked." "We were talking of the country." "Yes, but it is still less possible in the country. I could not find _there_ the sort of teaching I could do. All requisitions of that sort, people expect to have met in the city; and they come to the city for it," "I do not speak with certain'ty," said Philip, "but I _think_ I know a place that would suit you. Good air, pleasant country, comfortable quarters, and moderate charges. And if you went _there_, there is work." "Where is it?" "On the Connecticut shore--far down the Sound. Not too far from New York, though; perfectly accessible." "Who lives there?" "It is a New England village, and you know what those are. Broad grassy streets, and shadowy old elms, and comfortable houses; and the sea not far off. Quiet, and good air, and people with their intelligence alive. There is even a library." "And among these comfortable inhabitants, who would want to be troubled with me?" "I think I know. I think I know just the house, where your coming would be a boon. They are _not_ very well-to-do. I have not asked, but I am inclined to believe they would be glad to have you." "Who are they?" "A household of women. The father and mother are dead; the grandmother is there yet, and there are three daughters. They are relations of an old friend of mine, indeed a connection of mine, in the city. So I know something about them." "Not the people themselves?" "Yes, I know the people,--so far as one specimen goes. I fancy they are people you could get along with." Mrs. Barclay looked a little scrutinizingly at the young man. His face revealed nothing, more than a friendly solicitude. But he caught the look, and broke out suddenly with a change of subject. "How do you women get along without cigars? What is your substitute?" "What does the cigar, to you, represent?" "Soothing and comforting of the nerves--aids to thought--powerful helps to good humour--something to do--" "There! now you have it. Philip you are talking nonsense. Your nerves are as steady and sound as a granite mountain; you can think without help of any extraneous kind; your good-humour is quite as fair as most people's; but--you do want something to do! I cannot bear to have you waste your life in smoke, be it never so fragrant." "What would you have me do?" "Anything! so you were hard at work, and _doing_ work." "There is nothing for me to do." "That cannot be," said she, shaking her head. "Propose something." "You have no need to work for yourself," she said; "so it must be for other people. Say politics." "If ever there was anything carried on purely for selfish interests, it is the business you name." "The more need for some men to go into it _not_ for self, but for the country." "It's a Maelstrom; one would be sure to get drawn in. And it is a dirty business. You know the proverb about touching pitch." "It need not be so, Philip." "It brings one into disgusting contact and associations. My cigar is better." "It does nobody any good except the tobacconist. And, Philip, it helps this habit of careless letting everything go, which you have got into." "I take care of myself, and of my money," he said. "Men ought to live for more than to take care of themselves." "I was just trying to take care of somebody else, and you head me off! You should encourage a fellow better. One must make a beginning. And I _would_ like to be of use to somebody, if I could." "Go on," she said, with her faint smile again. "How do you propose that I shall meet the increased expenditures of your Connecticut paradise?" "You would like it?" he said eagerly. "I cannot tell. But if the people are as pleasant as the place--it would be a paradise. Still, I cannot afford to live in paradise, I am afraid." "You have only heard half my plan. It will cost you nothing. You have heard only what you are to get--not what you are to give." "Let me hear. What am I to give?" "The benefits of your knowledge of the world, and knowledge of literature, and knowledge of languages, to two persons who need and are with out them all." "'Two persons.' What sort of persons?" "Two of the daughters I spoke of." Mrs. Barclay was silent a minute, looking at him. "Whose plan is this?" "Your humble servant's. As I said, one must make a beginning; and this is my beginning of an attempt to do good in the world." "How old are these two persons?" "One of them, about eighteen, I judge. The other, a year or two older." "And they wish for such instruction?" "I believe they would welcome it. But they know nothing about the plan--and must not know," he added very distinctly, meeting Mrs. Barclay's eyes with praiseworthy steadiness. "What makes you think they would be willing to pay for my services, then? Or, indeed, how could they do it?" "They are not to do it. They are to know nothing whatever about it. They are not able to pay for any such advantages. Here comes in the benevolence of my plan. You are to do it for _me_, and I am to pay the worth of the work; which I will do to the full. It will much more than meet the cost of your stay in the house. You can lay up money," he said, smiling. "Phil," said Mrs. Barclay, "what is behind this very odd scheme?" "I do not know that anything--beyond the good done to two young girls, and the good done to you." "It is not that," she said. "This plan never originated in your regard for my welfare solely." "No. I had an eye to theirs also." "_Only_ to theirs and mine, Phil?" she asked, bending a keen look upon him. He laughed, and changed his position, but did not answer. "Philip, Philip, what is this?" "You may call it a whim, a fancy, a notion. I do not know that anything will ever come of it. I could wish there might--but that is a very cloudy and misty château en Espagne, and I do not much look at it. The present thing is practical. Will you take the place, and do what you can for these girls?" "What ever put this thing in your head?" "What matter, if it is a good thing?" "I must know more about it. Who are these people?" "Connections of Mrs. Wishart. Perfectly respectable." "_What_ are they, then?" "Country people. They belong, I suppose, to the farming population of a New England village. That is very good material." "Certainly--for some things. How do they live--by keeping boarders?" "Nothing of the kind! They live, I suppose,--I don't know how they live; and I do not care. They live as farmers, I suppose. But they are poor." "And so, without education?" "Which I am asking you to supply." "Phil, you are interested in one of these girls?" "Didn't I tell you I was interested in both of them?" he said, laughing. And he rose now, and stood half leaning against the door of the little room, looking down at Mrs. Barclay; and she reviewed him. He looked exactly like what he was; a refined and cultivated man of the world, with a lively intelligence in full play, and every instinct and habit of a gentleman. Mrs. Barclay looked at him with a very grave face. "Philip, this is a very crazy scheme!" she said, after a minute or two of mutual consideration. "I cannot prove it anything else," he said lightly. "Time must do that." "I do not think Time will do anything of the kind. What Time does ordinarily, is to draw the veil off the follies our passions and fancies have covered up." "True; and there is another work Time some times does. He sometimes draws forth a treasure from under the encumbering rubbish that hid it, and lets it appear for the gold it is." "Philip, you have never lost your heart to one of these girls?" said Mrs. Barclay, with an expression of real and grave anxiety. "Not exactly." "But your words mean that." "They are not intended to convey any such meaning. Why should they?" "Because if they do not mean that, your plan is utterly wild and extravagant. And if they do--" "What then?" "_Then_ it would be far more wild and extravagant. And deplorable." "See there the inconsistency of you good people!" said Mr. Dillwyn, still speaking lightly. "A little while ago you were urging me to make myself useful. I propose a way, in which I want your co-operation, calculated to be highly beneficial in a variety of ways,--and I hit upon hindrances directly." "Philip, it isn't that. I cannot bear to think of your marrying a woman unworthy of you." "I still less!" he assured her, with mock gravity. "And that is what you are thinking of. A woman without education, without breeding, without knowledge of the world, without _anything_, that could make her a fit companion for you. Philip, give this up!" "Not my plan," said he cheerfully. "The rest is all in your imagination. What you have to do, if you will grant my prayer, is to make this little country girl the exact opposite of all that. You will do it, won't you?" "Where will you be?" "Not near, to trouble you. Probably in Europe. I think of going with the Caruthers in the spring." "What makes you think this girl wants--I mean, desires--education?" "If she does not, then the fat's in the fire, that's all." "I did not know you were so romantic, before." "Romantic! Could anything be more practical? And I think it will be so good for you, in that sea air." "I would rather never smell the sea air, if this is going to be for your damage. Does the girl know you are an admirer of hers?" "She hardly knows I am in the world! O yes, she has seen me, and I have talked with her; by which means I come to know that labour spent on her will not be spent in vain. But of me _she_ knows nothing." "After talking with you!" said Mrs. Barclay. "What else is she? Handsome?" "Perhaps I had better let you judge of that. I could never marry a mere pretty face, I think. But there is a wonderful charm about this creature, which I do not yet understand. I have never been able to find out what is the secret of it." "A pretty face and a pink cheek!" said Mrs. Barclay, with half a groan. "You are all alike, you men! Now we women--Philip, is the thing mutual already? Does she think of you as you think of her?" "She does not think of me at all," said he, sitting down again, and facing Mrs. Barclay with an earnest face. "She hardly knows me. Her attention has been taken up, I fancy, with another suitor." "Another suitor! You are not going to be Quixote enough to educate a wife for another man?" "No," said he, half laughing. "The other man is out of the way, and makes no more pretension." "Rejected? And how do you know all this so accurately?" "Because he told me. Now have you done with objections?" "Philip, this is a very blind business! You may send me to this place, and I may do my best, and you may spend your money,--and at the end of all, she may marry somebody else; or, which is quite on the cards, you may get another fancy." "Well," said he, "suppose it. No harm will be done. As I never had any fancy whatever before, perhaps your second alternative is hardly likely. The other I must risk, and you must watch against." Mrs. Barclay shook her head, but the end was, she yielded. CHAPTER XIX. NEWS. November had come. It was early in the month still; yet, as often happens, the season was thoroughly defined already. Later, perhaps, some sweet relics or reminders of October would come in, or days of the soberer charm which October's successor often brings; but just now, a grey sky and a brown earth and a wind with no tenderness in it banished all thought of such pleasant times. The day was dark and gloomy. So the fire which burned bright in the kitchen of Mrs. Armadale's house showed particularly bright, and its warm reflections were exceedingly welcome both to the eye and to the mind. It was a wood fire, in an open chimney, for Mrs. Armadale would sit by no other; and I call the place the kitchen, for really a large portion of the work of the kitchen was done there; however, there was a stove in an adjoining room, which accommodated most of the boilers and kettles in use, while the room itself was used for all the "mussy" work. Nevertheless, it was only upon occasion that fire was kindled in that outer room, economy in fuel forbidding that two fires should be all the while kept going. In the sitting-room kitchen, then, this November afternoon, the whole family were assembled. The place was as nice as a pin, and as neat as if no work were ever done there. All the work of the day, indeed, was over; and even Miss Charity had come to sit down with the rest, knitting in hand. They had all changed their dresses and put off their big aprons, and looked unexceptionably nice and proper; only, it is needless to say, with no attempt at a fashionable appearance. Their gowns were calico; collars and cuffs of plain linen; and the white aprons they all wore were not fine nor ornamented. Only the old lady, who did no housework any longer, was dressed in a stuff gown, and wore an apron of black silk. Charity, as I said, was knitting; so was her grandmother. Madge was making more linen collars. Lois sat by her grandmother's chair, for the minute doing nothing. "What do you expect to do for a bonnet, Lois?" Charity broke the silence. "Or I either?" put in Madge. "Or you yourself, Charity? We are all in the same box." "I wish our hats were!" said the elder sister. "I have not thought much about it," Lois answered. "I suppose, if necessary, I shall wear my straw." "Then you'll have nothing to wear in the summer! It's robbing Peter to pay Paul." "Well," said Lois, smiling,--"if Paul's turn comes first. I cannot look so long ahead as next summer." "It'll be here before you can turn round," said Charity, whose knitting needles flew without her having any occasion to watch them. "And then, straw is cold in winter." "I can tie a comforter over my ears." "That would look poverty-stricken." "I suppose," said Madge slowly, "that is what we are. It looks like it, just now." "'The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich,'" Mrs. Armadale said. "Yes, mother," said Charity; "but our cow died because she was tethered carelessly." "And our hay failed because there was no rain," Madge added. "And our apples gave out because they killed themselves with bearing last year." "You forget, child, it is the Lord 'that giveth rain, both the former and the latter, in his season.'" "But he _didn't_ give it, mother; that's what I'm talking about; neither the former _nor_ the latter; though what that means, I'm sure I don't know; we have it all the year round, most years." "Then be contented if a year comes when he does not send it." "Grandmother, it'll do for you to talk; but what are we girls going to do without bonnets?" "Do without," said Lois archly, with the gleam of her eye and the arch of her pretty brow which used now and then to bewitch poor Tom Caruthers. "We have hardly apples to make sauce of," Charity went on. "If it had been a good year, we could have got our bonnets with our apples, nicely. Now, I don't see where they are to come from." "Don't wish for what the Lord don't send, child," said Mrs. Armadale. "O mother! that's a good deal to ask," cried Charity. "It's very well for you, sitting in your arm-chair all the year round; but we have to put our heads out; and for one, I'd rather have something on them. Lois, haven't you got anything to do, that you sit there with your hands in your lap?" "I am going to the post-office," said Lois, rising; "the train's in. I heard the whistle." The village street lay very empty, this brown November day; and so, to Lois's fancy, lay the prospect of the winter. Even so; brown and lightless, with a chill nip in the air that dampened rather than encouraged energy. She was young and cheery-tempered; but perhaps there was a shimmer yet in her memory of the colours on the Isles of Shoals; at any rate the village street seemed dull to her and the day forbidding. She walked fast, to stir her spirits. The country around Shampuashuh is flat; never a hill or lofty object of any kind rose upon her horizon to suggest wider look-outs and higher standing-points than her present footing gave her. The best she could see was a glimpse of the distant Connecticut, a little light blue thread afar off; and I cannot tell why, what she thought of when she saw it was Tom Caruthers. I suppose Tom was associated in her mind with any wider horizon than Shampuashuh street afforded. Anyhow, Mr. Caruthers' handsome face came be fore her; and a little, a very little, breath of regret escaped her, because it was a face she would see no more. Yet why should she wish to see it? she asked herself. Mr. Caruthers could be nothing to her; he _never_ could be anything to her; for he knew not and cared not to know either the joys or the obligations of religion, in which Lois's whole life was bound up. However, though he could be nothing to her, Lois had a woman's instinctive perception that she herself was, or had been, something to him; and that is an experience a simple girl does not easily forget. She had a kindness for him, and she was pretty sure he had more than a kindness for her, or would have had, if his sister had let him alone. Lois went back to her Appledore experiences, revolving and studying them, and understanding them a little better now, she thought, than at the time. At the time she had not understood them at all. It was just as well! she said to herself. She could never have married him. But why did his friends not want him to marry her? She was in the depths of this problem when she arrived at the post-office. The post-office was in the further end of a grocery store, or rather a store of varieties, such as country villages find convenient. From behind a little lattice the grocer's boy handed her a letter, with the remark that she was in luck to-day. Lois recognized Mrs. Wishart's hand, and half questioned the assertion. What was this? a new invitation? That cannot be, thought Lois; I was with her so long last winter, and now this summer again for weeks and weeks-- And, anyhow, I could not go if she asked me. I could not even get a bonnet to go in; and I could not afford the money for the journey. She hoped it was not an invitation. It is hard to have the cup set to your lips, if you are not to drink it; any cup; and a visit to Mrs. Wishart was a very sweet cup to Lois. The letter filled her thoughts all the way home; and she took it to her own room at once, to have the pleasure, or the pain, mastered before she told of it to the rest of the family. But in a very few minutes Lois came flying down-stairs, with light in her eyes and a sudden colour in her cheeks. "Girls, I've got some news for you!" she burst in. Charity dropped her knitting in her lap. Madge, who was setting the table for tea, stood still with a plate in her hand. All eyes were on Lois. "Don't say news never comes! We've got it to-day." "What? Who is the letter from?" said Charity. "The letter is from Mrs. Wishart, but that does not tell you anything." "O, if it is from Mrs. Wishart, I suppose the news only concerns you," said Madge, setting down her plate. "Mistaken!" cried Lois. "It concerns us all. Madge, don't go off. It is such a big piece of news that I do not know how to begin to give it to you; it seems as if every side of it was too big to take hold of for a handle. Mother, listen, for it concerns you specially." "I hear, child." And Mrs. Armadale looked interested and curious. "It's delightful to have you all looking like that," said Lois, "and to know it's not for nothing. You'll look more 'like that' when I've told you--if ever I can begin." "My dear, you are quite excited," said the old lady. "Yes, grandmother, a little. It's so seldom that anything happens, here." "The days are very good, when nothing happens. I think," said the old lady softly. "And now something has really happened--for once. Prick up your ears, Charity! Ah, I see they are pricked up already," Lois went on merrily. "Now listen. This letter is from Mrs. Wishart." "She wants you again!" cried Madge. "Nothing of the sort. She asks--" "Why don't you read the letter?" "I will; but I want to tell you first. She says there is a certain friend of a friend of hers--a very nice person, a widow lady, who would like to live in the country if she could find a good place; and Mrs. Wishart wants to know, if _we_ would like to have her in our house." "To board?" cried Madge. Lois nodded, and watched the faces around her. "We never did that before," said Madge. "No. The question is, whether we will do it now." "Take her to board!" repeated Charity. "It would be a great bother. What room would you give her?" "Rooms. She wants two. One for a sitting-room." "Two! We couldn't, unless we gave her our best parlour, and had none for ourselves. _That_ wouldn't do." "Unless she would pay for it," Lois suggested. "How much would she pay? Does Mrs. Wishart say?" "Guess, girls! She would pay--twelve dollars a week." Charity almost jumped from her chair. Madge stood leaning with her hands upon the table and stared at her sister. Only the old grandmother went on now quietly with her knitting. The words were re-echoed by both sisters. "Twelve dollars a week! Fifty dollars a month!" cried Madge, and clapped her hands. "We can have bonnets all round; and the hay and the apples won't matter. Fifty dollars a month! Why, Lois!--" "It would be an awful bother," said Charity. "Mrs. Wishart says not. At least she says this lady--this Mrs. Barclay--is a delightful person, and we shall like her so much we shall not mind the trouble. Besides, I do not think it will be so much trouble. And we do not use our parlour much. I'll read you the letter now." So she did; and then followed an eager talk. "She is a city body, of course. Do you suppose she will be contented with our ways of going on?" Charity queried. "What ways do you mean?" "Well--will our table suit her?" "We can make it suit her," said Madge. "Just think--with fifty dollars a month--" "But we're not going to keep a cook," Charity went on. "I won't do that. I can do _all_ the work of the house, but I can't do half of it. And if I do the cooking, I shall do it just as I have always done it. I can't go to fussing. It'll be country ways she'll be treated to; and the question is, how she'll like 'em?" "She can try," said Lois. "And then, maybe she'll be somebody that'll take airs." "Perhaps," said Lois, laughing; "but not likely. What if she did, Charity? That would be her affair." "It would be my affair to bear it," said Charity grimly. "Daughters," said Mrs. Armadale gently, "suppose we have some tea." This suggestion brought all to their bearings. Madge set the table briskly, Charity made the tea, Lois cut bread and made toast; and presently talking and eating went on in the harmonious combination which is so agreeable. "If she comes," said Lois, "there must be curtains to the parlour windows. I can make some of chintz, that will look pretty and not cost much. And there must be a cover for the table." "Why must there? The table is nice mahogany," said Charity. "It looks cold and bare so. All tables in use have covers, at Mrs. Wishart's." "I don't see any sense in that. What's the good of it?" "Looks pretty and comfortable." "That's nothing but a notion. I don't believe in notions. You'll tell me next our steel forks won't do." "Well, I do tell you that. Certainly they will not do, to a person always accustomed to silver." "That's nothing but uppishness, Lois. I can't stand that sort of thing. Steel's _just_ as good as silver, only it don't cost so much; that's all." "It don't taste as well." "You don't need to eat your fork." "No, but you have to touch your lips to it." "How does that hurt you, I want to know?" "It hurts my taste," said Lois; "and so it is uncomfortable. If Mrs. Barclay comes, I should certainly get some plated forks. Half a dozen would not cost much." "Mother," said Charity, "speak to Lois! She's getting right worldly, I think. Set her right, mother!" "It is something I don't understand," said the old lady gravely. "Steel forks were good enough for anybody in the land, when I was young. I don't see, for my part, why they ain't just as good now." Lois wisely left this question unanswered. "But you think we ought to let this lady come, mother, don't you?" "My dear," said Mrs. Armadale, "I think it's a providence!" "And it won't worry you, grandmother, will it?" "I hope not. If she's agreeable, she may do us good; and if she's disagreeable, we may do her good." "That's grandma all over!" exclaimed Charity; "but if she's disagreeable, I'll tell you what, girls, I'd rather scrub floors. 'Tain't my vocation to do ugly folks good." "Charity," said Mrs. Armadale, "it _is_ your vocation. It is what everybody is called to do." "It's what you've been trying to do to me all my life, ain't it?" said Charity, laughing. "But you've got to keep on, mother; it ain't done yet. But I declare! there ought to be somebody in a house who can be disagreeable by spells, or the rest of the world'd grow rampant." CHAPTER XX. SHAMPUASHUH. It was in vain to try to talk of anything else; the conversation ran on that one subject all the evening. Indeed, there was a great deal to be thought of and to be done, and it must of necessity be talked of first. "How soon does she want to come?" Mrs. Armadale asked, meaning of course the new inmate proposed for the house. "Just as soon as we are ready for her; didn't you hear what I read, grandmother? She wants to get into the country air." "A queer time to come into the country!" said Charity. "I thought city folks kept to the city in winter. But it's good for us." "We must get in some coal for the parlour," remarked Madge. "Yes; and who's going to make coal fires and clean the grate and fetch boxes of coal?" said Charity. "I don't mind makin' a wood fire, and keepin' it up; wood's clean; but coals I do hate." There was general silence. "I'll do it," said Lois. "I guess you will! You look like it." "Somebody must; and I may as well as anybody." "You could get Tim Bodson to carry coal for you," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "So we could; that's an excellent idea; and I don't mind the rest at all," said Lois. "I like to kindle fires. But maybe she'll want soft coal. I think it is likely. Mrs. Wishart never will burn hard coal where she sits. And soft coal is easier to manage." "It's dirtier, though," said Charity. "I hope she ain't going to be a fanciful woman. I can't get along with fancy folks. Then she'll be in a fidget about her eating; and I can't stand that. I'll cook for her, but she must take things as she finds them. I can't have anything to do with tomfooleries." "That means custards?" said Lois, laughing. "I like custards myself. I'll take the tomfoolery part of the business, Charity." "Will you?" said Charity. "What else?" "I'll tell you what else, girls. We must have some new tablecloths, and some napkins." "And we ought to have our bonnets before anybody comes," added Madge. "And I must make some covers and mats for the dressing table and washstand in the best room," said Lois. "Covers and mats! What for? What ails the things as they are? They've got covers." "O, I mean white covers. They make the room look so much nicer." "I'll tell you what, Lois; you can't do everything that rich folks do; and it's no use to try. And you may as well begin as you're goin' on. Where are you going to get money for coal and bonnets and tablecloths and napkins and curtains, before we begin to have the board paid in?" "I have thought of that. Aunt Marx will lend us some. It won't be much, the whole of it." "I hope we aren't buying a pig in a poke," said Charity. "Mother, do you think it will worry you to have her?" Lois asked tenderly. "No, child," said the old lady; "why should it worry me?" So the thing was settled, and eager preparations immediately set on foot. Simple preparations, which did not take much time. On her part Mrs. Barclay had some to make, but hers were still more quickly despatched; so that before November had run all its thirty days, she had all ready for the move. Mr. Dillwyn went with her to the station and put her into the car. They were early, so he took a seat beside her to bear her company during the minutes of waiting. "I would gladly have gone with you, to see you safe there," he remarked; "but I thought it not best, for several reasons." "I should think so!" Mrs. Barclay returned dryly. "Philip, I consider this the very craziest scheme I ever had to do with!" "Precisely; your being in it redeems it from that character." "I do not think so. I am afraid you are preparing trouble for yourself; but your heart cannot be much in it yet!" "Don't swear that," he said. "Well, it cannot, surely. Love will grow on scant fare, I acknowledge; but it must have a little." "It has had a little. But you are hardly to give it that name yet. Say, a fancy." "Sensible men do not do such things for a fancy. Why, Philip, suppose I am able to do my part, and that it succeeds to the full; though how I am even to set about it I have at present no idea; I cannot assume that these young women are ignorant, and say I have come to give them an education! But suppose I find a way, and suppose I succeed; what then? _You_ will be no nearer your aim--perhaps not so near." "Perhaps not," he said carelessly. "Phil, it's a very crazy business! I wouldn't go into it, only I am so selfish, and the plan is so magnificent for me." "That is enough to recommend it. Now I want you to let me know, from time to time, what I can send you that will either tend to your comfort, or help the work we have in view. Will you?" "But where are you going to be? I thought you were going to Europe?" "Not till spring. I shall be in New York this winter." "But you will not come to--what is the name of the place--where I am going?" she asked earnestly. "No," said he, smiling. "Shall I send you a piano?" "A piano! Is music intended to be in the programme? What should I do with a piano?" "That you would find out. But you are so fond of music--it would be a comfort, and I have no doubt it would be a help." Mrs. Barclay looked at him with a steady gravity, under which lurked a little sparkle of amusement. "Do you mean that I am to teach your Dulcinea to play? Or to sing?" "The use of the possessive pronoun is entirely inappropriate." "Which _is_ she, by the way? There are three, are there not? How am I to know the person in whom I am to be interested?" "By the interest." "That will do!" said Mrs. Barclay, laughing. "But it is a very mad scheme, Philip--a very mad scheme! Here you have got me--who ought to be wiser--into a plan for making, not history, but romance. I do not approve of romance, and not at all of making it." "Thank you!" said he, as he rose in obedience to the warning stroke of the bell. "Do not be romantic, but as practical as possible. I am. Good-bye! Write me, won't you?" The train moved out of the station, and Mrs. Barclay fell to meditating. The prospect before her, she thought, was extremely misty and doubtful. She liked neither the object of Mr. Dillwyn's plan, nor the means he had chosen to attain it; and yet, here she was, going to be his active agent, obedient to his will in the matter. Partly because she liked Philip, who had been a dear and faithful friend of her husband; partly because, as she said, the scheme offered such tempting advantage to herself; but more than either, because she knew that if Philip could not get her help he was more than likely to find some other which would not serve him so well. If Mrs. Barclay had thought that her refusal to help him would have put an end to the thing, she would undoubtedly have refused. Now she pondered what she had undertaken to do, and wondered what the end would be. Mr. DilIwyn had been taken by a pretty face; that was the old story; he retained wit enough to feel that something more than a pretty face was necessary, therefore he had applied to her; but suppose her mission failed? Brains cannot be bought. Or suppose even the brains were there, and her mission succeeded? What then? How was the wooing to be done? However, one thing was certain--Mr. Dillwyn must wait. Education is a thing that demands time. While he was waiting, he might wear out his fancy, or get up a fancy for some one else. Time was everything. So at last she quieted herself, and fell to a restful enjoyment of her journey, and amused watching of her fellow-travellers, and observing of the country. The country offered nothing very remarkable. After the Sound was lost sight of, the road ran on among farms and fields and villages; now and then crossing a stream; with nothing specially picturesque in land or water. Mrs. Barclay went back to thoughts that led her far away, and forgot both the fact of her travelling and the reason why. Till the civil conductor said at her elbow--"Here's your place, ma'am--Shampuashuh." Mrs. Barclay was almost sorry, but she rose, and the conductor took her bag, and they went out. The afternoons were short now, and the sun was already down; but Mrs. Barclay could see a neat station-house, with a long platform extending along the track, and a wide, level, green country. The train puffed off again. A few people were taking their way homewards, on foot and in waggons; she saw no cab or omnibus in waiting for the benefit of strangers. Then, while she was thinking to find some railway official and ask instructions, a person came towards her; a woman, bundled up in a shawl and carrying a horsewhip. "Perhaps you are Mrs. Barclay?" she said unceremoniously. "I have come after you." "Thank you. And who is it that has come after me?" "You are going to the Lothrops' house, ain't you? I thought so. It's all right. I'm their aunt. You see, they haven't a team; and I told 'em I'd come and fetch you, for as like as not Tompkins wouldn't be here. Is that your trunk?--Mr. Lifton, won't you have the goodness to get this into my buggy? it's round at the other side. Now, will you come?" This last to Mrs. Barclay. And, following her new friend, she and her baggage were presently disposed of in a neat little vehicle, and the owner of it got into her place and drove off. The soft light showed one of those peaceful-looking landscapes which impress one immediately with this feature in their character. A wide grassy street, or road, in which carriages might take their choice of tracks; a level open country wherever the eye caught a sight of it; great shadowy elms at intervals, giving an air of dignity and elegance to the place; and neat and well-to-do houses scattered along on both sides, not too near each other for privacy and independence. Cool fresh air, with a savour in it of salt water; and stillness--stillness that told of evening rest, and quiet, and leisure. One got a respect for the place involuntarily. "They're lookin' for you," the driving lady began. "Yes. I wrote I would be here to-day." "They'll do all they can to make you comfortable; and if there's anything you'd like, you've only to tell 'em. That is, anything that can be had at Shampuashuh; for you see, we ain't at New York; and the girls never took in a lodger before. But they'll do what they can." "I hope I shall not be very exacting." "Most folks like Shampuashuh that come to know it. That is!--we don't have much of the high-flyin' public; that sort goes over to Castletown, and I'm quite willin' they should; but in summer we have quite a sprinklin' of people that want country and the sea; and they most of 'em stay right along, from the beginning of the season to the end of it. We don't often have 'em come in November, though." "I suppose not." "Though the winters here are pleasant," the other went on. "_I_ think they're first-rate. You see, we're so near the sea, we never have it very cold; and the snow don't get a chance to lie. The worst we have here is in March; and if anybody is particular about his head and his eyes, I'd advise him to take 'em somewheres else; but, dear me! there's somethin' to be said about every place. I do hear folks say, down in Florida is a regular garden of Eden; but I don' know! seems to me I wouldn't want to live on oranges all the year round, and never see the snow. I'd rather have a good pippin now than ne'er an orange. Here we are. Mr. Starks!"--addressing a man who was going along the side way--"hold on, will you? here's a box to lift down--won't you bear a hand?" This service was very willingly rendered, the man not only lifting the heavy trunk out of the vehicle, but carrying it in and up the stairs to its destination. The door of the house stood open. Mrs. Barclay descended from the buggy, Mrs. Marx kept her seat. "Good-bye," she said. "Go right in--you'll find somebody, and they'll take care of you." Mrs. Barclay went in at the little gate, and up the path of a few yards to the house. It was a very seemly white house, quite large, with a porch over the door and a balcony above it. Mrs. Barclay went in, feeling herself on very doubtful ground; then appeared a figure in the doorway which put her meditations to flight. Such a fair figure, with a grave, sweet, innocent charm, and a manner which surprised the lady. Mrs. Barclay looked, in a sort of fascination. "We are very glad to see you," Lois said simply. "It is Mrs. Barclay, I suppose? The train was in good time. Let me take your bag, and I will show you right up to your room." "Thank you. Yes, I am Mrs. Barclay; but who are you?" "I am Lois. Mrs. Wishart wrote to me about you. Now, here is your room; and here is your trunk. Thank you, Mr. Starks.--What can I do for you? Tea will be ready presently." "You seem to have obliging neighbours! Ought I not to pay him for his trouble?" said Mrs. Barclay, looking after the retreating Starks. "Pay? O no!" said Lois, smiling. "Mr Starks does not want pay. He is very well off indeed; has a farm of his own, and makes it valuable." "He deserves to be well off, for his obligingness. Is it a general characteristic of Shampuashuh?" "I rather think it is," said Lois. "When you come down, Mrs. Barclay, I will show you your other room." Mrs. Barclay took off her wrappings and looked about her in a maze. The room was extremely neat and pleasant, with its white naperies and old-fashioned furniture. All that she had seen of the place was pleasant. But the girl!--O Philip, Philip! thought Mrs. Barclay, have you lost your heart here! and what ever will come of it all? I can understand it; but what will come of it! Down-stairs Lois met her again, and took her into the room arranged for her sitting-room. It was not a New York drawing-room; but many gorgeous drawing-rooms would fail in a comparison with it. Warm-coloured chintz curtains; the carpet neither fine nor handsome, indeed, but of a hue which did not clash violently with the hue of the draperies; plain, dark furniture; and a blaze of soft coal. Mrs. Barclay exclaimed, "Delightful! O, delightful! Is this my room, did you say? It is quite charming. I am afraid I am putting you to great inconvenience?" "The convenience is much greater than the inconvenience," said Lois simply. "I hope we may be able to make you comfortable; but my sisters are afraid you will not like our country way of living." "Are you the housekeeper?" "No," said Lois, with her pleasant smile again; "I am the gardener and the out-of-doors woman generally; the man of business of the house." "That is a rather hard place for a woman to fill, sometimes." "It is easy here, and where people have so little out-of-door business as we have." She arranged the fire and shut the shutters of the windows; Mrs. Barclay watching and admiring her as she did so. It was a pretty figure, though in a calico and white apron. The manner of quiet self-possession and simplicity left nothing to be desired. And the face,--but what was it in the face which so struck Mrs. Barclay? It was not the fair features; they _were_ fair, but she had seen others as fair, a thousand times before. This charm was something she had never seen before in all her life. There was a gravity that had no connection with shadows, nor even suggested them; a curious loftiness of mien, which had nothing to do with external position or internal consciousness; and a purity, which was like the grave purity of a child, without the child's want of knowledge or immaturity of mental power. Mrs. Barclay was attracted, and curious. At the same time, the dress and the apron were of a style--well, of no style; the plainest attire of a plain country girl. "I will call you when tea is ready," said Lois. "Or would you like to come out at once, and see the rest of the family?" "By all means! let me go with you," Mrs. Barclay answered; and Lois opened a door and ushered her at once into the common room of the family. Here Mrs. Armadale was sitting in her rocking-chair. "This is my grandmother," said Lois simply; and Mrs. Barclay came up. "How do you do, ma'am?" said the old lady. "I am pleased to see you." Mrs. Barclay took a chair by her side, made her greetings, and surveyed the room. It was very cheerful and home-looking, with its firelight, and the table comfortably spread in the middle of the floor, and various little tokens of domestic occupation. "How pleasant this fire is!" she remarked. "Wood is so sweet!" "It's better than the fire in the parlour," said Mrs. Armadale; "but that room has only a grate." "I will never complain, as long as I have soft coal," returned the new guest; "but there is an uncommon charm to me in a wood fire." "You don't get it often in New York, Lois says." "Miss Lois has been to the great city, then?" "Yes, she's been there. Our cousin, Mrs. Wishart, likes to have her, and Lois was there quite a spell last winter; but I expect that's the end of it. I guess she'll stay at home the rest of her life." "Why should she?" "Here's where her work is," said the old lady; "and one is best where one's work is." "But her work might be elsewhere? She'll marry some day. If I were a man, I think I should fall in love with her." "She mightn't marry you, still," said Mrs. Armadale, with a fine smile. "No, certainly," said Mrs. Barclay, returning the smile; "but--you know, girls' hearts are not to be depended on. They do run away with them, when the right person comes." "My Lois will wait till he comes," said the old lady, with a sort of tender confidence that was impressive and almost solemn. Mrs. Barclay's thoughts made a few quick gyrations; and then the door opened, and Lois, who had left the room, came in again, followed by one of her sisters bearing a plate of butter. "Another beauty!" thought Mrs. Barclay, as Madge was presented to her. "Which is which, I wonder?" This was a beauty of quite another sort. Regular features, black hair, eyes dark and soft under long lashes, a white brow and a very handsome mouth. But Madge had a bow of ribband in her black hair, while Lois's red-brown masses were soft, and fluffy, and unadorned. Madge's face lacked the loftiness, if it had the quietness, of the other; and it had not that innocent dignity which seemed--to Mrs. Barclay's fancy--to set Lois apart from the rest of young women. Yet most men would admire Madge most, she thought. O Philip, Philip! she said to herself, what sort of a mess have you brought me into! This is no common romance you have induced me to put my fingers in. These girls!-- But then entered a third, of a different type, and Mrs. Barclay felt some amusement at the variety surrounding her. Miss Charity was plain, like her grandmother; and Mrs. Armadale was not, as I have said, a handsome old woman. She had never been a handsome young one; bony, angular, strong, _not_ gracious; although the expression of calm sense, and character, and the handwriting of life-work, and the dignity of mental calm, were unmistakeable now, and made her a person worth looking at. Charity was much younger, of course; but she had the plainness without the dignity; sense, I am bound to say, was not wanting. The supper was ready, and they all sat down. The meal was excellent; but at first very silently enjoyed. Save the words of anxious hospitality, there were none spoken. The quicker I get acquain'ted, the better, thought Mrs. Barclay. So she began. "Your village looks to me like a quiet place." "That is its character," said Mrs. Armadale. "Especially in winter, I suppose?" "Well, it allays was quiet, since I've known it," the old lady went on. "They've got a hotel now for strangers, down at the Point--but that ain't the village." "And the hotel is empty now," added Lois. "What does the village do, to amuse itself, in these quiet winter days and nights?" "Nothing," said Charity. "Really? Are there _no_ amusements? I never heard of such a place." "I don't know what you mean by amusements," Mrs. Armadale took up the subject. "I think, doin' one's work is the best amusement there is. I never wanted no other." "Does the old proverb not hold good then in Shampuashuh, of 'All work and no play'--you know? The consequences are said to be disastrous." "No," said Lois, laughing, "it does not hold good. People are not dull here. I don't mean that they are very lively; but they are not dull." "Is there a library here?" "A sort of one; not large. Books that some of the people subscribe for, and pass round to each other's houses." "Then it is not much of a reading community?" "Well, it is, considerable," said Mrs. Armadale. "There's a good many books in the village, take 'em all together. I guess the folks have as much as they can do to read what they've got, and don't stand in need of no more." "Well, are people any happier for living in such a quiet way? Are they sheltered in any degree from the storms that come upon the rest of the world? How is it? As I drove along from the station to-night, I thought it looked like a haven of peace, where people could not have heartbreaks." "I hope the Lord will make it such to you, ma'am," the old lady said solemnly. The turn was so sudden and so earnest, that it in a sort took Mrs. Barclay's breath away. She merely said, "Thank you!" and let the talk drop. CHAPTER XXI. GREVILLE'S MEMOIRS. Mrs. Barclay found her room pleasant, her bed excellent, and all the arrangements and appointments simple, indeed, but quite sufficient. The next morning brought brilliant sunlight, glittering in the elm trees, and on the green sward which filled large spaces in the street, and on chimneys and housetops, and on the bit of the Connecticut river which was visible in the distance. Quiet it was certainly, and peaceful, and at the same time the sight was inspiriting. Mrs. Barclay dressed and went down; and there she found her parlour in order, the sunlight streaming in, and a beautiful fire blazing to welcome her. "This is luxury!" thought she, as she took her place in a comfortable rocking-chair before the fire. "But how am I to get at my work!"--Presently Lois came in, looking like a young rose. "I beg pardon!" she said, greeting Mrs. Barclay, "but I left my duster--" Has _she_ been putting my room in order! thought the lady. This elegant creature? But she showed nothing of her feeling; only asked Lois if she were busy. "No," said Lois, with a smile; "I have done. Do you want something of me?" "Yes, in that case. Sit down, and let us get acquain'ted." Lois sat down, duster in hand, and looked pleasantly ready. "I am afraid I am giving you a great deal of trouble! If you get tired of me, you must just let me know. Will you?" "There is no fear," Lois assured her. "We are very glad to have you. If only you do not get tired of our quiet. It is very quiet, after what you have been accustomed to." "Just what I want! I have been longing for the country; and the air here is delicious. I cannot get enough of it. I keep sniffing up the salt smell. And you have made me so comfortable! How lovely those old elms are over the way! I could hardly get dressed, for looking at them. Do you draw?" "I? O no!" cried Lois. "I have been to school, of course, but I have learned only common things. I do not know anything about drawing." "Perhaps you will let me teach you?" The colour flashed into the girl's cheeks; she made no answer at first, and then murmured, "You are very kind!" "One must do something, you know," Mrs. Bar clay said. "I cannot let all your goodness make me idle. I am very fond of drawing, myself; it has whiled away many an hour for me. Besides, it enables one to keep a record of pretty and pleasant things, wherever one goes." "We live among our pleasant things," said Lois; "but I should think that would be delightful for the people who travel." "You will travel some day." "No, there is no hope of that." "You would like it, then?" "O, who would not like it! I went with Mrs. Wishart to the Isles of Shoals last summer; and it was the first time I began to have a notion what a place the world is." "And what a place do you think it is?" "O, so wonderfully full of beautiful things--so full! so full!--and of such _different_ beautiful things. I had only known Shampuashuh and the Sound and New York; and Appledore was like a new world." Lois spoke with a kind of inner fire, which sparkled in her eyes and gave accent to her words. "What was the charm? I do not know Appledore," said Mrs. Barclay carelessly, but watching her. "It is difficult to put some things in words. I seemed to be out of the world of everyday life, and surrounded by what was pure and fresh and powerful and beautiful--it all comes back to me now, when I think of the surf breaking on the rocks, and the lights and colours, and the feeling of the air." "But how were the people? were _they_ uncommon too? Part of one's impression is apt to come from the human side of the thing." "Mine did not. The people of the Islands are queer, rough people, almost as strange as all the rest; but I saw more of some city people staying at the hotel; and they did not fit the place at all." "Why not?" "They did not enjoy it. They did not seem to see what I saw, unless they were told of it; nor then either." "Well, you must come in and let me teach you to draw," said Mrs. Barclay. "I shall want to feel that I have some occupation, or I shall not be happy. Perhaps your sister will come too." "Madge? O, thank you! how kind of you! I do not know whether Madge ever thought of such a thing." "You are the man of business of the house. What is she?" "Madge is the dairywoman, and the sempstress. But we all do that." "You are fond of reading? I have brought a few books with me, which I hope you will use freely. I shall unpack them by and by." "That will be delightful," Lois said, with a bright expression of pleasure. "We have not subscribed to the library, because we felt we could hardly spare the money." They were called to breakfast; and Mrs. Barclay studied again with fresh interest all the family group. No want of capacity and receptive readiness, she was sure; nor of active energy. Sense, and self-reliance, and independence, and quick intelligence, were to be read in the face and manner of each one; good ground to work upon. Still Mrs. Barclay privately shook her head at her task. "Miss Madge," she said suddenly, "I have been proposing to teach your sister to draw. Would you like to join her?" Madge seemed too much astonished to answer immediately. Charity spoke up and asked, "To draw what?" "Anything she likes. Pretty things, and places." "I don't see what's the use. When you've got a pretty thing, what should you draw it for?" "Suppose you have _not_ got it." "Then you can't draw it," said Charity. "O Charity, you don't understand," cried Lois. "If I had known how to draw, I could have brought you home pictures of the Isles of Shoals last summer." "They wouldn't have been like." Lois laughed, and Mrs. Barclay remarked, that was rather begging the question. "What question?" said Charity. "I mean, you are assuming a thing without evidence." "It don't need evidence," said Charity. "I never saw a picture yet that was worth a red cent. It's only a make-believe." "Then you will not join our drawing class, Miss Charity?" "No; and I should think Madge had better stick to her sewing. There's plenty to do." "Duty comes first," said the old lady; "and _I_ shouldn't think duty would leave much time for making marks on paper." The first thing Mrs. Barclay did after breakfast was to unpack some of her books and get out her writing box; and then the impulse seized her to write to Mr. Dillwyn. "I had meant to wait," she wrote him, "and not say anything to you until I had had more time for observation; but I have seen so much already that my head is in an excited state, and I feel I must relieve myself by talking to you. Which of these ladies is _the_ one? Is it the black-haired beauty, with her white forehead and clean-cut features? she is very handsome! But the other, I confess, is my favourite; she is less handsome, but more lovely. Yes, she is lovely; and both of them have capacity and cleverness. But, Philip, they belong to the strictly religious sort; I see that; the old grandmother is a regular Puritan, and the girls follow her lead; and I am in a confused state of mind thinking what can ever be the end of it all. Whatever would you do with such a wife, Philip Dillwyn? You are not a bad sort of man at all; at least you know _I_ think well of you; but you are not a Puritan, and this little girl _is_. I do not mean to say anything against her; only, you want me to make a woman of the world out of the girl--and I doubt much whether I shall be able. There is strength in the whole family; it is a characteristic of them; a capital trait, of course, but in certain cases interfering with any effort to mould or bend the material to which it belongs. What would you do, Philip, with a wife who would disapprove of worldly pleasures, and refuse to take part in worldly plans, and insist on bringing all questions to the bar of the Bible? I have indeed heard no distinctively religious conversation here yet; but I cannot be mistaken; I see what they are; I know what they will say when they open their lips. I feel as if I were a swindler, taking your money on false pretences; setting about an enterprise which may succeed, possibly, but would succeed little to your advantage. Think better of it and give it up! I am unselfish in saying that; for the people please me. Life in their house, I can fancy, might be very agreeable to me; but I am not seeking to marry them, and so there is no violent forcing of incongruities into union and fellowship. Phil, you cannot marry a Puritan." How Mrs. Barclay was to initiate a system of higher education in this farmhouse, she did not clearly see. Drawing was a simple thing enough; but how was she to propose teaching languages, or suggest algebra, or insist upon history? She must wait, and feel her way; and in the meantime she scattered books about her room, books chosen with some care, to act as baits; hoping so by and by to catch her fish. Meanwhile she made herself very agreeable in the family; and that without any particular exertion, which she rightly judged would hinder and not help her object. "Isn't she pleasant?" said Lois one evening, when the family were alone. "She's elegant!" said Madge. "She has plenty to say for herself," added Charity. "But she don't look like a happy woman, Lois," Madge went on. "Her face is regularly sad, when she ain't talking." "But it's sweet when she is." "I'll tell you what, girls," said Charity,--"she's a real proud woman." "O Charity! nothing of the sort," cried Lois. "She is as kind as she can be." "Who said she wasn't? I said she was proud, and she is. She's a right, for all I know; she ain't like our Shampuashuh people." "She is a lady," said Lois. "What do you mean by that, Lois?" Madge fired up. "You don't mean, I hope, that the rest of us are not ladies, do you?" "Not like her." "Well, why should we be like her?" "Because her ways are so beautiful. I should be glad to be like her. She is just what you called her--elegant." "Everybody has their own ways," said Madge. "I hope none of you will be like her," said Mrs. Armadale gravely; "for she's a woman of the world, and knows the world's ways, and she knows nothin' else, poor thing!" "But, grandmother," Lois put in, "some of the world's ways are good." "Be they?" said the old lady. "I don' know which of 'em." "Well, grandmother, this way of beautiful manners. They don't all have it--I don't mean that--but some of them do. They seem to know exactly how to behave to everybody, and always what to do or to say; and you can see Mrs. Barclay is one of those. And I like those people. There is a charm about them." "Don't you always know what's right to do or say, with the Bible before you?" "O grandmother, but I mean in little things; little words and ways, and tones of voice even. It isn't like Shampuashuh people." "Well, _we_'re Shampuashuh folks," said Charity. "I hope you won't set up for nothin' else, Lois. I guess your head got turned a bit, with goin' round the world. But I wish I knew what makes her look so sober!" "She has lost her husband." "Other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have found another. Don't be ridiculous, Lois!" The first bait that took, in the shape of books, was Scott's "Lady of the Lake." Lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was free to hold it. She read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty. Charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds. "What on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the account of Fitz James's adventure in the wood with Roderick Dhu. "Don't you like it?" said Lois. "Don't make head or tail of it. And there sits Madge with her mouth open, as if it was something to eat; and Lois's cheeks are as pink as if she expected the people to step out and walk in. Mother, do you like all that stuff?" "It is _poetry_, Charity," cried Lois. "What's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? It seems to me nonsense for a man to write in that way. If he has got something to say, why don't he _say_ it, and be done with it?" "He does say it, in a most beautiful way." "It'd be a queer way of doing business!" "It is _not_ business," said Lois, laughing. "Charity, will you not understand? It is _poetry_." "What is poetry?" But alas! Charity had asked what nobody could answer, and she had the field in triumph. "It is just a jingle-jangle, and what I call nonsense. Mother, ain't that what you would say is a waste of time?" "I don't know, my dear," said Mrs. Armadale doubtfully, applying her knitting needle to the back of her ear. "It isn't nonsense; it is delightful!" said Madge indignantly. "You want me to go on, grandmother, don't you?" said Lois. "We want to know about the fight, when the two get to Coilantogle ford." And as she was not forbidden, she went on; while Charity got the spice-box she had come for, and left the room superior. The "Lady of the Lake" was read through. Mrs. Barclay had hoped to draw on some historical inquiries by means of it; but before she could find a chance, Lois took up Greville's Memoirs. This she read to herself; and not many pages, before she came with the book and a puzzled face to Mrs. Barclay's room. Mrs. Barclay was, we may say, a fisher lying in wait for a bite; now she saw she had got one; the thing was to haul in the line warily and skilfully. She broke up a piece of coal on the fire, and gave her visitor an easy-chair. "Sit there, my dear. I am very glad of your company. What have you in your hand? Greville?" "Yes. I want to ask you about some things. Am I not disturbing you?" "Most agreeably. I can have nothing better to do than to talk with you. What is the question?" "There are several questions. It seems to me a very strange book!" "Perhaps it is. But why do you say so?" "Perhaps I should rather say that the people are strange. Is _this_ what the highest society in England is like?" "In what particulars, do you mean?" "Why, I think Shampuashuh is better. I am sure Shampuashuh would be ashamed of such doings." "What are you thinking of?" Mrs. Barclay asked, carefully repressing a smile. "Why, here are people with every advantage, with money and with education, and with the power of place and rank,--living for nothing but mere amusement, and very poor amusement too." "The conversations alluded to were very often not poor amusement. Some of the society were very brilliant and very experienced men." "But they did nothing with their lives." "How does that appear?" "Here, at the Duke of York's," said Lois, turning over her leaves;--"they sat up till four in the morning playing whist; and on Sunday they amused themselves shooting pistols and eating fruit in the garden, and playing with the monkeys! That is like children." "My dear, half the world do nothing with their lives, as you phrase it." "But they ought. And you expect it of people in high places, and having all sorts of advantages." "You expect, then, what you do not find." "And is all of what is called the great world, no better than that?" "Some of it is better." (O Philip, Philip, where are you? thought Mrs. Barclay.) "They do not all play whist all night. But you know, Lois, people come together to be amused; and it is not everybody that can talk, or act, sensibly for a long stretch." "How _can_ they play cards all night?" "Whist is very ensnaring. And the little excitement of stakes draws people on." "Stakes?" said Lois inquiringly. "Sums staked on the game." "Oh! But that is worse than foolish." "It is to keep the game from growing tiresome. Do you see any harm in it?" "Why, that's gambling." "In a small way." "Is it always in a small way?" "People do not generally play very high at whist." "It is all the same thing," said Lois. "People begin with a little, and then a little will not satisfy them." "True; but one must take the world as one finds it." "Is the New York world like this?" said Lois, after a moment's pause. "No! Not in the coarseness you find Mr. Greville tells of. In the matter of pleasure-seeking, I am afraid times and places are much alike. Those who live for pleasure, are driven to seek it in all manner of ways. The ways sometimes vary; the principle does not." "And do all the men gamble?" "No. Many do not touch cards. My friend, Mr. Dillwyn, for example." "Mr. Dillwyn? Do you know him?" "Very well. He was a dear friend of my husband, and has been a faithful friend to me. Do you know him?" "A little. I have seen him." "You must not expect too much from the world, my dear." "According to what you say, one must not expect _anything_ from it." "That is too severe." "No," said Lois. "What is there to admire or respect in a person who lives only for pleasure?" "Sometimes there are fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers." "Ah, that makes it only worse!" cried Lois. "Fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers, all used for nothing! That _is_ miserable; and when there is so much to do in the world, too!" "Of what kind?" asked Mrs. Barclay, curious to know her companion's course of thought. "O, help." "What sort of help?" "Almost all sorts," said Lois. "You must know even better than I. Don't you see a great many people in New York that are in want of some sort of help?" "Yes; but it is not always easy to give, even where the need is greatest. People's troubles come largely from their follies." "Or from other people's follies." "That is true. But how would you help, Lois?" "Where there's a will, there's a way, Mrs. Barclay." "You are thinking of help to the poor? There is a great deal of that done." "I am thinking of poverty, and sickness, and weakness, and ignorance, and injustice. And a grand man could do a great deal. But not if he lived like the creatures in this book. I never saw such a book." "But we must take men as we find them; and most men are busy seeking their own happiness. You cannot blame them for that. It is human nature." "I blame them for seeking it so. And it is not happiness that people play whist for, till four o'clock in the morning." "What then?" "Forgetfulness, I should think; distraction; because they do not know anything about happiness." "Who does?" said Mrs. Barclay sadly. Lois was silent, not because she had not something to say, but because she was not certain how best to say it. There was no doubt in her sweet face, rather a grave assurance which stimulated Mrs. Barclay's curiosity. "We must take people as we find them," she repeated. "You cannot expect men who live for pleasure to give up their search for the sake of other people's pleasure." "Yet that is the way,--which they miss," said Lois. "The way to what?" "To real enjoyment. To life that is worth living." "What would you have them do?" "Only what the Bible says." "I do not believe I know the Bible as well as you do. Of what directions are you thinking? 'The poor ye have always with you'?" "Not that," said Lois. "Let me get my Bible, and I will tell you.--This, Mrs. Barclay--'To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke..... To deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house; when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh'....." "And do you think, to live right, one must live so?" "It is the Bible!" said Lois, with so innocent a look of having answered all questions, that Mrs. Barclay was near smiling. "Do you think anybody ever did live so?" "Job." "Did he! I forget." Lois turned over some leaves, and again read--"'When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy.... I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame. I was a father to the poor: and the cause that I knew not I searched out. And I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth.'" "To be a _father to the poor_, in these days, would give a man enough to do, certainly; especially if he searched out all the causes which were doubtful. It would take all a man's time, and all his money too, if he were as rich as Job;--unless you put some limit, Lois." "What limit, Mrs. Barclay?" "Do you put none? I was not long ago speaking with a friend, such a man of parts and powers as was mentioned just now; a man who thus far in his life has done nothing but for his own cultivation and amusement. I was urging upon him to do _something_ with himself; but I did not tell him what. It did not occur to me to set him about righting ail the wrongs of the world." "Is he a Christian?" "I am afraid you would not say so." "Then he could not. One must love other people, to live for them." "Love _all sorts?_" said Mrs. Barclay. "You cannot work for them unless you do." "Then it is hopeless!--unless one is born with an exceptional mind." "O no," said Lois, smiling, "not hopeless. The love of Christ brings the love of all that he loves." There was a glow and a sparkle, and a tenderness too, in the girl's face, which made Mrs. Barclay look at her in a somewhat puzzled admiration. She did not understand Lois's words, and she saw that her face was a commentary upon them; therefore also unintelligible; but it was strangely pure and fair. "You would do for Philip, I do believe," she thought, "if he could get you; but he will never get you." Aloud she said nothing. By and by Lois returned to the book she had brought in with her. "Here are some words which I cannot read; they are not English. What are they?" Mrs. Barclay read: "_Le bon goût, les ris, l'aimable liberté_. That is French." "What does it mean?" "Good taste, laughter, and charming liberty. You do not know French?" "O no," said Lois, with a sort of breath of longing. "French words come in quite often here, and I am always so curious to know what they mean." "Very well, why not learn? I will teach you." "O, Mrs. Barclay!"-- "It will give me the greatest pleasure. And it is very easy." "O, I do not care about _that_," said Lois; "but I would be so glad to know a little more than I do." "You seem to me to have _thought_ a good deal more than most girls of your age; and thought is better than knowledge." "Ah, but one needs knowledge in order to think justly." "An excellent remark! which--if you will for give me--I was making to myself a few minutes ago." "A few minutes ago? About what I said? O, but there I _have_ knowledge," said Lois, smiling. "You are sure of that?" "Yes," said Lois, gravely now. "The Bible cannot be mistaken, Mrs. Barclay." "But your application of it?" "How can that be mistaken? The words are plain." "Pardon me. I was only venturing to think that you could have seen little, here in Shampuashuh, of the miseries of the world, and so know little of the difficulty of getting rid of them, or of ministering to them effectually." "Not much," Lois agreed. "Yet I have seen so much done by people without means--I thought, those who _have_ means might do more." "What have you seen? Do tell me. Here I am ignorant; except in so far as I know what some large societies accomplish, and fail to accomplish." "I have not seen much," Lois repeated. "But I know one person, a farmer's wife, no better off than a great many people here, who has brought up and educated a dozen girls who were friendless and poor." "A dozen girls!" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "I think there have been thirteen. She had no children of her own; she was comfortably well off; and she took these girls, one after another, sometimes two or three together; and taught them and trained them, and fed and clothed them, and sent them to school; and kept them with her until one by one they married off. They all turned out well." "I am dumb!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Giving money is one thing; I can understand that; but taking strangers' children into one's house and home life--and a _dozen_ strangers' children!" "I know another woman, not so well off, who does her own work, as most do here; who goes to nurse any one she hears of that is sick and cannot afford to get help. She will sit up all night taking care of somebody, and then at break of the morning go home to make her own fire and get her own family's breakfast." "But that is superb!" cried Mrs. Barclay. "And my father," Lois went on, with a lowered voice,--"he was not very well off, but he used to keep a certain little sum for lending; to lend to anybody that might be in great need; and generally, as soon as one person paid it back another person was in want of it." "Was it always paid back?" "Always; except, I think, at two times. Once the man died before he could repay it. The other time it was lent to a woman, a widow; and she married again, and between the man and the woman my father never could get his money. But it was made up to him another way. He lost nothing." "You have been in a different school from mine, Lois," said Mrs. Barclay. "I am filled with admiration." "You see," Lois went on, "I thought, if with no money or opportunity to speak of, one can do so much, what might be done if one had the power and the will too?" "But in my small experience it is by no means the rule, that money lent is honestly paid back again." "Ah," said Lois, with an irradiating smile, "but this money was lent to the Lord; I suppose that makes the difference." "And are you bound to think well of no man but one who lives after this exalted fashion? How will you ever get married, Lois?" "I should not like to be married to this Duke of York the book tells of; nor to the writer of the book," Lois said, smiling. "That Duke of York was brother to the King of England." "The King was worse yet! He was not even respectable." "I believe you are right. Come--let us begin our French lessons." With shy delight, Lois came near and followed with most eager attention the instructions of her friend. Mrs. Barclay fetched a volume of Florian's "Easy Writing"; and to the end of her life Lois will never forget the opening sentences in which she made her first essay at French pronunciation, and received her first knowledge of what French words mean. "Non loin de la ville de Cures, dans le pays des Sabins, au milieu d'une antique forêt, s'élève un temple consacré à Cérès." So it began; and the words had a truly witching interest for Lois.. But while she delightedly forgot all she had been talking about, Mrs. Barclay, not delightedly, recalled and went over it. Philip, Philip! your case is dark! she was saying. And what am I about, trying to help you! CHAPTER XXII. LEARNING. There came a charming new life into the house of the Lothrops. Madge and Lois were learning to draw, and Lois was prosecuting her French studies with a zeal which promised to carry all before it. Every minute of her time was used; every opportunity was grasped; "Numa Pompilius" and the dictionary were in her hands whenever her hands were free; or Lois was bending over her drawing with an intent eye and eager fingers. Madge kept her company in these new pursuits, perhaps with less engrossing interest; nevertheless with steady purpose and steady progress. Then Mrs. Barclay received from New York a consignment of beautiful drawings and engravings from the best old masters, and some of the best of the new; and she found her hands becoming very full. To look at these engravings was almost a passion with the two girls; but not in the common way of picture-seeing. Lois wanted to understand everything; and it was necessary, therefore, to go into wide fields of knowledge, where the paths branched many ways, and to follow these various tracks out, one after another. This could not be done all in talking; and Lois plunged into a very sea of reading. Mrs. Barclay was not obliged to restrain her, for the girl was thorough and methodical in her ways of study, as of doing other things; however, she would carry on two or three lines of reading at once. Mrs. Barclay wrote to her unknown correspondent, "Send me 'Sismondi';" "send me Hallam's 'Middle Ages';" "send me 'Walks about Kome';" "send me 'Plutarch's Lives';" "send me D'Aubigné's 'Réformation';" at last she wrote, "Send me Ruskin's 'Modern Painters'." "I have the most enormous intellectual appetite to feed that ever I had to do with in my life. And yet no danger of an indigestion. Positively, Philip, my task is growing from day to day delightful; it is only when I think of the end and aim of it all that I get feverish and uneasy. At present we are going with 'a full sail and a flowing sea'; a regular sweeping into knowledge, with a smooth, easy, swift occupying and taking possession, which gives the looker-on a stir of wondering admiration. Those engravings were a great success; they opened for me, and at once, doors before which I might have waited some time; and now, eyes are exploring eagerly the vast realms those doors unclose, and hesitating only in which first to set foot. You may send the 'Stones of Venice' too; I foresee that it will be useful; and the 'Seven Lamps of Architecture.' I am catching my breath, with the swiftness of the way we go on. It is astonishing, what all clustered round a view of Milan Cathedral yesterday. By the way, Philip,--no hurry,--but by and by a stereoscope would be a good thing here. Let it be a little hand-glass, not a great instrument of unvarying routine and magnificent sameness." Books came by packages and packages. Such books! The eyes of the two girls gloated over them, as they helped Mrs. Barclay unpack; the room grew full, with delightful disorder of riches; but none too much, for they began to feel their minds so empty that no amount of provision could be too generous. "The room is getting to be running-over full. What will you do, Mrs. Barclay?" "It is terrible when you have to sweep the carpet, isn't it? I must send for some book cases." "You might let Mr. Midgin put up some--shelves I could stain them, and make them look very nice." "Who is Mr. Midgin?" "The carpenter." "Oh! Well.--I think we had better send for him, Lois." The door stood open into the kitchen, or dining-room rather, on account of the packing-cases which the girls were just moving out; then appeared the figure of Mrs. Marx in the opening. "Lois, Charity ain't at home--How much beef are you goin' to want?" "Beef?" said Lois, smiling at the transition in her thoughts.--"For salting, you mean?" "For salting, and for smoking, and for mince-meat, and for pickling. What is the girl thinking of?" "She is thinking of books just now, Mrs. Marx," suggested Mrs. Barclay. "Books!" The lady stepped nearer and looked in. "Well, I declare! I should think you had _some_. What in all the world can you do with so many?" "Just what we were considering. I think we must have the carpenter here, to put up some shelves." "Well I should say that was plain. But when you have got 'em on the shelves, what next? What will you do with 'em then?" "Take 'em down and read them, aunt Anne." "Your life ain't as busy as mine, then, if you have time for all that. What's the good o' readin' so much?" "There's so much to know, that we don't know!" "I should like to know what,"--said Mrs. Marx, going round and picking up one book after another. "You've been to school, haven't you?" Lois changed her tone. "I'll talk to Charity about the beef, and let you know, aunt Anne." "Well, come out to the other room and let me talk to you! Good afternoon, ma'am--I hope you don't let these girls make you too much worry.--Now, Lois" (after the door was shut between them and Mrs. Barclay), "I just want you to tell me what you and Madge are about?" Lois told her, and Mrs. Marx listened with a judicial air; then observed gravely, "'Seems to me, there ain't much sense in all that, Lois." "O, yes, aunt Anne! there is." "What's the use? What do you want to know more tongues than your own for, to begin with? you can't talk but in one at once. And spending your time in making marks on paper! I believe in girls goin' to school, and gettin' all they can there; but when school is done, then they have something else to see to. I'd rather have you raakin' quilts and gettin' ready to be married; dom' women's work." "I do my work," said Lois gaily. "Child, your head's gettin' turned. Mother, do you know the way Madge and Lois are goin' on?" "I don't understand it," said Mrs. Armadale. "I understand it. And I'll tell you. I like learning,--nobody better; but I want things kept in their places. And I tell you, if this is let to go on, it'll be like Jack's bean vine, and not stop at the top of the house; and they'll be like Jack, and go after to see, and never come back to common ground any more." Mrs. Armadale sat looking unenlightened. Madge, who had come in midway of this speech, stood indignant. "Aunt Anne, that's not like you! You read as much yourself as ever you can; and never can get books enough." "I stick to English." "English or French, what's the odds?" "What was good enough for your fathers and mothers ought to be good enough for you." "That won't do, aunt Anne," retorted Madge. "You were wanting a Berkshire pig a while ago, and I heard you talking of 'shorthorns.'" "That's it. I'd like to hear you talking of shorthorns." "If it is necessary, I could," said Lois; "but there are pleasanter things to talk about." "There you are! But pictures won't help Madge make butter; and French is no use in a garden. It's all very well for some people, I suppose; but, mother, if these girls go on, they'll be all spoiled for their place in life. This lodger of yours is trying to make 'em like herself." "I wish she could!" said Madge. "That's it, mother; that's what I say. But she's one thing, and they're another; she lives in her world, which ain't Shampuashuh by a long jump, and they live in Shampuashuh, and have got to live there. Ain't it a pity to get their heads so filled with the other things that they'll be for ever out o' conceit o' their own?" "It don't work so, aunt Anne," said Lois. "It will work so. What use can all these krinkum-krankums be to you? Shampuashuh ain't the place for 'em. You'll be like the girl that got a new bonnet, and had to sit with her head out o' window to wear it." Madge's cheeks grew red. Lois laughed. "Daughter," said Mrs. Armadale, "'seems to me you are making a storm in a teapot." Mrs. Marx laughed at that; then became quite serious again. "I ain't doin' that," she said. "I never do. And I've no enmity against all manner of fiddle-faddling, if folks have got nothin' better to do. But 'tain't so with our girls. They work for their livin', and they've got to work; and what I say is, they're in a way to get to hate work, if they don't despise it, and in my judgment that's a poor business. It's going the wrong way to be happy. Mother, they ought to marry farmers; and they won't look at a farmer in all Shampuashuh, if you let 'em go on." Lois remarked merrily that she did not want to look at a man anywhere. "Then you ought. It's time. I'd like to see you married to a good, solid man, who would learn you to talk of shorthorns and Berkshires. Life's life, chickens; and it ain't the tinkle of a piano. All well enough for your neighbour in the other room; but you're a different sort." Privately, Lois did not want to be of a different sort. The refinement, the information, the accomplishments, the grace of manner, which in a high degree belonged to Mrs. Barclay, seemed to her very desirable possessions and endowments; and the mental life of a person so enriched and gifted, appeared to her far to be preferred over a horizon bounded by cheese and bed-quilts. Mrs. Marx was not herself a narrow-minded woman, or one wanting in appreciation of knowledge and culture; but she was also a shrewd business woman, and what she had seen at the Isles of Shoals had possibly given her a key wherewith to find her way through certain problems. She was not sure but Lois had been a little touched by the attentions of that very handsome, fair-haired and elegant gentleman who had done Mrs. Marx the honour to take her into his confidence; she was jealous lest all this study of things unneeded in Shampuashuh life might have a dim purpose of growing fitness for some other. There she did Lois wrong, for no distant image of Mr. Caruthers was connected in her niece's mind with the delight of the new acquirements she was making; although Tom Caruthers had done his part, I do not doubt, towards Lois's keen perception of the beauty and advantage of such acquirements. She was not thinking of Tom, when she made her copies and studied her verbs; though if she had never known the society in which she met Tom and of which he was a member, she might not have taken hold of them so eagerly. "Mother," she said when Mrs. Marx was gone, "are you afraid these new things will make me forget my duties, or make me unfit for them?" Mrs. Armadale's mind was a shade more liberal than her daughter's, and she had not been at the Isles of Shoals. She answered somewhat hesitatingly, "No, child--I don't know as I am. I don't see as they do. I don't see what use they will be to you; but maybe they'll be some." "They are pleasure," said Lois. "We don't live for pleasing ourselves, child." "No, mother; but don't you think, if duties are not neglected, that we ought to educate ourselves all we can, and get all of every sort of good that we can, when we have the opportunity?" "To be sure," said Mrs. Armadale; "if it ain't a temptation, it's a providence. Maybe you'll find a use for it you don't think. Only take care it ain't a temptation, Lois." From that time Lois's studies were carried on with more systematic order. She would not neglect her duties, and the short winter days left her little spare time of daylight; therefore she rose long before daylight came. If anybody had been there to look, Lois might have been seen at four o'clock in the family room, which this winter rather lost its character of kitchen, seated at the table with her lamp and her books; the room warm and quiet, no noise but the snapping of the fire and breathing of the flames, and now and then the fall of a brand. And Lois sitting absorbed and intent, motionless, except when the above-mentioned falling brands obliged her to get up and put them in their places. Her drawing she left for another time of day; she could do that in company; in these hours she read and wrote French, and read pages and pages of history. Sometimes Madge was there too; but Lois always, from a very early hour until the dawn was advanced far enough for her to see to put Mrs. Barclay's room in order. Then with a sigh of pleasure Lois would turn down her lamp, and with another breath of hope and expectation betake herself to the next room to put all things in readiness for its owner's occupancy and use, which occupancy and use involved most delightful hours of reading and talking and instruction by and by. Making the fire, sweeping, brushing, dusting, regulating chairs and tables and books and trifles, drawing back the curtains and opening the shutters; which last, to be sure, she began with. And then Lois went to do the same offices for the family room, and to set the table for breakfast; unless Madge had already done it. And then Lois brought her Bible and read to Mrs. Armadale, who by this time was in her chair by the fireside, and busy with her knitting. The knitting was laid down then, however; and Mrs. Armadale loved to take the book in her hands, upon her lap, while her granddaughter, leaning over it, read to her. They two had it alone; no other meddled with them. Charity was always in the kitchen at this time, and Madge often in her dairy, and neither of them inclined to share in the service which Lois always loved dearly to render. They two, the old and the young, would sit wholly engrossed with their reading and their talk, unconscious of what was going on around them; even while Charity and Madge were bustling in and out with the preparations for breakfast. Nothing of the bustle reached Mrs. Armadale or Lois, whose faces at such times had a high and sweet and withdrawn look, very lovely to behold. The hard features and wrinkled lines of the one face made more noticeable the soft bloom and delicate moulding of the other, while the contrast enhanced the evident oneness of spirit and interest which filled them both. When they were called to breakfast and moved to the table, then there was a difference. Both, indeed, showed a subdued sweet gravity; but Mrs. Armadale was wont also to be very silent and withdrawn into herself, or busied with inner communings; while Lois was ready with speech or action for everybody's occasions, and full of gentle ministry. Mrs. Barclay used to study them both, and be wonderingly busy with the contemplation. CHAPTER XXIII. A BREAKFAST TABLE. It was Christmas eve. Lois had done her morning work by the lamplight, and was putting the dining-room, or sitting-room rather, in order; when Madge joined her and began to help. "Is the other room ready?" "All ready," said Lois. "Are you doing that elm tree?" "Yes." "How do you get along?" "I cannot manage it yet, to my satisfaction; but I will. O Madge, isn't it too delicious?" "What? the drawing? Isn't it!!" "I don't mean the drawing only. Everything. I am getting hold of French, and it's delightful. But the books! O Madge, the books! I feel as if I had been a chicken in his shell until now, and as if I were just getting my eyes open to see what the world is like." "What _is_ it like?" asked Madge, laughing. "My eyes are shut yet, I suppose, for _I_ haven't found out. You can tell me." "Eyes that are open cannot help eyes that are shut. Besides, mine are only getting open." "What do they see? Come, Lois, tell." Lois stood still, resting on her broom handle. "The world seems to me an immense battle-place, where wrong and right have been struggling; always struggling. And sometimes the wrong seems to cover the whole earth, like a flood, and there is nothing but confusion and horror; and then sometimes the floods part and one sees a little bit of firm ground, where grass and flowers might grow, if they had a chance. And in those spots there is generally some great, grand man, who has fought back the flood of wrong and made a clearing." "Well, I do not understand all that one bit!" said Madge. "I do not wonder," said Lois, laughing, "I do not understand it very clearly myself. I cannot blame you. But it is very curious, Madge, that the ancient Persians had just that idea of the world being a battle-place, and that wrong and right were fighting; or rather, that the Spirit of good and the Spirit of evil were struggling. Ormuzd was their name for the good Spirit, and Ahriman the other. It is very strange, for that is just the truth." "Then why is it strange?" said downright Madge. "Because they were heathen; they did not know the Bible." "Is that what the Bible says? I didn't know it." "Why, Madge, yes, you did. You know who is called the 'Prince of this world'; and you know Jesus 'was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil'; and you know 'he shall reign till he has put all enemies under his feet.' But how should those old Persians know so much, with out knowing more? I'll tell you, Madge! You know, Enoch knew?"-- "No, I don't." "Yes, you do! Enoch knew. And of course they all knew when they came out of the ark"-- "Who--the Persians?" Lois broke out into a laugh, and began to move her broom again. "What have you been reading, to put all this into your head?" The broom stopped. "Ancient history, and modern; parts here and there, in different books. Mrs. Barclay showed me where; and then we have talked"-- Lois began now to sweep vigorously. "Lois, is _she_ like the people you used to see in New York? I mean, were they all like her?" "Not all so nice." "But like her?" "Not in everything. No, they were not most of them so clever, and most of them did not know so much, and were not so accomplished." "But they were like her in other things?" "No," said Lois, standing still; "she is a head and shoulders above most of the women I saw; but they were of her sort, if that is what you mean." "That is what I mean. She is not a bit like people here. We must seem very stupid to her, Lois." "Shampuashuh people are not stupid." "Well, aunt Anne isn't stupid; but she is not like Mrs. Barclay. And she don't want us to be like Mrs. Barclay." "No danger!"--said Lois, very busy now at her work. "But wouldn't you _like_ to be like Mrs. Barclay?" "Yes." "So would I." "Well, we can, in the things that are most valuable," said Lois, standing still again for a moment to look at her sister. "O, yes, books-- But I would like to be graceful like Mrs. Barclay. You would call that not valuable; but I care more for it than for all the rest. Her beautiful manners." "She _has_ beautiful manners," said Lois. "I do not think manners can be taught. They cannot be imitated." "Why not?" "O, they wouldn't be natural. And what suits one might not suit another. A very handsome nose of somebody else might not be good on my face. No, they would not be natural." "You need not wish for anybody's nose but your own," said Madge. "_That_ will do, and so will mine, I'm thankful! But what makes her look so unhappy, Lois?" "She does look unhappy." "She looks as if she had lost all her friends." "She has got _one_, here," said Lois, sweeping away. "But what good can you do her?" "Nothing. It isn't likely that she will ever even know the fact." "She's doing a good deal for us." A little later, Mrs. Barclay came down to her room. She found it, as always, in bright order; the fire casting red reflections into every corner, and making pleasant contrast with the grey without. For it was cloudy and windy weather, and wintry neutral tints were all that could be seen abroad; the clouds swept along grey overhead, and the earth lay brown and bare below. But in Mrs. Barclay's room was the cheeriest play of light and colour; here it touched the rich leather bindings of books, there the black and white of an engraving; here it was caught in tin folds of the chintz curtains which were ruddy and purple in hue, and again it warmed up the old-fashioned furniture and lost itself in a brown tablecover. Mrs. Barclay's eye loved harmonies, and it found them even in this country-furnished room at Shampuashuh. Though, indeed, the piles of books came from afar, and so did the large portfolio of engravings, and Mrs. Barclay's desk was a foreigner. She sat in her comfortable chair before the fire and read her letters, which Lois had laid ready for her; and then she was called to breakfast. Mrs. Barclay admired her surroundings here too, as she had often done before. The old lady, ungainly as her figure and uncomely as her face were, had yet a dignity in both; the dignity of a strong and true character, which with abundant self-respect, had not, and never had, any anxious concern about the opinion of any human being. Whoever feels himself responsible to the one Great Ruler alone, and _does_ feel that responsibility, will be both worthy of respect and sure to have it in his relations with his fellows. Such tribute Mrs. Barclay paid Mrs. Armadale. Her eye passed on and admired Madge, who was very handsome in her neat, smart home dress; and rested on Lois finally with absolute contentment. Lois was in a nut-brown stuff dress, with a white knitted shawl bound round her shoulders in the way children sometimes have, the ends crossed on the breast and tied at the back of the waist. Brown and white was her whole figure, except the rosy flush on cheeks and lips; the masses of fluffy hair were reddish-brown, a shade lighter than her dress. At Charity Mrs. Barclay did not look much, unless for curiosity; she was a study of a different sort. "What delicious rolls!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Are these your work, Miss Charity?" "I can make as good, I guess," said that lady; "but these ain't mine. Lois made 'em." "Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "I did not know that this was one of your accomplishments." "Is _that_ what you call an accomplishment," said Charity. "Certainly. What do you mean by it?" "I thought an accomplishment was something that one could accomplish that was no use." "I am sorry you have such an opinion of accomplishments." "Well, ain't it true? Lois, maybe Mrs. Barclay don't care for sausages. There's cold meat." "Your sausages are excellent. I like _such_ sausage very much." "I always think sausages ain't sausages if they ain't stuffed. Aunt Anne won't have the plague of it; but I say, if a thing's worth doing at all, it's worth doing the best way; and there's no comparison in my mind." "So you judge everything by its utility." "Don't everybody, that's got any sense?" "And therefore you condemn accomplishments?" "Well, I don't see the use. O, if folks have got nothing else to do, and just want to make a flare-up--but for us in Shampuashuh, what's the good of them? For Lois and Madge, now? I don't make it out." "You forget, your sisters may marry, and go somewhere else to live; and then"-- "I don't know what Madge'll do; but Lois ain't goin' to marry anybody but a real godly man, and what use'll her accomplishments be to her then?" "Why, just as much use, I hope," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "Why not? The more education a woman has, the more fit she is to content a man of education, anywhere." "Where's she to get a man of education?" said Charity. "What you mean by that don't grow in these parts. We ain't savages exactly, but there ain't many accomplishments scattered through the village. Unless, as you say, bread-makin's one. We do know how to make bread, and cake, with anybody; Lois said she didn't see a bit o' real good cake all the while she was in Gotham; and we can cure hams, and we understand horses and cows, and butter and cheese, and farming, of course, and that; but you won't find your man of education here, or Lois won't." "She may find him somewhere else," said Mrs. Barclay, looking at Charity over her coffee-cup. "Then he won't be the right kind," persisted Charity; while Lois laughed, and begged they would not discuss the question of her possible "finds"; but Mrs. Barclay asked, "How not the right kind?" "Well, every place has its sort," said Charity. "Our sort is religious. I don't know whether we're any _better_ than other folks, but we're religious; and your men of accomplishments ain't, be they?" "Depends on what you mean by religious." "Well, I mean godly. Lois won't ever marry any but a godly man." "I hope not!" said Mrs. Armadale. "_She_ won't," said Charity; "but you had better talk to Madge, mother. I am not so sure of her. Lois is safe." "'The fashion of this world passeth away,'" said the old lady, with a gravity which was yet sweet; "'but the word of the Lord endureth for ever.'" Mrs. Barclay was now silent. This morning, contrary to her usual wont, she kept her place at the table, though the meal was finished. She was curious to see the ways of the household, and felt herself familiar enough with the family to venture to stay. Charity began to gather her cups. "Did you give aunt Anne's invitation? Hand along the plates, Madge, and carry your butter away. We've been for ever eating breakfast." "Talking," said Mrs. Barclay, with a smile. "Talking's all very well, but I think one thing at a time is enough. It is as much as most folks can attend to. Lois, do give me the plates; and give your invitation." "Aunt Anne wants us all to come and take tea with her to-night," said Lois; "and she sent her compliments to Mrs. Barclay, and a message that she would be very glad to see her with the rest of us." "I am much obliged, and shall be very happy to go." "'Tain't a party," said Charity, who was receiving plates and knives and forks from Lois's hand, and making them elaborately ready for washing; while Madge went back and forth clearing the table of the remains of the meal. "It's nothin' but to go and take our tea there instead of here. We save the trouble of gettin' it ready, and have the trouble of going; that's our side; and what aunt Anne has for her side she knows best herself. I guess she's proud of her sweetmeats." Mrs. Barclay smiled again. "It seems parties are much the same thing, wherever they are given," she said. "This ain't a party," repeated Charity. Madge had now brought a tub of hot water, and the washing up of the breakfast dishes was undertaken by Lois and Charity with a despatch and neatness and celerity which the looker-on had never seen equalled. "Parties do not seem to be Shampuashuh fashion," she remarked. "I have not heard of any since I have been here." "No," said Charity. "We have more sense." "I am not sure that it shows sense," remarked Lois, carrying off a pile of clean hot plates to the cupboard. "What's the use of 'em?" said the elder sister. "Cultivation of friendly feeling," suggested Mrs. Barclay. "If folks ain't friendly already, the less they see of one another the better they'll agree," said Charity. "Miss Charity, I am afraid you do not love your fellow-creatures," said Mrs. Barclay, much amused. "As well as they love me, I guess," said Charity. "Mrs. Armadale," said Mrs. Barclay, appealing to the old lady who sat in her corner knitting as usual,--"do not these opinions require some correction?" "Charity speaks what she thinks," said Mrs. Armadale, scratching behind her ear with the point of her needle, as she was very apt to do when called upon. "But that is not the right way to think, is it?" "It's the natural way," said the old lady. "It is only the fruit of the Spirit that is 'love, joy, peace.' 'Tain't natural to love what you don't like." "What you don't like! no," said Mrs. Barclay; "that is a pitch of love I never dreamed of." "'If ye love them that love you, what thank have ye?'" said the old lady quietly. "Mother's off now," said Charity; "out of anybody's understanding. One would think I was more unnatural than the rest of folks!" "She _said_ you were more natural, thats all," said Lois, with a sly smile. The talk ceased. Mrs. Barclay looked on for a few minutes more, marvelling to see the quick dexterity with which everything was done by the two girls; until the dishes were put away, the tcib and towels were gone, the table was covered with its brown cloth, a few crumbs were brushed from the carpet; and Charity disappeared in one direction and Lois in another. Mrs. Barclay herself withdrew to her room and her thoughts. CHAPTER XXIV. THE CARPENTER. The day was a more than commonly busy one, so that the usual hours of lessons in Mrs. Barclay's room did not come off. It was not till late in the afternoon that Lois went to her friend, to tell her that Mrs. Marx would send her little carriage in about an hour to fetch her mother, and that Mrs. Barclay also might ride if she would. Mrs. Barclay was sitting in her easy-chair before the fire, doing nothing, and on receipt of this in formation turned a very shadowed face towards the bringer of it. "What will you say to me, if after all your aunt's kindness in asking me, I do not go?" "Not go? You are not well?" inquired Lois anxiously. "I am quite well--too well!" "But something is the matter?" "Nothing new." "Dear Mrs. Barclay, can I help you?" "I do not think you can. I am tired, Lois!" "Tired! O, that is spending so much time giving lessons to Madge and me! I am so sorry." "It is nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Barclay, stretching out her hand to take one of Lois's, which she retained in her own. "If anything would take away this tired feeling, it is just that, Lois. Nothing refreshes me so much, or does me so much good." "Then what tires you, dear Mrs. Barclay?" Lois's face showed unaffected anxiety. Mrs. Barclay gave the hand she held a little squeeze. "It is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "I am tired of life." Looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener's mind was to comprehend her. Lois looked puzzled. "You do not know what I mean?" she said. "Hardly--" "I hope you never will. It is a miserable feeling. It is like what I can fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient and intelligent thing;--of no use to the branch which holds it--freshness and power gone--no reason for existence left--its work all done. Only I never did any work, and was never of any particular use." "O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed. "I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was found under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, and wake echoes. 'I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care Whether the waking find Me here, or there. 'A bowing, burdened head--'" But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Lois saw, or guessed, that she could not go on. "Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Do you remember?-- 'My good right hand forgets Its cunning now. To march the weary march, I know not how. 'I am not eager, bold, Nor brave; all that is past. I am ready not to do, At last, at last!--' I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause which Lois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day." "I do not think one need--or ought--at any age," Lois said gently; but her words were hardly regarded. "Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing and sighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon." "It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. I like it especially at Christmas time." "It carries me back--years. It takes me to my old home, when I was a child. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes me to a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour--the unfolding leaf--when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind of home-sickness to-night for my father and mother.--Of the days since that time, I dare not think." Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly and few, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and her heart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not know how to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs. Barclay had passed over-- "A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast." She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She sat still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than any words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, for she presently went on after a manner which was not like her usual reserve. "O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick, Lois!" "Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how it goes,-- 'My half day's work is done; And this is all my part-- I give a patient God My patient heart.'" "What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her. "What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the one thing he cares about! That we would love him." "I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart is not patient. It is only tired, and dead." "It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been to Madge and me!" "You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted this morning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. My heart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt's without me, dear. I should not be good company." "But I cannot leave you so!" exclaimed Lois; and she left her seat and sank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand that had taken hers. "Dear Mrs. Barclay, there is help." "If you could give it, there would be, you pretty creature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with her other hand pushing the beautiful masses of red-brown hair right and left from Lois's brow. "But there is One who can give it, who is stronger than I, and loves you better." "What makes you think so?" "Because he has promised. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'" Mrs. Barclay said nothing, but she shook her head. "It is a promise," Lois repeated. "It is a PROMISE. It is the King's promise; and he never breaks his word." "How do you know, my child? You have never been where I am." "No," said Lois, "not there. I have never felt just _so_." "I have had all that life could give. I have had it, and knew I had it. And it is all gone. There is nothing left." "There is this left," said Lois eagerly, "which you have not tried." "What?" "The promise of Christ." "My dear, you do not know what you are talking of. Life is in its spring with you." "But I know the King's promise," said Lois. "How do you know it?" "I have tried it." "But you have never had any occasion to try it, you heart-sound creature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with again a caressing, admiring touch of Lois's brow. "O, but indeed I have. Not in need like yours--I have never touched _that_--I never felt like that; but in other need, as great and as terrible. And I know, and everybody else who has ever tried knows, that the Lord keeps his word." "How have you tried?" Mrs. Barclay asked abstractedly. "I needed the forgiveness of sin," said Lois, letting her voice fall a little, "and deliverance from it." "_You!_" said Mrs. Barclay. "I was as unhappy as anybody could be till I got it." "When was that?" "Four years ago." "Are you much different now from what you were before?" "Entirely." "I cannot imagine you in need of forgiveness. What had you done?" "I had done nothing whatever that I ought to have done. I loved only myself,--I mean _first_,--and lived only to myself and my own pleasure, and did my own will." "Whose will do you now? your grandmother's?" "Not grandmother's first. I do God's will, as far as I know it." "And therefore you think you are forgiven?" "I don't _think_, I know," said Lois, with a quick breath. "And it is not 'therefore' at all; it is because I am covered, or my sin is, with the blood of Christ. And I love him; and he makes me happy." "It is easy to make you happy, dear. To me there is nothing left in the world, nor the possibility of anything. That wind is singing a dirge in my ears; and it sweeps over a desert. A desert where nothing green will grow any more!" The words were spoken very calmly; there was no emotion visible that either threatened or promised tears; a dull, matter-of-fact, perfectly clear and quiet utterance, that almost broke Lois's heart. The water that was denied to the other eyes sprang to her own. "It was in the wilderness that the people were fed with manna," she said, with a great gush of feeling in both heart and voice. "It was when they were starving and had no food, just then, that they got the bread from heaven." "Manna does not fall now-a-days," said Mrs. Barclay with a faint smile. "O yes, it does! There is your mistake, because you do not know. It _does_ come. Look here, Mrs. Barclay--" She sprang up, went for a Bible which lay on one of the tables, and, dropping on her knees again by Mrs. Barclay's side, showed her an open page. "Look here--'I am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst... This is the bread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and not die.' Not die of weariness, nor of anything else." Mrs. Barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words Lois held before her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in her arms, holding her close and laying her own head on Lois's shoulder. Whether the words had moved her, Lois could not tell, or whether it was the power of her own affection and sympathy; Mrs. Barclay did not speak, and Lois did not dare add another word. They were still, wrapped in each other's arms, and one or two of Lois's tears wet the other woman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; until the door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart. "Here's Mr. Midgin," announced the voice of Miss Charity. "Shall he come in? or ain't there time? Of all things, why can't folks choose convenient times for doin' what they have to do! It passes me. It's because it's a sinful world, I suppose. But what shall I tell him? to go about his business, and come New Year's, or next Fourth of July?" "You do not want to see him now?" said Lois hastily. But Mrs. Barclay roused herself, and begged that he might come in. "It is the carpenter, I suppose," said she. Mr. Midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with an undecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddly to his big frame and powerful muscles. He wore his working suit, which hung about him in a flabby way, and entered Mrs. Barclay's room with his hat on. Hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation to the lady. "Good arternoon!" said he. "Sun'thin' I kin do here?" "Yes, Mr. Midgin--I left word for you three days ago," said Lois. "Jest so. I heerd. And here I be. Wall, I never see a room with so many books in it! Lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half as fond of 'em as I be." "You are fond of reading, Mr. Midgin?" said Mrs. Barclay. "Wall, I think so. But what's in 'em all?" He came a step further into the room and picked up a volume from the table. Mrs. Barclay watched him. He opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page, for a minute or two. "'Lamps of Architectur'," said he, looking then at the title-page;--"that's beyond me. The only lamps of architectur that _I_ ever see, in Shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot, by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and 'sacrifice,' and I don' know what all; 'hope' and 'love,' I expect. Wall, them's good lamps to light up anythin' by; only I don't make out whatever they kin have to do with buildin's." He picked up an other volume. "What's this?" said he. "'Tain't _my_ native tongue. What do ye call it, Lois?" "That is French, Mr. Midgin." "That's French, eh?" said he, turning over the leaves. "I want to know! Don't look as though there was any sense in it. What is it about, now?" "It is a story of a man who was king of Rome a great while ago." "King o' Rome! What was his name? Not Romulus and Remus, I s'pose?" "No; but he came just after Romulus." "Did, hey? Then you s'pose there ever _was_ sich a man as Romulus?" "Probably," Mrs. Barclay now said. "When a story gets form and lives, there is generally some thing of fact to serve as foundation for it." "You think that?" said the carpenter. "Wall, I kin tell you stories that had form enough and life enough in 'em, to do a good deal o' work; and that yet grew up out o' nothin' but smoke. There was Governor Denver; he was governor o' this state for quite a spell; and he was a Shampuashuh man, so we all knew him and thought lots o' him. He was sot against drinking. Mebbe you don't think there's no harm in wine and the like?" "I have not been accustomed to think there was any harm in it certainly, unless taken immoderately." "Ay, but how're you goin' to fix what's moderately? there's the pinch. What's a gallon for me's only a pint for you. Wall, Governor Denver didn't believe in havin' nothin' to do with the blamed stuff; and he had taken the pledge agin it, and he was known for an out and out temperance man; teetotal was the word with him. Wall, his daughter was married, over here at New Haven; and they had a grand weddin', and a good many o' the folks was like you, they thought there was no harm in it, if one kept inside the pint, you know; and there was enough for everybody to hev had his gallon. And then they said the Governor had taken his glass to his daughter's health, or something like that. Wall, all Shampuashuh was talkin' about it, and Governor Denver's friends was hangin' their heads, and didn't know what to say; for whatever a man thinks,--and thoughts is free,--he's bound to stand to what he _says_, and particularly if he has taken his oath upon it. So Governor Denver's friends was as worried as a steam-vessel in a fog, when she can't hear the 'larm bells; and one said this and t'other said that. And at last I couldn't stand it no longer; and I writ him a letter--to the Governor; and says I, 'Governor,' says I, '_did_ you drink wine at your daughter Lottie's weddin' at New Haven last month?' And if you'll believe me, he writ me back, 'Jonathan Midgin, Esq. Dear sir, I was in New York the day you mention, shakin' with chills and fever, and never got to Lottie's weddin' at all.'--What do you think o' that? Overturns your theory a leetle, don't it? Warn't no sort o' foundation for that story; and yet it did go round, and folks said it was so." "It is a strong story for your side, Mr. Midgin, undoubtedly." "Ain't it! La! bless you, there's nothin' you kin be sartain of in this world. I don't believe in no Romulus and his wolf. Half o' all these books, now, I have no doubt, tells lies; and the other half, you don' know which 'tis." "I cannot throw them away however, just yet; and so, Mr. Midgin, I want some shelves to keep them off the floor." "I should say you jest did! Where'll you put 'em?" "The shelves? All along that side of the room, I think. And about six feet high." "That'll hold 'em," said Mr. Midgin, as he applied his measuring rule. "Jest shelves? or do you want a bookcase fixed up all reg'lar?" "Just shelves. That is the prettiest bookcase, to my thinking." "That's as folks looks at it," said Mr. Midgin, who apparently was of a different opinion. "What'll they be? Mahogany, or walnut, or cherry, or maple, or pine? You kin stain 'em any colour. One thing's handsome, and another thing's cheap; and I don' know yet whether you want 'em cheap or handsome." "Want 'em both, Mr. Midgin," said Lois. "H'm!-- Well--maybe there's folks that knows how to combine both advantages--but I'm afeard I ain't one of 'em. Nothin' that's cheap's handsome, to my way o' thinkin'. You don't make much count o' cheap things _here_ anyhow," said he, surveying the room. And then he began his measurements, going round the sides of the apartment to apply his rule to all the plain spaces; and Mrs. Barclay noticed how tenderly he handled the books which he had to move out of his way. Now and then he stopped to open one, and stood a minute or two peering into it. All this while his hat was on. "Should like to read that," he remarked, with a volume of Macaulay's Essays in his hands. "That's well written. But a man can't read all the world," he went on, as he laid it out of his hands again. "'Much study is a weariness to the flesh.' Arter all, I don't suppose a man'd be no wiser if he'd read all you've got here. The biggest fool I ever knowed, was the man that had read the most." "How did he show his folly?" Mrs. Barclay asked. "Wall, it's a story. Lois knows. He was dreadfully sot on a little grandchild he had; his chil'n was all dead, and he had jest this one left; she was a little girl. And he never left her out o' his sight, nor she him; until one day he had to go to Boston for some business; and he couldn't take her; and he said he knowed some harm'd come. Do you believe in presentiments." "Sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay. "How should a man have presentiments o' what's comin'?" "I cannot answer that." "No, nor nobody else. It ain't reason. I believe the presentiments makes the things come." "Was that the case in this instance?" "Wall, I don't see how it could. When he come back from Boston, the little girl was dead; but she was as well as ever when he went away. Ain't that curious?" "Certainly; if it is true." "I'm tellin' you nothin' but the truth. The hull town knows it. 'Tain't no secret. 'Twas old Mr. Roderick, you know, Lois; lived up yonder on the road to the ferry. And after he come back from the funeral he shut himself up in the room where his grandchild had been--and nobody ever see him no more from that day, 'thout 'twas the folks in the house; and there warn't many o' them; but he never went out. An' he never went out for seven years; and at the end o' seven years he _had_ to--there was money in it--and folks that won't mind nothin' else, they minds Mammon, you know; so he went out. An' as soon as he was out o' the house, his women-folks, they made a rush for his room, fur to clean it; for, if you'll believe me, it hadn't been cleaned all those years; and I expect 'twas in a condition; but the women likes nothin' better; and as they opened some door or other, of a closet or that, out runs a little white mouse, and it run clear off; they couldn't catch it any way, and they tried every way. It was gone, and they were scared, for they knowed the old gentleman's ways. It wasn't a closet either it was in, but some piece o' furniture; I'm blessed ef I can remember what they called it. The mouse was gone, and the women-folks was scared; and to be sure, when Mr. Roderick come home he went as straight as a line to that there door where the mouse was; and they say he made a terrible rumpus when he couldn't find it; but arter that the spell was broke, like; and he lived pretty much as other folks. Did you say six feet?" "That will be high enough. And you may leave a space of eight or ten feet on that side, from window to window." "Thout any?" "Yes." "That'll be kind o' lop-sided, won't it? I allays likes to see things samely. What'll you do with all that space of emptiness? It'll look awful bare." "I will put something else there. What do you suppose the white mouse had to do with your old gentleman's seclusion?" "Seclusion? Livin' shut up, you mean? Why, don't ye see, he believed the mouse was the sperrit o' the child--leastways the sperrit o' the child was in it. You see, when he got back from the funeral the first thing his eyes lit upon was that ere white mouse; and it was white, you see, and that ain't a common colour for a mouse; and it got into his head, and couldn't get out, that that was Ella's sperrit. It mought ha' ben, for all I can say; but arter that day, it was gone." "You think the child's spirit might have been in the mouse?" "Who knows? I never say nothin' I don't know, nor deny nothin' I _du_ know; ain't that a good principle?" "But you know better than that, Mr. Midgin," said Lois. "Wall, I don't! Maybe you do, Lois; but accordin' to my lights I _don't_ know. You'll hev 'em walnut, won't you? that'll look more like furniture." "Are you coming? The waggon's here, Lois," said Madge, opening the door. "Is Mrs. Barclay ready?" "Will be in two minutes," replied that lady. "Yes, Mr. Midgin, let them be walnut; and good evening! Yes, Lois, I am quite roused up now, and I will go with you. I will walk, dear; I prefer it." CHAPTER XXV. ROAST PIG. Mrs. Barclay seemed to have entirely regained her usual composure and even her usual spirits, which indeed were never high. She said she enjoyed the walk, which she and Lois took in company, Madge having gone with her grandmother and Charity in Mrs. Marx's waggon. The winter evening was falling grey, and the grey was growing dark; and there was something in the dusky stillness, and soft, half-defined lines of the landscape, with the sharp, crisp air, which suited the mood of both ladies. The stars were not visible yet; the western horizon had still a glow left from the sunset; and houses and trees stood like dark solemn ghosts along the way before the end of the walk was reached. They talked hardly at all, but Mrs. Barclay said when she got to Mrs. Marx's, that the walk had been delightful. At Mrs. Marx's all was in holiday perfection of order; though that was the normal condition of things, indeed, where that lady ruled. The paint of the floors was yellow and shining; the carpets were thick and bright; the table was set with great care; the great chimney in the upper kitchen where the supper was prepared, was magnificent with its blazing logs. So was a lesser fireplace in the best parlour, where the guests were first received; but supper was ready, and they adjourned to the next room. There the table invited them most hospitably, loaded with dainties such as people in the country can get at Christmas time. One item of the entertainment not usual at Christmas time was a roast pig; its brown and glossy back making a very conspicuous object at one side of the board. "I thought I'd surprise you all," remarked the satisfied hostess; for she knew the pig was done to a turn; "and anything you don't expect tastes twice as good. I knew ma' liked pig better'n anything; and I think myself it's about the top sheaf. I suppose nothin' can be a surprise to Mrs. Barclay." "Why do you suppose so?" asked that lady. "I thought you'd seen everything there was in the world, and a little more." "Never saw a roast pig before in my life. But I have read of them." "Read of them!" exclaimed their hostess. "In a cook-book, likely?" "Alas! I never read a cook-book." "No more didn't I; but you'll excuse me, I didn't believe you carried it all in your head, like we folks." "I have not a bit of it in my head, if you mean the art of cookery. I have a profound respect for it; but I know nothing about it whatever." "Well, you're right to have a respect for it. Uncle Tim, do you just give Mrs. Barclay some of the best of that pig, and let us see how she likes it. And the stuffing, uncle Tim, and the gravy; and plenty of the crackle. Mother, it's done just as you used to do it." Mrs. Barclay meanwhile surveyed the company. Mrs. Armadale sat at the end of the table; placid and pleasant as always, though to Mrs. Barclay her aspect had somewhat of the severe. She did not smile much, yet she looked kindly over her assembled children. Uncle Tim was her brother; Uncle Tim Hotchkiss. He had the so frequent New England mingling of the shrewd and the benevolent in his face; and he was a much more jolly personage than his sister; younger than she, too, and still vigorous. Unlike her, also, he was a handsome man; had been very handsome in his young days; and, as Mrs. Barclay's eye roved over the table, she thought few could show a better assemblage of comeliness than was gathered round this one. Madge was strikingly handsome in her well-fitting black dress; Lois made a very plain brown stuff seem resplendent; she had a little fleecy white woollen shawl wound about her shoulders, and Mrs. Barclay could hardly keep her eyes away from the girl. And if the other members of the party were less beautiful in feature, they had every one of them in a high degree the stamp of intellect and of character. Mrs. Barclay speculated upon the strange society in which she found herself; upon the odd significance of her being there; and on the possible outcome, weighty and incalculable, of the connection of the two things. So intently that she almost forgot what she was eating, and she started at Mrs. Marx's sudden question--"Well, how do you like it? Charity, give Mrs. Barclay some pickles--what she likes; there's sweet pickle, that's peaches; and sharp pickle, that's red cabbage; and I don' know which of 'em she likes best; and give her some apple--have you got any apple sauce, Mrs. Barclay?" "Thank you, everything; and everything is delicious." "That's how things are gen'ally, in Mrs. Marx's hands," remarked uncle Tim. "There ain't her beat for sweets and sours in all the country." "Mrs. Barclay's accustomed to another sort o' doings," said their hostess. "I didn't know but she mightn't like our ways." "I like them very much, I assure you." "There ain't no better ways than Shampuashuh ways," said uncle Tim. "If there be, I'd like to see 'em once. Lois, you never see a handsomer dinner'n this in New York, did you? Come now, and tell. _Did_ you?" "I never saw a dinner where things were better of their kind, uncle Tim." Mrs. Barclay smiled to herself. That will do, she thought. "Is that an answer?" said uncle Tim. "I'll be shot if I know." "It is as good an answer as I can give," returned Lois, smiling. "Of course she has seen handsomer!" said Mrs. Marx. "If you talk of elegance, we don't pretend to it in Shampuashuh. Be thankful if what you have got is good, uncle Tim; and leave the rest." "Well, I don't understand," responded uncle Tim. "Why shouldn't Shampuashuh be elegant, I don't see? Ain't this elegant enough for anybody?" "'Tain't elegant at all," said Mrs. Marx. "If this was in one o' the elegant places, there'd be a bunch o' flowers in the pig's mouth, and a ring on his tail." At the face which uncle Tim made at this, Lois's gravity gave way; and a perfect echo of laughter went round the table. "Well, I don' know what you're all laughin' at nor what you mean," said the object of their merriment; "but I should uncommonly like to know." "Tell him, Lois," cried Madge, "what a dinner in New York is like. You never did tell him." "Well, I'm ready to hear," said the old gentleman. "I thought a dinner was a dinner; but I'm willin' to learn." "Tell him, Lois!" Madge repeated. "It would be very stupid for Mrs. Barclay," Lois objected. "On the contrary!" said that lady. "I should very much like to hear your description. It is interesting to hear what is familiar to us described by one to whom it is novel. Go on, Lois." "I'll tell you of one dinner, uncle Tim," said Lois, after a moment of consideration. "_All_ dinners in New York, you must understand, are not like this; this was a grand dinner." "Christmas eve?" suggested uncle Tim. "No. I was not there at Christmas; this was just a party. There were twelve at table. "In the first place, there was an oval plate of looking-glass, as long as this table--not quite so broad--that took up the whole centre of the table." Here Lois was interrupted. "Looking-glass!" cried uncle Tim. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" said Charity. "Looking-glass to set the hot dishes on?" said Mrs. Marx, to whom this story seemed new. "No; not to set anything on. It took up the whole centre of the table. Round the edge of this looking-glass, all round, was a border or little fence of solid silver, about six or eight inches high; of beautiful wrought open-work; and just within this silver fence, at intervals, stood most exquisite little white marble statues, about a foot and a half high. There must have been a dozen of them; and anything more beautiful than the whole thing was, you cannot imagine." "I should think they'd have been awfully in the way," remarked Charity. "Not at all; there was room enough all round outside for the plates and glasses." "The looking-glass, I suppose, was for the pretty ladies to see themselves in!" "Quite mistaken, uncle Tim; one could not see the reflection of oneself; only bits of one's opposite neighbours; little flashes of colour here and there; and the reflection of the statuettes on the further side; it was prettier than ever you can think." "I reckon it must ha' been; but I don't see the use of it," said uncle Tim. "That wasn't all," Lois went on. "Everybody had his own salt-cellar." "Table must ha' been full, I should say." "No, it was not full at all; there was plenty of room for everything, and that allowed every pretty thing to be seen. And those salt-cellars were a study. They were delicious little silver figures--every one different from the others--and each little figure presented the salt in something. Mine was a little girl, with her apron all gathered up, as if to hold nuts or apples, and the salt was in her apron. The one next to her was a market-woman with a flat basket on her head, and the salt was in the basket. Another was a man bowing, with his hat in his hand; the salt was in the hat. I could not see them all, but each one seemed prettier than the other. One was a man standing by a well, with a bucket drawn up, but full of salt, not water. A very pretty one was a milkman with a pail." Uncle Tim was now reduced to silence, but Charity remarked that she could not understand where the dishes were--the dinner. "It was somewhere else. It was not on the table at all. The waiters brought the things round. There were six waiters, handsomely dressed in black, and with white silk gloves." "White silk gloves!" echoed Charity. "Well, I _do_ think the way some people live is just a sin and a shame!" "How did you know what there was for dinner?" inquired Mrs. Marx now. "I shouldn't like to make my dinner of boiled beef, if there was partridges comin'. And when there's plum-puddin' I always like to know it beforehand." "We knew everything beforehand, aunt Anne. There were beautifully painted little pieces of white silk on everybody's plate, with all the dishes named; only many, most of them, were French names, and I was none the wiser for them." "Can't they call good victuals by English names?" asked uncle Tim. "What's the sense o' that? How was anybody to know what he was eatin'?" "O they all knew," said Lois. "Except me." "I'll bet you were the only sensible one o' the lot," said the old gentleman. "Then at every plate there was a beautiful cut glass bottle, something like a decanter, with ice water, and over the mouth of it a tumbler to match. Besides that, there were at each plate five or six other goblets or glasses, of different colours." "What colours?" demanded Charity. "Yellow, and dark red, and green, and white." "What were _they_ all for?" asked uncle Tim. "Wine; different sorts of wine." "Different sorts o' wine! How many sorts did they have, at one dinner?" "I cannot tell you. I do not know. A great many." "Did you drink any, Lois?" "No, aunt Anne." "I suppose they thought you were a real country girl, because you didn't?" "Nobody thought anything about it. The servants brought the wine; everybody did just as he pleased about taking it." "What did you have to eat, Lois, with so much to drink?" asked her elder sister. "More than I can tell, Charity. There must have been a dozen large dishes, at each end of the table, besides the soup and the fish; and no end of smaller dishes." "For a dozen people!" cried Charity. "I suppose it's because I don't know anythin'," said Mr. Hotchkiss,--"but I always _du_ hate to see a whole lot o' things before me more'n I can eat!" "It's downright wicked waste, that's what I call it," said Mrs. Marx; "but I s'pose that's because I don't know anythin'." "And you like that sort o' way better 'n this 'n?" inquired uncle Tim of Lois. "I said no more than that it was prettier, uncle Tim." "But _du_ ye?" Lois's eye met involuntarily Mrs. Barclay's for an instant, and she smiled. "Uncle Tim, I think there is something to be said on both sides." "There ain't no sense on that side." "There is some prettiness; and I like prettiness." "Prettiness won't butter nobody's bread. Mother, you've let Lois go once too often among those city folks. She's nigh about sp'iled for a Shampuashuh man now." "Perhaps a Shampuashuh man will not get her," said Mrs. Barclay mischievously. "Who else is to get her?" cried Mrs. Marx. "We're all o' one sort here; and there's hardly a man but what's respectable, and very few that ain't more or less well-to-do; but we all work and mean to work, and we mostly all know our own mind. I do despise a man who don't do nothin', and who asks other folks what he's to think!" "That sort of person is not held in very high esteem in any society, I believe," said Mrs. Barclay courteously; though she was much amused, and was willing for her own reasons that the talk should go a little further. Therefore she spoke. "Well, idleness breeds 'em," said the other lady. "But who respects them?" "The world'll respect anybody, even a man that goes with his hands in his pockets, if he only can fetch 'em out full o' money. There was such a feller hangin' round Appledore last summer. My! didn't he try my patience!" "Appledore?" said Lois, pricking up her ears. "Yes; there was a lot of 'em." "People who did not know their own minds?" Mrs. Barclay asked, purposely and curiously. "Well, no, I won't say that of all of 'em. There was some of 'em knew their own minds a'most _too_ well; but he warn't one. He come to me once to help him out; and I filled his pipe for him, and sent him to smoke it." "Aunt Anne!" said Lois, drawing up her pretty figure with a most unwonted assumption of astonished dignity. Both the dignity and the astonishment drew all eyes upon her. She was looking at Mrs. Marx with eyes full of startled displeasure. Mrs. Marx was entrenched behind a whole army of coffee and tea pots and pitchers, and answered coolly. "Yes, I did. What is it to you? Did he come to _you_ for help too?" "I do not know whom you are talking of." "Oh!" said Mrs. Marx. "I thought you _did_. Before I'd have you marry such a soft feller as that, I'd--I'd shoot him!" There was some laughter, but Lois did not join in it, and with heightened colour was attending very busily to her supper. "Was the poor man looking that way?" asked Mrs. Barclay. "He was lookin' two ways," said Mrs. Marx; "and when a man's doin' that, he don't fetch up nowhere, you bet. I'd like to know what becomes of him! They were all of the sort Lois has been tellin' of; thought a deal o' 'prettiness.' I do think, the way some people live, is a way to shame the flies; and I don't know nothin' in creation more useless than they be!" Mrs. Marx could speak better English, but the truth was, when she got much excited she forgot her grammar. "But at a watering-place," remarked Mrs. Barclay, "you do not expect people to show their useful side. They are out for play and amusement." "I can play too," said the hostess; "but my play always has some meaning to it. Did I tell you, mother, what that lady was doing?" "I thought you were speaking of a gentleman," said quiet Mrs. Armadale. "Well, there was a lady too; and she was doin' a piece o' work. It was a beautiful piece of grey satin; thick and handsome as you ever see; and she was sewin' gold thread upon it with fine gold-coloured silk; fine gold thread; and it went one way straight and another way round, curling and crinkling, like nothin' on earth but a spider's web; all over the grey satin. I watched her a while, and then, says I, 'What are you doin', if you please? I've been lookin' at you, and I can't make out.' 'No,' says she, 'I s'pose not. It's a cover for a bellows.' 'For a _what?_' says I. 'For a bellows,' says she; 'a _bellows_, to blow the fire with. Don't you know what they are?' 'Yes,' says I; 'I've seen a fire bellows before now; but in our part o' the country we don't cover 'em with satin.' 'No,' says she, 'I suppose not.' 'I would just like to ask one more question,' says I. 'Well, you may,' says she; 'what is it?' 'I would just like to know,' says I, 'what the fire is made of that you blow with a satin and gold bellows?' And she laughed a little. ' 'Cause,' says I, 'it ought to be somethin' that won't soil a kid glove and that won't give out no sparks nor smoke.' 'O,' says she, 'nobody really blows the fire; only the bellows have come into fashion, along with the _fire-dogs_, wherever people have an open fireplace and a wood fire.' Well, what she meant by fire dogs I couldn't guess; but I thought I wouldn't expose any more o' my ignorance. Now, mother, how would you like to have Lois in a house like that?--where people don't know any better what to do with their immortal lives than to make satin covers for bellows they don't want to blow the fire with! and dish up dinner enough for twelve people, to feed a hundred?" "Lois will never be in a house like that," responded the old lady contentedly. "Then it's just as well if you keep her away from the places where they make so much of _prettiness_, I can tell you. Lois is human." "Lois is Christian," said Mrs. Armadale; "and she knows her duty." "Well, it's heart-breakin' work, to know one's duty, sometimes," said Mrs. Marx. "But you do not think, I hope, that one is a pattern for all?" said Mrs. Barclay. "There are exceptions; it is not everybody in the great world that lives to no purpose." "If that's what you call the great world, _I_ call it mighty small, then. If I didn't know anything better to do with myself than to work sprangles o' gold on a satin cover that warn't to cover nothin', I'd go down to Fairhaven and hire myself out to open oysters! and think I made by the bargain. Anyhow, I'd respect myself better." "I don't know what you mean by the great world," said uncle Tim. "Be there two on 'em--a big and a little?" "Don't you see, all Shampuashuh would go in one o' those houses Lois was tellin' about! and if it got there, I expect they wouldn't give it house-room." "The worlds are not so different as you think," Mrs. Barclay went on courteously. "Human nature is the same everywhere." "Well, I guess likely," responded Mrs. Marx. "Mother, if you've done, we'll go into the other." CHAPTER XXVI. SCRUPLES. The next day was Christmas; but in the country of Shampuashuh, Christmas, though a holiday, was not held in so high regard as it receives in many other quarters of the earth. There was no service in the church; and after dinner Lois came as usual to draw in Mrs. Barclay's room. "I did not understand some of your aunt's talk last evening," Mrs. Barclay remarked after a while. "I am not surprised at that," said Lois. "Did you?" "O yes. I understand aunt Anne." "Does she really think that _all_ the people who like pretty things, lead useless lives?" "She does not care so much about pretty things as I do," said Lois slightly. "But does she think all who belong to the 'great world' are evil? given up to wickedness?" "Not so bad as that," Lois answered, smiling; "but naturally aunt Anne does not understand any world but this of Shampuashuh." "I understood her to assume that under no circumstances could you marry one of the great world she was talking of?" "Well," said Lois, "I suppose she thinks that one of them would not be a Christian." "You mean, an enthusiast." "No," said Lois; "but I mean, and she means, one who is in heart a true servant of Christ. He might, or he might not, be enthusiastic." "And would you marry no one who was not a Christian, as you understand the word?" "The Bible forbids it," said Lois, her colour rising a little. "The Bible forbids it? I have not studied the Bible like you; but I have heard it read from the pulpit all my life; and I never heard, either from the pulpit or out of it, such an idea, as that one who is a Christian may not marry one who is not." "I can show you the command--in more places than one," said Lois. "I wish you would." Lois left her drawing and fetched a Bible. "It is forbidden in the Old Testament and in the New," she said; "but I will show you a place in the New. Here it is--in the second Epistle to the Corinthians--'Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers;' and it goes on to give the reason." "Unbelievers! But those, in that day, were heathen." "Yes," said Lois simply, going on with her drawing. "There are no heathen now,--not here." "I suppose that makes no difference. It is the party which will not obey and serve Christ; and which is working against him. In that day they worshipped idols of wood and stone; now they worship a different sort. They do not worship _him;_ and there are but two parties." "No neutrals?" "No. The Bible says not." "But what is being 'yoked together'? what do you understand is forbidden by that? Marriage?" "Any connection, I suppose," said Lois, looking up, "in which two people are forced to pull together. You know what a 'yoke' is?" "And you can smile at that, you wicked girl?" Lois laughed now. "Why not?" she said. "I have not much fancy for putting my head in a yoke at all; but a yoke where the two pull different ways must be very miserable!" "You forget; you might draw somebody else to go the right way." "That would depend upon who was the strongest." "True," said Mrs. Barclay. "But, my dear Lois! you do not suppose that a man cannot belong to the world and yet be what you call a Christian? That would be very uncharitable." "I do not want to be uncharitable," said Lois. "Mrs. Barclay, it is _extremely_ difficult to mark the foliage of different sorts of trees!" "Yes, but you are making a very good beginning. Lois, do you know, you are fitting to be the wife of just one of that world you are condemning-cultivated, polished, full of accomplishments and graces, and fine and refined tastes." "Then he would be very dangerous," said Lois, "if he were not a Christian. He might have all that, and yet be a Christian too." "Suppose he were not; would you refuse him?" "I hope I should," said Lois. But her questioner noticed that this answer was soberly given. That evening she wrote a letter to Mr. Dillwyn. "I am enjoying the most delightful rest," the letter said, "that I have known for a very long time; yet I have a doubt whether I ought to confess it; whether I ought not to declare myself tired of Shampuashuh, and throw up my cards. I feel a little like an honest swindler, using your money, not on false pretences, but on a foregone case. I should _never_ get tired of the place or the people. Everyone of them, indeed almost every one that I see, is a character; and here, where there is less varnish, the grain of the wood shows more plainly. I have had a most original carpenter here to measure for my book-shelves, only yesterday; for my room is running over with books. Not only everybody is a character, but nearly everybody has a good mixture of what is admirable in his composition; and as for these two girls--well, I am even more in love than you are, Philip. The elder is the handsomer, perhaps; she is very handsome; but your favourite is my favourite. Lois is lovely. There is a strange, fresh, simple, undefinable charm about the girl that makes one her captive. Even me, a woman. She wins upon me daily with her sweet unconscious ways. But nevertheless I am uneasy when I remember what I am here for, and what you are expecting. I fear I am acting the part of an innocent swindler, as I said; little better. "In one way there is no disappointment to be looked for. These girls are both gifted with a great capacity and aptitude for mental growth. Lois especially, for she cares more to go into the depths of things; but both of them grow fast, and I can see the change almost from day to day. Tastes are waking up, and eager for gratification; there is no limit to the intellectual hunger or the power of assimilation; the winter is one of very great enjoyment to them (as to me!), and there is, and that has been from the first, a refinement of manner which surprised me, but that too is growing. And yet, with all this, which promises so much, there is another element which threatens discomfiture to our hopes. I must not conceal it from you. These people are regular Puritans. They think now, in this age of the world, to regulate their behaviour entirely by the Bible. You are of a different type; and I am persuaded that the whole family would regard an alliance with a man like you as an unlawful thing; ay, though he were a prince or a Rothschild, it would make no difference in their view of the thing. For here is independence, pure and absolute. The family is very poor; they are glad of the money I pay them; but they would not bend their heads before the prestige of wealth, or do what they think wrong to gain any human favour or any earthly advantage. And Lois is like the rest; quite as firm; in fact, some of these gentlewomen have a power of saying 'no' which is only a little less than fearful. I cannot tell what love would do; but I do not believe it would break down her principle. We had a talk lately on this very subject; she was very firm. "I think I ought not to conceal from you that I have doubts on another question. We were at a family supper party last night at an aunt's house. She is a character too; a kind of a grenadier of a woman, in nature, not looks. The house and the entertainment were very interesting to me; the mingling of things was very striking, that one does not expect to find in connection. For instance, the appointments of the table were, as of course they would be, of no pretension to style or elegance; clumsily comfortable, was all you could say. And the cooking was delicately fine. Then, manners and language were somewhat lacking in polish, to put it mildly; and the tone of thought and the qualities of mind and character exhibited were very far above what I have heard often in circles of great pretension. Once the conversation got upon the contrasting ways of life in this society and in what is called the world; the latter, I confess to you, met with some hard treatment; and the idea was rejected with scorn that one of the girls should ever be tempted out of her own sphere into the other. All this is of no consequence; but what struck me was a hint or two that Lois _had been_ tempted; and a pretty plain assertion that this aunt, who it seems was at Appledore last summer nursing Mrs. Wishart, had received some sort of overture or advance on Lois's behalf, and had rejected it. This was evidently news to Lois; and she showed so much startled displeasure--in her face, for she said almost nothing--that the suspicion was forced upon me, there might have been more in the matter than the aunt knew. Who was at Appledore? a friend of yours, was it not? and are you _sure_ he did not gain some sort of lien upon this heart which you are so keen to win? I owe it to you to set you upon this inquiry; for if I know anything of the girl, she is as true and as unbending as steel. What she holds she will hold; what she loves she will love, I believe, to the end. So, before we go any further, let us find whether we have ground to go on. No, I would not have you come here at present. Not in any case; and certainly not in this uncertain'ty. You are too wise to wish it." Whether Philip were too wise to wish it, he was too wise to give the rein to his wishes. He stayed in New York all winter, contenting himself with sending to Shampuashuh every imaginable thing that could make Mrs. Barclay's life there pleasant, or help her to make it useful to her two young friends. A fine Chickering piano arrived between Christmas and New Year's day, and was set up in the space left for it between the bookshelves. Books continued to flow in; books of all sorts--science and art, history and biography, poetry and general literature. And Lois would have developed into a bookworm, had not the piano exercised an almost equal charm upon her. Listening to Mrs. Barclay's music at first was an absorbing pleasure; then Mrs. Barclay asked casually one day "Shall I teach you?" "O, you could not!" was Lois's answer, given with a breath and a flush of excitement. "Let us try," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "You might learn at least enough to accompany yourself. I have never heard your voice. Have you a voice?" "I do not know what you would call a voice," said Lois, smiling. "But you sing?" "Hymns. Nothing else." "Have you a hymn-book? with music, I mean?" Lois brought one. Mrs. Barclay played the accompaniment of a familiar hymn, and Lois sang. "My dear," exclaimed the former when she had done, "that is delicious!" "Is it?" "Your voice is very fine; it has a peculiar and uncommon richness. You must let me train that voice." "I should like to sing hymns as well as I _can_," Lois answered, flushing somewhat. "You would like to sing other things, too." "Songs?" "Yes. Some songs are beautiful." "I never liked much those I have heard." "Why not?" "They seemed rather foolish." "Did they! The choice must have been unfortunate. Where did you hear them?" "In New York. In company there. The voices were sometimes delightful; but the words--" "Well, the words?" "I wondered how they could like to sing them. There was nothing in them but nonsense." "You are a very severe critic!" "No," said Lois deprecatingly; "but I think hymns are so much better." "Well, we will see. Songs are not the first thing; your voice must be trained." So a new element came into the busy life of that winter; and music now made demands on time and attention which Lois found it a little difficult to meet, without abridging the long reading hours and diligent studies to which she had hitherto been giving all her spare time. But the piano was so alluring! And every morsel of real music that Mrs. Barclay touched was so entrancing to Lois. To Lois; Madge did not care about it, except for the wonder of seeing Mrs. Barclay's fingers fly over the keys; and Charity took quite a different view again. "Mother," she said one evening to the old lady, whom they often called so, "don't it seem to you that Lois is gettin' turned round?" "How, my dear?" "Well, it ain't like the Lois we used to have. She's rushin' at books from morning to night, or scritch-scratching on a slate; and the rest o' the time she's like nothin' but the girl in the song, that had 'bells on her fingers and rings on her toes.' I hear that piano-forty going at all hours; it's tinkle, tinkle, every other thing. What's the good of all that?" "What's the _harm?_" said Lois. "What's she doin' it for, that woman? One 'ud think she had come here just on purpose to teach Madge and you; for she don't do anything else. What's it all for? that's what I'd like to be told." "I'm sure she's very kind," said Madge. "Mother, do you like it?" "What is the harm in what we are doing, Charity?" asked her younger sister. "If a thing ain't good it's always harm!" "But these things are good." "Maybe good for some folks; they ain't good for you." "I wish you would say 'are not,'" said Lois. "There!" said Charity. "There it is! You're pilin' one thing on top of another, till your head won't stand it; and the house won't be high enough for you by and by. All these ridiculous ways, of people that think themselves too nice for common things! and you've lived all your life among common things, and are going to live all your life among them. And, mother, all this French and music will just make Lois discontented. You see if it don't." "Do I act discontented?" Lois asked, with a pleasant smile. "Does she leave any of her work for you to do, Charity?" said Madge. "Wait till the spring opens and garden must be made," said Charity. "I should never think of leaving _that_ to you to do, Charity," said Lois, laughing. "We should have a poor chance of a garden." "Mother, I wish you'd stop it." Mrs. Armadale said, however, nothing at the time. But the next chance she had when she and her youngest granddaughter were alone, she said, "Lois, are you in danger of lettin' your pleasure make you forget your duty?" "I hope not, grandmother. I do not think it. I take these things to be duty. I think one ought always to learn anything one has an opportunity of learning." "One thing is needful," said the old lady doubtfully. "Yes, grandmother. I do not forget that." "You don't want to learn the ways of the world, Lois?" "No, grandmother." CHAPTER XXVII. PEAS AND RADISHES. Mr. Dillwyn, as I said, did not come near Shampuashuh. He took his indemnification in sending all sorts of pleasant things. Papers and magazines overflowed, flowed over into Mrs. Marx's hands, and made her life rich; flowed over again into Mr. Hotchkiss's hands, and embroidered his life for him. Mr. Dillwyn sent fruit; foreign fruit, strange and delicious, which it was a sort of education even to eat, bringing one nearer to the countries so far and unknown, where it grew. He sent music; and if some of it passed under Lois's ban as "nonsense," that was not the case with the greater part. "She has a marvellous true appreciation of what is fine," Mrs. Barclay wrote; "and she rejects with an accuracy which surprises me, all that is merely pretty and flashy. There are some bits of Handel that have great power over the girl; she listens to them, I might almost say, devoutly, and is never weary. Madge is delighted with Rossini; but Lois gives her adherence to the German classics, and when I play Haydn or Mozart or Mendelssohn, stands rapt in her delighted listening, and looking like--well, I will not tantalize you by trying to describe to you what I see every day. I marvel only where the girl got these tastes and susceptibilities; it must be blood; I believe in inheritance. She has had until now no training or experience; but your bird is growing her wings fast now, Philip. If you can manage to cage her! Natures hereabout are not tame, by any means." Mr. Dillwyn, I believe I mentioned, sent engravings and exquisite photographs; and these almost rivalled Haydn and Mozart in Lois's mind. For various reasons, Mrs. Barclay sought to make at least this source of pleasure common to the whole family; and would often invite them all into her room, or carry her portfolio out into their general sitting-room, and display to the eyes of them all the views of foreign lands; cities, castles and ruins, palaces and temples, Swiss mountains and Scotch lochs, Paris Boulevards and Venetian canals, together with remains of ancient art and works of modern artists; of all which Philip sent an unbounded number and variety. These evenings were unendingly curious to Mrs. Barclay. Comment was free, and undoubtedly original, whatever else might be said of it; and character, and the habit of life of her audience, were unconsciously revealed to her. Intense curiosity and eagerness for information were observable in them all; but tastes, and the power of apprehension and receptiveness towards new and strange ideas, and the judgment passed upon things, were very different in the different members of the group. These exhibitions had further one good effect, not unintended by the exhibitor; they brought the whole family somewhat in tone with the new life to which two of its members were rising. It was not desirable that Lois should be too far in advance of her people, or rather that they should be too far behind her. The questions propounded to Mrs. Barclay on these occasions, and the elucidations she found it desirable to give without questions, transformed her part into that of a lecturer; and the end of such an evening would find her tired with her exertions, yet well repaid for them. The old grandmother manifested great curiosity, great admiration, with frequently an expression of doubt or disapproval; and very often a strange, slight, inexpressible air of one who felt herself to belong to a different world, to which all these things were more or less foreign. Charity showed also intense eagerness and curiosity, and inquisitiveness; and mingled with those, a very perceptible flavour of incredulity or of disdain, the latter possibly born of envy. But Lois and Madge were growing with every journey to distant lands, and every new introduction to the great works of men's hands, of every kind and of every age. After receiving that letter of Mrs. Barclay's mentioned in the last chapter, Philip Dillwyn would immediately have attacked Tom Caruthers again on the question of his liking for Miss Lothrop, to find out whether possibly there were any the least foundation for Mrs. Barclay's scruples and fears. But it was no longer in his power. The Caruthers family had altered their plans; and instead of going abroad in the spring, had taken their departure with the first of December, after an impromptu wedding of Julia to her betrothed. Mr. Dillwyn did not seriously believe that there was anything his plan had to fear from this side; nevertheless he preferred not to move in the dark; and he waited. Besides, he must allow time for the work he had sent Mrs. Barclay to do; to hurry matters would be to spoil everything; and it was much better on every ground that he should keep away from Shampuashuh. As I said, he busied himself with Shampuashuh affairs all he could, and wore out the winter as he best might; which was not very satisfactorily. And when spring came he resolutely carried out his purpose, and sailed for Europe. Till at least a year had gone by he would not try to see Lois; Mrs. Barclay should have a year at least to push her beneficent influence and bring her educational efforts to some visible result; he would keep away; but it would be much easier to keep away if the ocean lay between them, and he went to Florence and northern Italy and the Adriatic. Meanwhile the winter had "flown on soft wings" at Shampuashuh. Every day seemed to be growing fuller and richer than its predecessors; every day Lois and Madge were more eager in the search after knowledge, and more ready for the reception of it. A change was going on in them, so swift that Mrs. Barclay could almost see it from day to day. Whether others saw it I cannot tell; but Mrs. Marx shook her head in the fear of it, and Charity opined that the family "might whistle for a garden, and for butter and cheese next summer." Precious opportunity of winter days, when no gardening nor dairy work was possible! and blessed long nights and mornings, after sunset and before sunrise, when no housework of any sort put in claims upon the leisure of the two girls. There were no interruptions from without. In Shampuashuh, society could not be said to flourish. Beyond an occasional "sewing society" meeting, and a much more rare gathering for purely social purposes, nothing more than a stray caller now and then broke the rich quiet of those winter days; the time for a tillage, and a sowing, and a growth far beyond in preciousness all "the precious things put forth by the sun" in the more genial time of the year. But days began to become longer, nevertheless, as the weeks went on; and daylight was pushing those happy mornings and evenings into lesser and lesser compass; and snow quite disappeared from the fields, and buds began to swell on the trees and take colour, and airs grew more gentle in temperature; though I am bound to say there is a sharpness sometimes in the nature of a Shampuashuh spring, that quite outdoes all the greater rigours of the winter that has gone. "The frost is out of the ground!" said Lois one day to her friend. "Well," said Mrs. Barclay innocently; "I suppose that is a good thing." Lois went on with her drawing, and made no answer. But soon Mrs. Barclay began to perceive that less reading and studying were done; or else some drawing lingered on its way towards completion; and the deficits became more and more striking. At last she demanded the reason. "O," said Madge, "the cows have come in, and I have a good deal to do in the dairy now; it takes up all my mornings. I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do! but the milk must be seen to, and the butter churned, and then worked over; and it takes time, Mrs. Barclay." "And Lois?" "O, Lois is making garden." "Making garden!" "Yes; O, she always does it. It's her particular part of the business. We all do a little of everything; but the garden is Lois's special province, and the dairy mine, and Charity takes the cooking and the sewing. O, we all do our own sewing, and we all do grandmother's sewing; only Charity takes head in that department." "What does Lois do in the garden?" "O, everything. We get somebody to plough it up in the fall; and in the spring we have it dug over; but all the rest she does. We have a good garden too," said Madge, smiling. "And these things take your morning and her morning?" "Yes, indeed; I should think they did. Rather!" Mrs. Barclay held her peace then, and for some time afterwards. The spring came on, the days became soft and lovely, after March had blown itself out; the trees began to put forth leaves, the blue-birds were darting about, like skyey messengers; robins were whistling, and daffodils were bursting, and grass was green. One lovely warm morning, when everything without seemed beckoning to her, Mrs. Barclay threw on a shawl and hat, and made her way out to the old garden, which up to this day she had never entered. She found the great wide enclosure looking empty and bare enough. The two or three old apple trees hung protectingly over the wooden bench in the middle, their branches making pretty tracery against the tender, clear blue of the sky; but no shade was there. The branches only showed a little token of swelling and bursting buds, which indeed softened in a lovely manner the lines of their interlacing network, and promised a plenty of green shadow by and by. No shadow was needed at present, for the sun was too gentle; its warmth was welcome, and beneficent, and kindly. The old cherry tree in the corner was beginning to open its wealth of white blossoms; everywhere else the bareness and brownness of winter was still reigning, only excepting the patches of green turf around the boles and under the spreading boughs of the trees here and there. The garden was no garden, only a spread of soft, up-turned brown loam. It looked a desolate place to Mrs. Barclay. In the midst of it, the one point of life and movement was Lois. She was in a coarse, stout stuff dress, short, and tucked up besides, to keep it out of the dirt. Her hands were covered with coarse, thick gloves, her head with a little old straw hat. At the moment Mrs. Barclay came up, she was raking a patch of ground which she had carefully marked out, and bounded with a trampled footway; she was bringing it with her rake into a condition of beautiful level smoothness, handling her tool with light dexterity. As Mrs. Barclay came near, she looked up with a flash of surprise and a smile. "I have found you," said the lady. "So this is what you are about!" "It is what I am always about at this time of year." "What are you doing?" "Just here I am going to put in radishes and lettuce." "Radishes and lettuce! And that is instead of French and philosophy!" "This is philosophy," said Lois, while with a neat movement of her rake she threw off some stones which she had collected from the surface of the bed. "Very good philosophy. Surely the philosophy of life is first--to live." Mrs. Barclay was silent a moment upon this. "Are radishes and lettuce the first thing you plant in the spring, then?" "O dear, no!" said Lois. "Do you see all that corner? that's in potatoes. Do you see those slightly marked lines--here, running across from the walk to the wall?--peas are there. They'll be up soon. I think I shall put in some corn to-morrow. Yonder is a bed of radishes and lettuce just out of the ground. We'll have some radishes for tea, before you know it." "And do you mean to say that _you_ have been planting potatoes? _you?_" "Yes," said Lois, looking at her and laughing. "I like to plant potatoes. In fact, I like to plant anything. What I do not always like so well, is the taking care of them after they are up and growing." Mrs. Barclay sat down and watched her. Lois was now tracing delicate little drills across the breadth of her nicely-prepared bed; little drills all alike, just so deep and just so far apart. Then she went to a basket hard by for a little paper of seeds; two papers; and began deftly to scatter the seed along the drills, with delicate and careful but quick fingers. Mrs. Barclay watched her till she had filled all the rows, and began to cover the seeds in; that, too, she did quick and skilfully. "That is not fit work for you to do, Lois." "Why not?" "You have something better to do." "I do not see how I can. This is the work that is given me." "But any common person could do that?" "We have not got the common person to do it," said Lois, laughing; "so it comes upon an uncommon one." "But there is a fitness in things." "So you will think, when you get some of my young lettuce." The drills were fast covered in, but there were a good many of them, and Lois went on talking and working with equal spirit. "I do not think I shall--" Mrs. Barclay answered the last statement. "I like to do this, Mrs. Barclay. I like to do it very much. I _am_ pulled a little two ways this spring--but that only shows this is good for me." "How so?" "When anybody is living to his own pleasure, I guess he is not in the best way of improvement." "Is there no one but you to do all the weeding, by and by, when the garden will be full of plants?" "Nobody else," said Lois. "That must take a great deal of your time!" "Yes," said Lois, "it does; that and the fruit-picking." "Fruit-picking! Mercy! Why, child, _must_ you do all that?" "It is my part," said Lois pleasantly. "Charity and Madge have each their part. This is mine, and I like it better than theirs. But it is only so, Mrs. Barclay, that we are able to get along. A gardener would eat up our garden. I take only my share. And there is a great deal of pleasure in it. It is pleasant to provide for the family's wants, and to see the others enjoy what I bring in;--yes, and to enjoy it myself. And then, do you see how pleasant the work is! Don't you like it out here this morning?" Mrs. Barclay cast a glance around her again. There was a slight spring haze in the air, which seemed to catch and hold the sun's rays and diffuse them in gentle beneficence. Through it the opening cherry blossoms gave their tender promise; the brown, bare apple trees were softened; an indescribable breath of hope and life was in the air, to which the birds were doing all they could to give expression; there was a delicate joy in Nature's face, as if at being released from the bands of Winter and having her hands free again. The smell of the upturned earth came fresh to Mrs. Barclay's nostrils, along with a salt savour from the not distant sea. Yes, it was pleasant, with a rare and wonderful pleasantness; and yet Mrs. Barclay's eyes came discontentedly back to Lois. "It would be possible to enjoy all this, Lois, if you were not doing such evil work." "Evil work! O no, Mrs. Barclay. The work that the Lord gives anybody to do cannot be evil. It must be the very best thing he can do. And I do not believe I should enjoy the spring--and the summer--and the autumn--near so well, if I were not doing it." "Must one be a gardener, to have such enjoyment?" "_I_ must," said Lois, laughing. "If I do not follow my work, my work follows me; and then it comes like a taskmaster, and carries a whip." "But, Lois! that sort of work will make your hands rough." Lois lifted one of her hands in its thick glove, and looked at it. "Well," she said, "what then? What are hands made for?" "You know very well what I mean. You know a time may come when you would like to have your hands white and delicate." "The time is come now," said Lois, laughing. "I have not to wait for it. I like white hands, and delicate hands, as well as anybody. Mine must do their work, all the same. Something might be said for my feet, too, I suppose," she added, with another laugh. At the moment she had finished outlining an other bed, and was now trampling a little hard border pathway round it, making the length of her foot the breadth of the pathway, and setting foot to foot close together, so bit by bit stamping it round. Mrs. Barclay looked on, and wished some body else could have looked on, at the bright, fresh face under the little old hat, and the free action and spirit and accuracy with which everything that either feet or hands did was done. Somehow she forgot the coarse dress, and only saw the delicate creature in it. "Lois, I do not like it!" she began again. "Do you know, some people are very particular about these little things--fastidious about them. You may one day yet want to please one of those very men." "Not unless he wants to please me first!" said Lois, with a glance from her path-treading. "Of course. I am supposing that." "I don't know him!" said Lois. "And I don't see him in the distance!" "That proves nothing." "And it wouldn't make any difference if I did." "You are mistaken in thinking that. You do not know yet what it is to be in love, Lois." "I don't know," said Lois. "Can't one be in love with one's grandmother?" "But, Lois, this is going to take a great deal of your time." "Yes, ma'am." "And you want all your time, to give to more important things. I can't bear to have you drop them all to plant potatoes. Could not somebody else be found to do it?" "We could not afford the somebody, Mrs. Barclay." It was not doubtfully or regretfully that the girl spoke; the brisk content of her answers drove Mrs. Barclay almost to despair. "Lois, you owe something to yourself." "What, Mrs. Barclay?" "You owe it to yourself to be prepared for what I am sure is coming to you. You are not made to live in Shampuashuh all your life. Somebody will want you to quit it and go out into the wide world with him." Lois was silent a few minutes, with her colour a little heightened, fresh as it had been already; then, having tramped all round her new bed, she came up to where Mrs. Barclay and her basket of seeds were. "I don't believe it at all," she said. "I think I shall live and die here." "Do you feel satisfied with that prospect?" Lois turned over the bags of seeds in her basket, a little hurriedly; then she stopped and looked up at her questioner. "I have nothing to do with all that," she said. "I do not want to think of it. I have enough in hand to think of. And I am satisfied, Mrs. Barclay, with whatever God gives me." She turned to her basket of seeds again, searching for a particular paper. "I never heard any one say that before," remarked the other lady. "As long as I can say it, don't you see that is enough?" said Lois lightly. "I enjoy all this work, besides; and so will you by and by when you get the lettuce and radishes, and some of my Tom Thumb peas. And I am not going to stop my studies either." She went back to the new bed now, where she presently was very busy putting more seeds in. Mrs. Barclay watched her a while. Then, seeing a small smile break on the lips of the gardener, she asked Lois what she was thinking of? Lois looked up. "I was thinking of that geode you showed us last night." "That geode!" "Yes, it is so lovely. I have thought of it a great many times. I am wanting very much to learn about stones now. I thought always _till_ now that stones were only stones. The whole world is changed to me since you have come, Mrs. Barclay." Yes, thought that lady to herself, and what will be the end of it? "To tell the truth," Lois went on, "the garden work comes harder to me this spring than ever it did before; but that shows it is good for me. I have been having too much pleasure all winter." "Can one have too much pleasure?" said Mrs. Barclay discontentedly. "If it makes one unready for duty," said Lois. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAGOON OF VENICE. Towards evening, one day late in the summer, the sun was shining, as its manner is, on that marvellous combination of domes, arches, mosaics and carvings which goes by the name of St. Mark's at Venice. The soft Italian sky, glowing and rich, gave a very benediction of colour; all around was the still peace of the lagoon city; only in the great square there was a gentle stir and flutter and rustle and movement; for thousands of doves were flying about, and coming down to be fed, and a crowd of varied human nature, but chiefly not belonging to the place, were watching and distributing food to the feathered multitude. People were engaged with the doves, or with each other; few had a look to spare for the great church; nobody even glanced at the columns bearing St. Theodore and the Lion. That is, speaking generally. For under one of the arcades, leaning against one of the great pillars of the same, a man stood whose look by turns went to everything. He had been standing there motionless for half an hour; and it passed to him like a minute. Sometimes he studied that combination aforesaid, where feeling and fancy and faith have made such glorious work together; and to which, as I hinted, the Venetian evening was lending such indescribable magnificence. His eye dwelt on details of loveliness, of which it was constantly discovering new revelations; or rested on the whole colour-glorified pile with meditative remembrance of what it had seen and done, and whence it had come. Then with sudden transition he would give his attention to the motley crowd before him, and the soft-winged doves fluttering up and down and filling the air. And, tiring of these, his look would go off again to the bronze lion on his place of honour in the Piazzetta, his thought probably wandering back to the time when he was set there. The man himself was noticed by nobody. He stood in the shade of the pillar and did not stir. He was a gentleman evidently; one sees that by slight characteristics, which are nevertheless quite unmistakeable and not to be counterfeited. His dress of course was the quiet, unobtrusive, and yet perfectly correct thing, which dress ought to be. His attitude was that of a man who knew both how to move and how to be still, and did both easily; and further, the look of him betrayed the habit of travel. This man had seen so much that he was not moved by any young curiosity; knew so much, that he could weigh and compare what he knew. His figure was very good; his face agreeable and intelligent, with good observant grey eyes; the whole appearance striking. But nobody noted him. And he had noted nobody; the crowd before him was to him simply a crowd, which excited no interest except as a whole. Until, suddenly, he caught sight of a head and shoulders in the moving throng, which started him out of his carelessness. They were but a few yards from him, seen and lost again in the swaying mass of human beings; but though half seen he was sure he could not mistake. He spoke out a little loud the word "Tom!" He was not heard, and the person spoken to moved out of sight again. The speaker, however, now left his place and plunged among the people. Presently he had another glimpse of the head and shoulders, and was yet more sure of his man; lost sight of him anew, but, following in the direction taken by the chase, gradually won his way nearer, and at length overtook the man, who was then standing between the pillars of the Lion and St. Theodore, and looking out towards the water. "Tom!" said his pursuer, clapping him on the shoulder. "Philip Dillwyn!" said the other, turning. "Philip! Where did you come from? What a lucky turn-up! That I should find you here!" "I found you, man. Where have _you_ come from?" "O, from everywhere." "Are you alone? Where are your people?" "O, Julia and Lenox are gone home. Mamma and I are here yet. I left mamma in a _pension_ in Switzerland, where I could not hold it out any longer; and I have been wandering about--Florence, and Pisa, and I don't know all--till now I have brought up in Venice. It is so jolly to get you!" "What are you doing here?" "Nothing." "What are you going to do?" "Nothing. O, I have done everything, you know. There is nothing left to a fellow." "That sounds hopeless," said Dillwyn, laughing. "It is hopeless. Really I don't see, sometimes, what a fellow's life is good for. I believe the people who have to work for it, have after all the best time!" "They work to live," said the other. "I suppose they do." "Therefore you are going round in a circle. If life is worth nothing, why should one work to keep it up?" "Well, what is it worth, Dillwyn? Upon my word, I have never made it out satisfactorily." "Look here--we cannot talk in this place. Have you ever been to Torcello?" "No." "Suppose we take a gondola and go?" "Now? What is there?" "An old church." "There are old churches all over. The thing is to find a new one." "You prefer the new ones?" "Just for the rarity," said Tom, smiling. "I do not believe you have studied the old ones yet. Do you know the mosaics in St. Mark's?" "I never study mosaics." "And I'll wager you have not seen the Tintorets in the Palace of the Doges?" "There are Tintorets all over!" said Tom, shrugging his shoulders wearily. "Then have you seen Murano?" "The glass-works, yes." "I do not mean the glass-works. Come along--anywhere in a gondola will do, such an evening as this; and we can talk comfortably. You need not look at anything." They entered a gondola, and were presently gliding smoothly over the coloured waters of the lagoon; shining with richer sky reflections than any mortal painter could put on canvas. Not long in silence. "Where have you been, Tom, all this while?" "I told you, everywhere!" said Tom, with another shrug of his shoulders. "The one thing one comes abroad for, you know, is to run away from the winter; so we have been doing that, as long as there was any winter to run from, and since then we have been running away from the summer. Let me see--we came over in November, didn't we? or December; we went to Rome as fast as we could. There was very good society in Rome last winter. Then, as spring came on, we coasted down to Naples and Palermo. We staid at Palermo a while. From there we went back to England; and from England we came to Switzerland. And there we have been till I couldn't stand Switzerland any longer; and I bolted." "Palermo isn't a bad place to spend a while in." "No;--but Sicily is stupid generally. It's all ridiculous, Philip. Except for the name of the thing, one can get just as good nearer home. I could get _better_ sport at Appledore last summer, than in any place I've been at in Europe." "Ah! Appledore," said Philip slowly, and dipping his hand in the water. "I surmise the society also was good there?" "Would have been," Tom returned discontentedly, "if there had not been a little too much of it." "Too much of it!" "Yes. I couldn't stir without two or three at my heels. It's very kind, you know; but it rather hampers a fellow." "Miss Lothrop was there, wasn't she?" "Of course she was! That made all the trouble." "And all the sport too; hey, Tom? Things usually are two-sided in this world." "She made no trouble. It was my mother and sister. They were so awfully afraid of her. And they drilled George in; so among them they were too many for me. But I think Appledore is the nicest place I know." "You might buy one of the islands--a little money would do it--build a lodge, and have your Europe always at hand; when the winter is gone, as you say. Even the winter you might manage to live through, if you could secure the right sort of society. Hey, Tom? Isn't that an idea? I wonder it never occurred to you. I think one might bid defiance to the world, if one were settled at the Isles of Shoals." "Yes," said Tom, with something very like a groan. "If one hadn't a mother and sister." "You are heathenish!" "I'm not, at all!" returned Tom passionately. "See here, Philip. There is one thing goes before mother and sister; and that you know. It's a man's wife. And I've seen my wife, and I can't get her." "Why?" said Dillwyri dryly. He was hanging over the side of the gondola, and looking attentively at the play of colour in the water; which reflecting the sky in still splendour where it lay quiet, broke up in ripples under the gondolier's oar, and seemed to scatter diamonds and amethysts and topazes in fairy-like prodigality all around. "I've told you!" said Tom fretfully. "Yes, but I do not comprehend. Does not the lady in question like Appledore as well as you do?" "She likes Appledore well enough. I do not know how well she likes me. I never had a chance to find out. I don't think she _dis_likes me, though," said Tom meditatively. "It is not too late to find out yet," Philip said, with even more dryness in his tone. "O, isn't it, though!" said Tom. "I'm tied up from ever asking her now. I'm engaged to another woman." "Tom!" said the other, suddenly straightening himself up. "Don't shout at a fellow! What could I do? They wouldn't let me have what I wanted; and now they're quite pleased, and Julia has gone home. She has done her work. O, I am making an excellent match. 'An old family, and three hundred thousand dollars,' as my mother says. That's all one wants, you know." "Who is the lady?" "It don't matter, you know, when you have heard her qualifications. It's Miss Dulcimer--one of the Philadelphia Dulcimers. Of course one couldn't make a better bargain for oneself. And I'm as fond of her as I can be; in fact, I was afraid I was getting _too_ fond. So I ran away, as I told you, to think over my happiness at leisure, and moderate my feelings." "Tom, Tom, I never heard you bitter before," said his friend, regarding him with real concern. "Because I never _was_ bitter before. O, I shall be all right now. I haven't had a soul on whom I could pour out my mind, till this hour. I know you're as safe as a mine. It does me good to talk to you. I tell you, I shall be all right. I'm a very happy bridegroom expectant. You know, if the Caruthers have plenty of money, the Dulcimers have twice as much. Money's really everything." "Have you any idea how this news will touch Miss--the other lady you were talking about?" "I suppose it won't touch her at all. She's different; that's one reason why I liked her. She would not care a farthing for me because I'm a Caruthers, or because I have money; not a brass farthing! She is the _real_est person I ever saw. She would go about Appledore from morning to night in the greatest state of delight you ever saw anybody; where my sister, for instance, would see nothing but rocks and weeds, Lois would have her hands full of what Julia would call trash, and what to her was better than if the fairies had done it. Things pulled out of the shingle and mud,--I can just see her,--and flowers, and stones, and shells. What she would make of _this_ now!--But you couldn't set that girl down anywhere, I believe, that she wouldn't find something to make her feel rich. She's a richer woman this minute, than my Dulcimer with her thousands. And she's got good blood in her too, Philip. I learned that from Mrs. Wishart. She has the blood of ever so many of the old Pilgrims in her veins; and that is good descent, Philip?" "They think so in New England." "Well, they are right, I am ready to believe. Anyhow, I don't care--" He broke off, and there was a silence of some minutes' length. The gondola swam along over the quiet water, under the magnificent sky; the reflected colours glanced upon two faces, grave and self-absorbed. "Old boy," said Philip at length, "I hardly think you are right." "Right in what? I am right in all I have told you." "I meant, right in your proposed plan of action. You may say it is none of my business." "I shall not say it, though. What's the wrong you mean?" "It seems to me Miss Dulcimer would not feel obliged to you, if she knew all." "She doesn't feel obliged to me at all," said Tom. "She gives a good as she gets." "No better?" "What do you mean?" "Pardon me, Tom; but you have been frank with me. By your own account, she will get very little." "All she wants. I'll give her a local habitation and a name." "I am sure you are unjust." "Not at all. That is all half the girls want; all they try for. She's very content. O, I'm very good to her when we are together; and I mean to be. You needn't look at me," said Tom, trying to laugh. "Three-quarters of all the marriages that are made are on the same pattern. Why, Phil, what do the men and women of this world live for? What's the purpose in all I've been doing since I left college? What's the good of floating round in the world as I have been doing all summer and winter here this year? and at home it is different only in the manner of it. People live for nothing, and don't enjoy life. I don't know at this minute a single man or woman, of our sort, you know, that enjoys life; except that one. And _she_ isn't our sort. She has no money, and no society, and no Europe to wander round in! O, they would _say_ they enjoy life; but their way shows they don't." "Enjoyment is not the first thing," Philip said thoughtfully. "O, isn't it! It's what we're all after, anyhow; you'll allow that." "Perhaps that is the way we miss it." "So Dulcimer and I are all right, you see," pursued Tom, without heeding this remark. "We shall be a very happy couple. All the world will have us at their houses, and we shall have all the world at ours. There won't be room left for any thing but happiness; and that'll squeeze in anywhere, you know. It's like chips floating round on the surface of a whirlpool--they fly round and round splendidly--till they get sucked in." "Tom!" cried his companion. "What has come to you? Your life is not so different now from what it has always been;--and I have always known you for a light-hearted fellow. I can't have you take this tone." Tom was silent, biting the ends of his moustache in a nervous way, which bespoke a good deal of mental excitement; Philip feared, of mental trouble. "If a friend may ask, how came you to do what is so unsatisfactory to you?" he said at length. "My mother and sister! They were so preciously afraid I should ruin myself. Philip, I _could not_ make head against them. They were too much for me, and too many for me; they were all round me; they were ahead of me; I had no chance at all. So I gave up in despair. Women are the overpowering when they take a thing in their head! A man's nowhere. I gave in, and gave up, and came away, and now--they're satisfied." "Then the affair is definitely concluded?" "As definitely as if my head was off." Philip did not laugh, and there was a pause again. The colours were fading from sky and water, and a yellow, soft moonlight began to assert her turn. It was a change of beauty for beauty; but neither of the two young men seemed to take notice of it. "Tom," began the other after a time, "what you say about the way most of us live, is more or less true; and it ought not to be true." "Of course it is true!" said Tom. "But it ought not to be true." "What are you going to do about it? One must do as everybody else does; I suppose." "_Must_ one? That is the very question." "What can you do else, as long as you haven't your bread to get?" "I believe the people who _have_ their bread to get have the best of it. But there must be some use in the world, I suppose, for those who are under no such necessity. Did you ever hear that Miss--Lothrop's family were strictly religious?" "No--yes, I have," said Tom. "I know _she_ is." "That would not have suited you." "Yes, it would. Anything she did would have suited me. I have a great respect for religion, Philip." "What do you mean by religion?" "I don't know--what everybody means by it. It is the care of the spiritual part of our nature, I suppose." "And how does that care work?" "I don't know," said Tom. "It works altar-cloths; and it seems to mean church-going, and choral music, and teaching ragged schools; and that sort of thing. I don't understand it; but I should never interfere with it. It seems to suit the women particularly." Again there fell a pause. "Where have _you_ been, Dillwyn? and what brought you here again?" Tom began now. "I came to pass the time," the other said musingly. "Ah! And where have you passed it?" "Along the shores of the Adriatic, part of the time. At Abazzia, and Sebenico, and the islands." "What's in all that? I never heard of Abazzia." "The world is a large place," said Philip absently. "But what is Abazzia?" "A little paradise of a place, so sheltered that it is like a nest of all lovely things. Really; it has its own climate, through certain favouring circumstances; and it is a hidden little nook of delight." "Ah!--What took you to the shores of the Adriatic, anyhow?" "Full of interest," said Philip. "Pray, of what kind?" "Every kind. Historical, industrial, mechanical, natural, and artistic. But I grant you, Tom, that was not why I went there. I went there to get out of the ruts of travel and break new ground. Like you, being a little tired of going round in a circle for ever. And it occurs to me that man must have been made for somewhat else than such a purposeless circle. No other creature is a burden to himself." "Because no other creature thinks," said Tom. "The power of thought can surely be no final disadvantage." "I don't see what it amounts to," Tom returned. "A man is happy enough, I suppose, as long as he is busy thinking out some new thing--inventing, creating, discovering, or working out his discoveries; but as soon as he has brought his invention to perfection and set it going, he is tired of it, and drives after something else." "You are coming to Solomon's judgment," said the other, leaning back upon the cushions and clasping his hands above his head,--"what the preacher says--'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'" "Well, so are you," said Tom. "It makes me ashamed." "Of what?" "Myself." "Why?" "That I should have lived to be thirty-two years old, and never have done anything, or found any way to be of any good in the world! There isn't a butterfly of less use than I!" "You weren't made to be of use," said Tom. "Upon my word, my dear fellow, you have said the most disparaging thing, I hope, that ever was said of me! You cannot better that statement, if you think an hour! You mean it of me as a human being, I trust? not as an individual? In the one case it would be indeed melancholy, but in the other it would be humiliating. You take the race, not the personal view. The practical view is, that what is of no use had better not be in existence. Look here--here we are at Murano; I had not noticed it. Shall we land, and see things by moonlight? or go back to Venice?" "Back, and have dinner," said Tom. "By way of prolonging this existence, which to you is burdensome and to me is unsatisfactory. Where is the logic of that?" But they went back, and had a very good dinner too. CHAPTER XXIX. AN OX CART. It happened not far from this same time in the end of August, when Mr. Dillwyn and Tom Caruthers came together on the Piazzetta of St. Mark, that another meeting took place in the far-away regions of Shampuashuh. A train going to Boston was stopped by a broken bridge ahead, and its passengers discharged in one of the small towns along the coast, to wait until the means of getting over the little river could be arranged. People on a railway journey commonly do not like to wait; it was different no doubt in the days of stage-coaches, when patience had some exercise frequently; now, we are spoiled, and you may notice that ten minutes' delay is often more than can be endured with complacency. Our fathers and mothers had hours to wait, and took it as a matter of course. Among the impatient passengers thrown out at Independence were two specially impatient. "What on earth shall we do with ourselves?" said the lady. "Pity the break-down had not occurred a little further on," said the gentleman. "You might have visited your friend--or Tom's friend--Miss Lothrop. We are just a few miles from Shampuashuh." "Shampuashuh!--Miss Lothrop!--Was that where she lived? How far, George?" "A few miles--half a dozen, perhaps." "O George, let us get horses and drive there!" "But then you may not catch the train this evening again." "I don't care. I cannot wait _here_. It would be a great deal better to have the drive and see the other place. Yes, we will go and visit her. Get horses, George, please! Quick. _This_ is terrible." "Will you ask for their hospitality?" "Yes, of course. They would be delighted. That is just what the better sort of country people like, to have somebody come and see them. Make haste, George." With a queer little smile on his face, Mr. Lenox however did as he was desired. A waggon was procured without very much delay, in which they could be driven to Shampuashuh. It was a very warm day, and the travellers had just the height of it. Hot sunbeams poured down upon them; the level, shadeless country through which lay their way, showed as little as it could of the attractive features which really belonged to it. The lady declared herself exceeded by the heat and dust; the gentleman opined they might as well have stayed in Independence, where they were. Between two and three o'clock they entered the long green street of Shampuashuh. The sunbeams seemed tempered there, but it was only a mental effect produced by the quiet beauty and airy space of the village avenue, and the shade of great elms which fell so frequently upon the wayside grass. "What a sweet place!" cried the lady. "Comfortable-looking houses," suggested the gentleman. "It seems cooler here," the lady went on. "It is getting to a cooler time of day." "Why, no, George! Three o'clock is just the crown of the heat. Don't it look as if nobody ever did anything here? There's no stir at all." "My eyes see different tokens; they are more versed in business than yours are--naturally." "What do your eyes see?"--a little impatiently. "You may notice that nothing is out of order. There is no bit of fence out of repair; and never a gate hanging upon its hinges. There is no carelessness. Do you observe the neatness of this broad street?" "What should make it unneat? with so few travellers?" "Ground is the last thing to keep itself in order. I notice, too, the neat stacks of wood in the wood-sheds. And in the fields we have passed, the work is all done, up to the minute; nothing hanging by the eyelids. The houses are full of windows, and all of them shining bright." "You might be a newspaper reporter, George! Is this the house we are coming to? It is quite a large house; quite respectable." "Did you think that little girl had come out of any but a respectable house?" "Pshaw, George! you know what I mean. They are very poor and very plain people. I suppose we might go straight in?" They dismissed their vehicle, so burning their ships, and knocked at the front door. A moment after it was opened by Charity. Her tall figure was arrayed in a homely print gown, of no particular fashion; a little shawl was over her shoulders, notwithstanding the heat, and on her head a sun-bonnet. "Does Miss Lothrop live here?" "Three of us," said Charity, confronting the pair with a doubtful face. "Is Miss Lois at home?" "She's as near as possible not," said the door-keeper; "but I guess she is. You may come in, and I'll see." She opened a door in the hall which led to a room on the north side of it, corresponding to Mrs. Barclay's on the south; and there she left them. It was large and pleasant and cool, if it was also very plain; and Mrs. Lenox sank into a rocking-chair, repeating to herself that it was 'very respectable.' On a table at one side lay a few books, which drew Mr. Lenox's curiosity. "Ruskin's 'Modern Painters'!" he exclaimed, looking at his wife. "Selections, I suppose." "No, this is Vol. 5. And the next is Thiers' 'Consulate and Empire'!" "Translation." "No. Original. And 'the Old Red Sandstone.'" "What's that?" "Hugh Miller." "Who's Hugh Miller?" "He is, or was, a gentleman whom you would not admit to your society. He began life as a Scotch mason." Meanwhile, Charity, going back to the living-room of the family, found there Lois busied in arraying old Mrs. Armadale for some sort of excursion; putting a light shawl about her, and drawing a white sun-bonnet over her cap. Lois herself was in an old nankeen dress with a cape, and had her hat on. "There's some folks that want you, Lois," her sister announced. "Want me!" said Lois. "Who is it? why didn't you tell them we were just going out?" "I don't usually say things without I know that it's so," responded Charity. "Maybe we're going to be hindered." "We must not be hindered," returned Lois. "Grandmother is ready, and Mrs. Barclay is ready, and the cart is here. We must go, whoever comes. You get mother into the cart, and the baskets and everything, and I'll be as quick as I can." So Lois went into the parlour. A great surprise came over her when she saw who was there, and with the surprise a slight feeling of amusement; along with some other feeling, she could not have told what, which put her gently upon her mettle. She received her visitors frankly and pleasantly, and also with a calm ease which at the moment was superior to their own. So she heard their explanation of what had befallen them, and of their resolution to visit her; and a slight account of their drive from Independence; all which Mrs. Lenox gave with more prolixity than she had intended or previously thought necessary. "And now," said Lois, "I will invite you to another drive. We are just going down to the Sound, to smell the salt air and get cooled off. We shall have supper down there before we come home. I do not think I could give you anything pleasanter, if I had the choice; but it happens that all is arranged for this. Do come with us; it will be a variety for you, at least." The lady and gentleman looked at each other. "It's so hot!" objected the former. "It will be cooler every minute now," said Lois. "We ought to take the train--when it comes along--" "You cannot tell when that will be," said Mr. Lenox. "You would find it very tedious waiting at the station. We might take the night train. That will pass about ten o'clock, or should." "But we should be in your way, I am afraid," Mrs. Lenox went on, turning to Lois. "You are not prepared for two more in your party." "Always!" said Lois, smiling. "We should never think ourselves prepared at all, in Shampuashuh, if we were not ready for two more than the party. And the cart will hold us all." "The cart!" cried the other. "Yes. O yes! I did not tell you that," said Lois, smiling more broadly. "We are going in an ox cart. That will be a novel experience for you too." If Mrs. Lenox had not half accepted the invitation already, I am not sure but this intimation would have been too much for her courage. However, she was an outwardly well-bred woman; that is, like so many others, well-bred when there was nothing to gain by being otherwise; and so she excused her hesitation and doubt by the plea of being "so dusty." There was help for that; Lois took her upstairs to a neat chamber, and furnished her with water and towels. It was new experience to the city lady. She took note, half disdainfully, of the plainness of the room; the painted floor, yellow and shining, which boasted only one or two little strips of carpet; the common earthenware toilet-set; the rush-bottomed chairs. On the other hand, there was an old mahogany dressing bureau; a neat bed; and water and towels (the latter coarse) were exceedingly fresh and sweet. She made up her mind to go through with the adventure, and rejoined her husband with a composed mind. Lois took them first to the sitting-room, where they were introduced to Mrs. Barclay, and then they all went out at the back door of the house, and across a little grassy space, to a gate leading into a lane. Here stood the cart, in which the rest of the family was already bestowed; Mrs. Armadale being in an arm-chair with short legs, while Madge and Charity sat in the straw with which the whole bottom of the cart was spread. A tall, oldish man, with an ox whip, stood leaning against the fence and surveying things. "Are we to go in _there?_" said Mrs. Lenox, with perceptible doubt. "It's the only carriage we have to offer you," said Lois merrily. "For your sake, I wish we had a better; for my own, I like nothing so well as an ox cart. Mrs. Barclay, will you get in? and stimulate this lady's courage?" A kitchen chair had been brought out to facilitate the operation; and Mrs. Barclay stepped lightly in, curled herself down in the soft bed of straw, and declared that it was very comfortable. With an expression of face which made Lois and Madge laugh for weeks after when they recalled it, Mrs. Lenox stepped gingerly in, following, and took her place. "Grandmother," said Lois, "this is Mrs. Lenox, whom you have heard me speak about. And these are my sisters, Madge and Charity, Mrs. Lenox. And grandmother, this is Mr. Lenox. Now, you see the cart has room enough," she added, as herself and the gentleman also took their seats. "Is that the hull of ye?" inquired now the man with the ox whip, coming forward. "And be all your stores got in for the v'yage? I don't want to be comin' back from somewheres about half-way." "All right, Mr. Sears," said Lois. "You may drive on. Mother, are you comfortable?" And then there was a "whoa"-ing and a "gee"-ing and a mysterious flourishing of the long leathern whip, with which the driver seemed to be playing; for if its tip touched the shoulders of the oxen it did no more, though it waved over them vigorously. But the oxen understood, and pulled the cart forward; lifting and setting down their heavy feet with great deliberation seemingly, but with equal certain'ty, and swaying their great heads gently from side to side as they went. Lois was so much amused at her guests' situation, that she had some difficulty to keep her features in their due calmness and sobriety. Mrs. Lenox eyed the oxen, then the contents of the cart, then the fields. "Slow travelling!" said Lois, with a smile. "Can they go no faster?" "They could go a little faster if they were urged; but that would spoil the comfort of the whole thing. The entire genius of a ride in an ox cart is, that everybody should take his ease." "Oxen included?" said Mr. Lenox. "Why not?" "Why not, indeed!" said the gentleman, smiling. "Only, ordinary people cannot get rid easily of the notion that the object of going is to get somewhere." "That's not the object in this case," Lois answered merrily. "The one sole object is fun." Mrs. Lenox said nothing more, but her face spoke as plainly as possible, And you call _this_ fun! "I am enjoying myself very much," said Mrs. Barclay. "I think it is delightful." Something in her manner of speech made Mr. Lenox look at her. She was sitting next him on the cart bottom. "Perhaps this is a new experience also to you?" he said. "Delightfully new. Never rode in an ox cart before in my life; hardly ever saw one, in fact. We are quite out of the race and struggle and uneasiness of the world, don't you see? There comes down a feeling of repose upon one, softly, as Longfellow says-- 'As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.' Only I should say in this case it was from the wing of an angel." "Mrs. Barclay, you are too poetical for an ox cart," said Lois, laughing. "If we began to be poetical, I am afraid the repose would be troubled." "'Twont du Poetry no harm to go in an ox cart," remarked here the ox driver. "I agree with you, sir," said Mrs. Barclay. "Poetry would not be Poetry if she could not ride anywhere. But why should she trouble repose. Lois?" "Yes," added Mr. Lenox; "I was about to ask that question. I thought poetry was always soothing. Or that the ladies at least think so." "I like it well enough," said Lois, "but I think it is apt to be melancholy. Except in hymns." "_Except_ hymns!" said Mrs. Lenox. "I thought hymns were always sad. They deal so much with death and the grave." "And the resurrection!" said Lois. "They always make _me_ gloomy," the lady went on. "The resurrection! do you call that a lively subject?" "Depends on how you look at it, I suppose," said her husband. "But, Miss Lothrop, I cannot recover from my surprise at your assertion respecting non-religious poetry." Lois left that statement alone. She did not care whether he recovered or not. Mr. Lenox, however, was curious. "I wish you would show me on what your opinion is founded," he went on pleasantly. "Yes, Lois, justify yourself," said Mrs. Barclay. "I could not do that without making quotations, Mrs. Barclay, and I am afraid I cannot remember enough. Besides, it would hardly be interesting." "To me it would," said Mrs. Barclay. "Where could one have a better time? The oxen go so comfortably, and leisure is so graciously abundant." "Pray go on, Miss Lothrop!" Mr. Lenox urged. "And then I hope you'll go on and prove hymns lively," added his wife. The conversation which followed was long enough to have a chapter to itself; and so may be comfortably skipped by any who are so inclined. CHAPTER XXX. POETRY. "Perhaps you will none of you agree with me," Lois said; "and I do not know much poetry; but there seems to me to run an undertone of lament and weariness through most of what I know. Now take the 'Death of the Flowers,'--that you were reading yesterday, Mrs. Barclay-- 'The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.' That is the tone I mean; a sigh and a regret." "But the 'Death of the Flowers' is _exquisite_," pleaded Mrs. Lenox. "Certainly it is," said Lois; "but is it gay? 'The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.'" "How you remember it, Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "But is not that all true?" asked Mr. Lenox. "True in fact," said Lois. "The flowers do die. But the frost does not fall like a plague; and nobody that was right happy would say so, or think so. Take Pringle's 'Afar in the Desert,' Mrs. Barclay-- 'When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And sick of the present I turn to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears From the fond recollections of former years, And shadows of things that are long since fled, Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead; Bright visions--' I forget how it goes on." "But that is as old as the hills!" exclaimed Mrs. Lenox. "It shows what I mean." "I am afraid you will not better your case by coming down into modern time, Mrs. Lenox," remarked Mrs. Barclay. "Take Tennyson-- 'With weary steps I loiter on, Though always under altered skies; The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone.'" "Take Byron," said Lois-- 'My days are in the yellow leaf, The flower and fruit of life are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone.'" "O, Byron was morbid," said Mrs. Lenox. "Take Moore," Mrs. Barclay went on, humouring the discussion on purpose. "Do you remember?-- 'My birthday! what a different sound That word had in my younger years! And now, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears.'" "Well, I am sure that is true," said the other lady. "Do you remember Robert Herrick's lines to daffodils?-- 'Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon.' And then-- 'We have short time to stay as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or anything: We die As your showers do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.' And Waller to the rose-- 'Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee. How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!' "And Burns to the daisy," said Lois-- 'There in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snowy bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! 'Even thou who mournst the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!'" "O, you are getting very gloomy!" exclaimed Mrs. Lenox. "Not we," said Lois merrily laughing, "but your poets." "Mend your cause, Julia," said her husband. "I haven't got the poets in my head," said the lady. "They are not all like that. I am very fond of Elizabeth Barrett Browning." "The 'Cry of the Children'?" said Mrs. Barclay. "O no, indeed! She's not all like that." "She is not all like that. There is 'Hector in the Garden.'" "O, that is pretty!" said Lois. "But do you remember how it runs?-- 'Nine years old! The first of any Seem the happiest years that come--'" "Go on, Lois," said her friend. And the request being seconded, Lois gave the whole, ending with-- 'Oh the birds, the tree, the ruddy And white blossoms, sleek with rain! Oh my garden, rich with pansies! Oh my childhood's bright romances! All revive, like Hector's body, And I see them stir again! 'And despite life's changes--chances, And despite the deathbell's toll, They press on me in full seeming! Help, some angel! stay this dreaming! As the birds sang in the branches, Sing God's patience through my soul! 'That no dreamer, no neglecter Of the present work unsped, I may wake up and be doing, Life's heroic ends pursuing, Though my past is dead as Hector, And though Hector is twice dead.'" "Well," said Mrs. Lenox slowly, "of course that is all true." "From her standpoint," said Lois. "That is according to my charge, which you disallowed." "From her standpoint?" repeated Mr. Lenox. "May I ask for an explanation?" "I mean, that as she saw things,-- 'The first of any Seem the happiest years that come.'" "Well, of course!" said Mrs. Lenox. "Does not everybody say so?" Nobody answered. "Does not everybody agree in that judgment, Miss Lothrop?" urged the gentleman. "I dare say--everybody looking from that standpoint," said Lois. "And the poets write accordingly. They are all of them seeing shadows." "How can they help seeing shadows?" returned Mrs. Lenox impatiently. "The shadows are there!" "Yes," said Lois, "the shadows are there." But there was a reservation in her voice. "Do not _you_, then, reckon the years of childhood the happiest?" Mr. Lenox inquired. "No." "But you cannot have had much experience of life," said Mrs. Lenox, "to say so. I don't see how they can _help_ being the happiest, to any one." "I believe," Lois answered, lowering her voice a little, "that if we could see all, we should see that the oldest person in our company is the happiest here." The eyes of the strangers glanced towards the old lady in her low chair at the front of the ox cart. In her wrinkled face there was not a line of beauty, perhaps never had been; in spite of its sense and character unmistakeable; it was grave, she was thinking her own thoughts; it was weather-beaten, so to say, with the storms of life; and yet there was an expression of unruffled repose upon it, as calm as the glint of stars in a still lake. Mrs. Lenox's look was curiously incredulous, scornful, and wistful, together; it touched Lois. "One's young years ought not to be one's best," she said. "How are you going to help it?" came almost querulously. Lois thought, if _she_ were Mr. Lenox, she would not feel flattered. "When one is young, one does not know disappointment," the other went on. "And when one is old, one may get the better of disappointment." "When one is young, everything is fresh." "I think things grow fresher to me with every year," said Lois, laughing. "Mrs. Lenox, it is possible to keep one's youth." "Then you have found the philosopher's stone?" said Mr. Lenox. Lois's smile was brilliant, but she said nothing to that. She was beginning to feel that she had talked more than her share, and was inclined to draw back. Then there came a voice from the arm-chair, it came upon a pause of stillness, with its quiet, firm tones: 'He satisfieth thy mouth with good things, so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.'" The voice came like an oracle, and was listened to with somewhat of the same silent reverence. But after that pause Mr. Lenox remarked that he never understood that comparison. What was it about an eagle's youth? "Why," said Lois, "an eagle never grows old!" "Is that it! But I wish you would go on a little further, Miss Lothrop. You spoke of hymn-writers having a different standpoint, and of their words as more cheerful than the utterances of other poets. Do you know, I had never thought other poets were not cheerful, until now; and I certainly never got the notion that hymns were an enlivening sort of literature. I thought they dealt with the shadowy side of life almost exclusively." "Well--yes, perhaps they do," said Lois; "but they go kindling beacons everywhere to light it up; and it is the beacons you see, and not the darkness. Now the secular poets turn that about. They deal with the brightest things they can find; but, to change the figure, they cannot keep the minor chord out of their music." Mr. and Mrs. Lenox looked at each other. "Do you mean to say," said the latter, "that the hymn-writers do not use the minor key? They write in it, or they sing in it, more properly, altogether!" "Yes," said Lois, into whose cheeks a slight colour was mounting; "yes, perhaps; but it is with the blast of the trumpet and the clash of the cymbals of triumph. There may be the confession of pain, but the cry of victory is there too!" "Victory--over what?" said Mrs. Lenox rather scornfully, "Over pain, for one thing," said Lois; "and over loss, and weariness, and disappointment." "You will have to confirm your words by examples again, Lois," said Mrs. Barclay. "We do not all know hymn literature as well as you do." "I never saw anything of all that in hymns," said Mrs. Lenox. "They always sound a little, to me, like dirges." Lois hesitated. The cart was plodding along through the smooth lanes at the rate of less than a mile an hour, the oxen swaying from side to side with their slow, patient steps. The level country around lay sleepily still under the hot afternoon sun; it was rarely that any human stir was to be seen, save only the ox driver walking beside the cart. He walked beside the _cart_, not the oxen; evidently lending a curious ear to what was spoken in the company; on which account also the progress of the vehicle was a little less lively than it might have been. "My Cynthy's writ a lot o' hymns," he remarked just here. "I never heerd no trumpets in 'em, though. I don' know what them other things is." "Cymbals?" said Lois. "They are round, thin plates of metal, Mr. Sears, with handles on one side to hold them by; and the player clashes them together, at certain parts of the music--as you would slap the palms of your hands." "Doos, hey? I want to know! And what doos they sound like?" "I can't tell," said Lois. "They sound shrill, and sweet, and gay." "But that's cur'ous sort o' church music!" said the farmer. "Now, Miss Lothrop,--you must let us hear the figurative cymbals," Mr. Lenox reminded her. "Do!" said Mrs. Barclay. "There cannot be much of it," opined Mrs. Lenox. "On the contrary," said Lois; "there is so much of it that I am at a loss where to begin. 'I love yon pale blue sky; it is the floor Of that glad home where I shall shortly be; A home from which I shall go out no more, From toil and grief and vanity set free. 'I gaze upon yon everlasting arch, Up which the bright stars wander as they shine; And, as I mark them in their nightly march, I think how soon that journey shall be mine! 'Yon silver drift of silent cloud, far up In the still heaven--through you my pathway lies: Yon rugged mountain peak--how soon your top Shall I behold beneath me, as I rise! 'Not many more of life's slow-pacing hours, Shaded with sorrow's melancholy hue; Oh what a glad ascending shall be ours, Oh what a pathway up yon starry blue! 'A journey like Elijah's, swift and bright, Caught gently upward to an early crown, In heaven's own chariot of all-blazing light, With death untasted and the grave unknown.'" "That's not like any hymn I ever heard," remarked Mrs. Lenox, after a pause had followed the last words. "That is a hymn of Dr. Bonar's," said Lois. "I took it merely because it came first into my head. Long ago somebody else wrote something very like it-- 'Ye stars are but the shining dust Of my divine abode; The pavement of those heavenly courts Where I shall see my God. 'The Father of unnumbered lights Shall there his beams display; _And not one moment's darkness mix With that unvaried day_.' Do you hear the cymbals, Mrs. Lenox?" There came here a long breath, it sounded like a breath of satisfaction or rest; it was breathed by Mrs. Armadale. In the stillness of their progress, the slowly revolving wheels making no noise on the smooth road, and the feet of the oxen falling almost soundlessly, they all heard it; and they all felt it. It was nothing less than an echo of what Lois had been repeating; a mute "Even so!"--probably unconscious, and certainly undesigned. Mrs. Lenox glanced that way. There was a far-off look on the old worn face, and lines of peace all about the lips and the brow and the quiet folded hands. Mrs. Lenox did not know that a sigh came from herself as her eyes turned away. Her husband eyed the three women curiously. They were a study to him, albeit he hardly knew the grammar of the language in which so many things seemed to be written on their faces. Mrs. Armadale's features, if strong, were of the homeliest kind; work-worn and weather-worn, to boot; yet the young man was filled with reverence as he looked from the hands in their cotton gloves, folded on her lap, to the hard features shaded and framed by the white sun-bonnet. The absolute, profound calm was imposing to him; the still peace of the spirit was attractive. He looked at his wife; and the contrast struck even him. Her face was murky. It was impatience, in part, he guessed, which made it so; _but_ why was she impatient? It was cloudy with unhappiness; and she ought to be very happy, Mr. Lenox thought; had she not everything in the world that she cared about? How could there be a cloud of unrest and discontent on her brow, and those displeased lines about her lips? His eye turned to Lois, and lingered as long as it dared. There was peace too, very sunny, and a look of lofty thought, and a brightness that seemed to know no shadow; though at the moment she was not smiling. "Are you not going on, Miss Lothrop?" he said gently; for he felt Mrs. Barclay's eye upon him. And, besides, he wanted to provoke the girl to speak more. "I could go on till I tired you," said Lois. "I do not think you could," he returned pleasantly. "What can we do better? We are in a most pastoral frame of mind, with pastoral surroundings; poetry could not be better accompanied." "When one gets excited in talking, perhaps one had better stop," Lois said modestly. "On the contrary! Then the truth will come out best." Lois smiled and shook her head. "We shall soon be at the shore. Look,--this way we turn down to go to it, and leave the high road." "Then make haste!" said Mr. Lenox. "It will sound nowhere better than here." "Yes, go on," said his wife now, raising her heavy eyelids. "Well," said Lois. "Do you remember Bryant's 'Thanatopsis'?" "Of course. _That_ is bright enough at any rate," said the lady. "Do you think so?" "Yes! What is the matter with it?" "Dark--and earthly." "I don't think so at all!" cried Mrs. Lenox, now becoming excited in her turn. "What would you have? I think it is beautiful! And elevated; and hopeful." "Can you repeat the last lines?" "No; but I dare say you can. You seem to me to have a library of poets in your head." "I can," said Mrs. Barclay here, putting in her word at this not very civil speech. And she went on-- 'The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.'" "Well, of course," said Mrs. Lenox. "That is true." "Is it cheerful?" said Mrs. Barclay. "But that is not the last.-- 'So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'" "There!" Mrs. Lenox exclaimed. "What would you have, better than that?" Lois looked at her, and said nothing. The look irritated husband and wife, in different ways; her to impatience, him to curiosity. "Have you got anything better, Miss Lothrop?" he asked. "You can judge. Compare that with a dying Christian's address to his soul-- 'Deathless principle, arise; Soar, thou native of the skies. Pearl of price, by Jesus bought, To his glorious likeness wrought, Go, to shine before the throne; Deck the mediatorial crown; Go, his triumphs to adorn; Made for God, to God return.' I won't give you the whole of it-- 'Is thy earthly house distressed? Willing to retain her guest? 'Tis not thou, but she, must die; Fly, celestial tenant, fly.' Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, Sweetly breathe thyself away: Singing, to thy crown remove, Swift of wing, and fired with love.' 'Shudder not to pass the stream; Venture all thy care on him; Him whose dying love and power Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar. Safe is the expanded wave, Gentle as a summer's eve; Not one object of his care Ever suffered shipwreck there.'" "That ain't no hymn in the book, is it?" inquired the ox driver. "Haw!--go 'long. That ain't in the book, is it, Lois?" "Not in the one we use in church, Mr. Sears." "I wisht it was!--like it fust-rate. Never heerd it afore in my life." "There's as good as that _in_ the church book," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "Yes," said Lois; "I like Wesley's hymn even better-- 'Come, let us join our friends above That have obtained the prize; And on the eagle wings of love To joys celestial rise. . . . . 'One army of the living God, To his command we bow; Part of his host have crossed the flood And part are crossing now. . . . . . . 'His militant embodied host, With wishful looks we stand, And long to see that happy coast, And reach the heavenly land. 'E'en now, by faith, we join our hands With those that went before; And greet the blood-besprinkled bands On the eternal shore.'" CHAPTER XXXI. LONG CLAMS. There was a soft ring in Lois's voice; it might be an echo of the trumpets and cymbals of which she had been speaking. Yet not done for effect; it was unconscious, and delicate as indescribable, for which reason it had the greater power. The party remained silent for a few minutes, all of them; during which a killdeer on the fence uttered his little shout of gratulation; and the wild, salt smell coming from the Sound and the not distant ocean, joined with the silence and Lois's hymn, gave a peculiar impression of solitude and desolation to at least one of the party. The cart entered an enclosure, and halted before a small building at the edge of the shore, just above high-water mark. There were several such buildings scattered along the shore at intervals, some enclosed, some not. The whole breadth of the Sound lay in view, blinking under the summer sun; yet the air was far fresher here than it had been in the village. The tide was half out; a wide stretch of wet sand, with little pools in the hollows, intervened between the rocks and the water; the rocks being no magnificent buttresses of the land, but large and small boulders strewn along the shore edge, hung with seaweed draperies; and where there were not rocks there was a growth of rushes on a mud bottom. The party were helped out of the cart one by one, and the strangers surveyed the prospect. "'Afar in the desert,' this is, I declare," said the gentleman. "Might as well be," echoed his wife. "Whatever do you come here for?" she said, turning to Lois; "and what do you do when you are here?" "Get some clams and have supper." "_Clams!_"--with an inimitable accent. "Where do you get clams?" "Down yonder--at the edge of the rushes." "Who gets them? and how do you get them?" "I guess I shall get them to-day. O, we do it with a hoe." Lois stayed for no more, but ran in. The interior room of the house, which was very large for a bathing-house, was divided in two by a partition. In the inner, smaller room, Lois began busily to change her dress. On the walls hung a number of bathing suits of heavy flannel, one of which she appropriated. Charity came in after her. "You ain't a goin' for clams, Lois? Well, I wouldn't, if I was you." "Why not?" "I wouldn't make myself such a sight, for folks to see." "I don't at all do it for folks to see, but that folks may eat. We have brought 'em here, and now we must give them something for supper." "Are you goin' with bare feet?" "Why not?" said Lois, laughing. "Do you think I am going to spoil my best pair of shoes for vanity's sake?" And she threw off shoes and stockings as she spoke, and showed a pair of pretty little white feet, which glanced coquettishly under the blue flannel. "Lois, what's brought these folks here?" "I am sure I don't know." "I wish they'd stayed where they belong. That woman's just turning up her nose at every blessed thing she sees." "It won't hurt the Sound!" said Lois, laughing. "What did they come for?" "I can't tell; but, Charity, it will never do to let them go away feeling they got nothing by coming. So you have the kettle boiled, will you, and the table all ready--and I'll try for the clams." "They won't like 'em." "Can't help that." "And what am I going to do with Mr. Sears?" "Give him his supper of course." "Along with all the others?" "You must. You cannot set two tables." "There's aunt Anne!" exclaimed Charity; and in the next minute aunt Anne came round to them by the front steps; for each half of the bathing-house had its own door of approach, as well as a door of communication. Mrs. Marx came in, surveyed Lois, and heard Charity's statement. "These things will happen in the best regulated families," she remarked, beginning also to loosen her dress. "What are you going to do, aunt Anne?" "Going after clams, with Lois. We shall want a bushel or less; and we can't wait till the moon rises, to eat 'em." "And how am I going to set the table with them all there?" Mrs. Marx laughed. "I expect they're like cats in a strange garret. Set your table just as usual, Charry; push 'em out o' the way if they get in it. Now then, Lois!" And, slipping down the steps and away off to the stretch of mud where the rushes grew, two extraordinary, flannel-clad, barefooted figures, topped with sun-bonnets and armed with hoes and baskets, were presently seen to be very busy there about something. Charity opened the door of communication between the two parts of the house, and surveyed the party. Mrs. Barclay sat on the step outside, looking over the plain of waters, with her head in her hand. Mrs. Armadale was in a rocking-chair, just within the door, placidly knitting. Mr. and Mrs. Lenox, somewhat further back, seemed not to know just what to do with themselves; and Madge, holding a little aloof, met her sister's eye with an expression of despair and doubt. Outside, at the foot of the steps, where Mrs. Barclay sat, lounged the ox driver. "Ben here afore?" he asked confidentially of the lady. "Yes, once or twice. I never came in an ox cart before." "I guess you hain't," he replied, chewing a blade of rank grass which he had pulled for the purpose. "My judgment is we had a fust-rate entertainment, comin' down." "I quite agree with you." "Now in anythin' _but_ an ox cart, you couldn't ha' had it." "No, not so well, certainly." "_I_ couldn't ha' had it, anyway, withouten we'd come so softly. I declare, I believe them critters stepped soft o' purpose. It's better'n a book, to hear that girl talk, now, ain't it?" "Much better than many books." "She's got a lot o' 'em inside her head. That beats me! She allays was smart, Lois was; but I'd no idee she was so full o' book larnin'. Books is a great thing!" And he heaved a sigh. "Do you have time to read much yourself, sir?" "Depends on the book," he said, with a bit of a laugh. "Accordin' to that, I get much or little. No; in these here summer days a man can't do much at books; the evenin's short, you see, and the days is long; and the days is full o' work. The winter's the time for readin'. I got hold o' a book last winter that was wuth a great deal o' time, and got it. I never liked a book better. That was Rollin's 'Ancient History.'" "Ah!" said Mrs. Barclay. "So you enjoyed that?" "Ever read it?" "Yes." "Didn't you enjoy it?" "I believe I like Modern history better." "I've read some o' that too," said he meditatively. "It ain't so different. 'Seems to me, folks is allays pretty much alike; only we call things by different names. Alexander the Great, now,--he warn't much different from Napoleon Buonaparte." "Wasn't he a better man?" inquired Mr. Lenox, putting his head out at the door. "Wall, I don' know; it's difficult, you know, to judge of folk's insides; but I don't make much count of a man that drinks himself to death at thirty." "Haven't you any drinking in Shampuashuh?" "Wall, there ain't much; and what there is, is done in the dark, like. You won't find no rum-shops open." "Indeed! How long has the town been so distinguished?" "I guess it's five year. I _know_ it is; for it was just afore we put in our last President. Then we voted liquor shouldn't be president in Shampuashuh." "Do you get along any better for it?" "Wall"--slowly--"I should say we did. There ain't no quarrellin', nor fightin', nor anybody took up for the jail, nor no one livin' in the poorhouse--'thout it's some tramp on his way to some place where there _is_ liquor. An' _he_ don't want to stay." "What are those two figures yonder among the grass?" Mrs. Lenox now asked; she also having come out of the house in search of objects of interest, the interior offering none. "Them?" said Mr. Sears. "Them's Lois and her aunt. Their baskets is gettin' heavy, too. I'll make the fire for ye, Miss Charity," he cried, lifting his voice; and therewith disappeared. "What are they doing?" Mrs. Lenox asked, in a lower tone. "Digging clams," Mrs. Barclay informed her. "Digging clams! How do they dig them?" "With a hoe, I believe." "I ought to go and offer my services," said the gentleman, rising. "Do not think of it," said Mrs. Barclay. "You could not go without plunging into wet, soft mud; the clams are found only there, I believe." "How do _they_ go?" "Barefoot-dressed for it." "_Un_dressed for it," said Mrs. Lenox. "Barefoot in the mud! Could you have conceived it!" "They say the mud is warm," Mrs. Barclay returned, keeping back a smile. "But how horrid!" "I am told it is very good sport. The clams are shy, and endeavour to take flight when they hear the strokes of the hoe; so that it comes to a trial of speed between the pursuer and the pursued; which is quite exciting." "I should think, if I could see a clam, I could pick it up," Mrs. Lenox said scornfully. "Yes; you cannot see them." "Do you mean, they run away _under ground?_" "So I am told." "How can they? they have no feet." Mrs. Barclay could not help laughing now, and confessed her ignorance of the natural powers of the clam family. "Where is that old man gone to make his fire? didn't he say he was going to make a fire?" "Yes; in the cooking-house." "Where is that?" And Mrs. Lenox came down the steps and went to explore. A few yards from the bathing-house, just within the enclosure fence, she found a small building, hardly two yards square, but thoroughly built and possessing a chimney. The door stood open; within was a cooking-stove, in which fire was roaring; a neat pile of billets of wood for firing, a tea-kettle, a large iron pot, and several other kitchen utensils. "What is this for?" inquired Mrs. Lenox, looking curiously in. "Wall, I guess we're goin' to hev supper by and by; ef the world don't come to an end sooner than I expect, we will, sure. I'm a gettin' ready." "And is this place built and arranged just for the sake of having supper, as you call it, down here once in a while?" "Couldn't be no better arrangement," said Mr. Sears. "This stove draws first-rate." "But this is a great deal of trouble. I should think they would take their clams home and have them there." "Some folks doos," returned Mr. Sears. "These here folks knows what's good. Wait till you see. I tell you! long clams, fresh digged, and b'iled as soon as they're fetched in, is somethin' you never see beat." "_Long_ clams," repeated the lady. "Are they not the usual sort?" "Depends on what you're used to. These is usual here, and I'm glad on't. Round clams ain't nowheres alongside o' 'em." He went off to fill the kettle, and the lady returned slowly round the house to the steps and the door, which were on the sea side. Mr. Lenox had gone in and was talking to Mrs. Armadale; Mrs. Barclay was in her old position on the steps, looking out to sea. There was a wonderful light of westering rays on land and water; a rich gleam from brown rock and green seaweed; a glitter and fresh sparkle on the waves of the incoming tide; an indescribable freshness and life in the air and in the light; a delicious invigoration in the salt breath of the ocean. Mrs. Barclay sat drinking it all in, like one who had been long athirst. Mrs. Lenox stood looking, half cognizant of what was before her, more than half impatient and scornful of it; yet even on her the witchery of the place and the scene was not without its effect. "Do you come here often?" she asked Mrs. Barclay. . "Never so often as I would like." "I should think you would be tired to death!" Then, as Mrs. Barclay made no answer, she looked at her watch. "Our train is not till ten o'clock," she remarked. "Plenty of time," said the other. And then there was silence; and the sun's light grew more westering, and the sparkle on earth and water more fresh, and the air only more and more sweet; till two figures were discerned approaching the bathing-house, carrying hoes slung over their shoulders, and baskets, evidently filled, in their hands. They went round the house towards the cook-house; and Mrs. Barclay came down from her seat and went to meet them there, Mrs. Lenox following. Two such figures! Sun-bonnets shading merry faces, flushed with business; blue flannel bathing-suits draping very unpicturesquely the persons, bare feet stained with mud,--baskets full of the delicate fish they had been catching. "What a quantity!" exclaimed Mrs. Barclay. "Yes, because I had aunt Anne to help. We cannot boil them all at once, but that is all the better. They will come hot and hot." "You don't mean that you are going to cook all those?" said Mrs. Lenox incredulously. "There will not be one too many," said Lois. "You do not know long clams yet." "They are ugly things!" said the other, with a look of great disgust into the basket. "I don't think I could touch them." "There's no obligation," responded here Mrs. Marx. She had thrown one basketful into a huge pan, and was washing them free from the mud and sand of their original sphere. "It's a free country. But looks don't prove much--neither at the shore nor anywhere else. An ugly shell often covers a good fish. So I find it; and t'other way." "How do you get them?" inquired Mr. Lenox, who also came now to the door of the cook-house. Lois made her escape. "I see you make use of hoes." "Yes," said Mrs. Marx, throwing her clams about in the water with great energy; "we dig for 'em. See where the clam lives, and then drive at him, and don't be slow about it; and then when the clam spits at you, you know you're on his heels--or on his track, I should say; and you take care of your eyes and go ahead, till you catch up with him; and then you've got him. And every one you throw into your basket you feel gladder and gladder; in fact, as the basket grows heavy, your heart grows light. And that's diggin' for long clams." "The best part of it is the hunt, isn't it?" "I'll take your opinion on that after supper." Mr. Lenox laughed, and he and his wife sauntered round to the front again. The freshness, the sweetness, the bright rich colouring of sky and water and land, the stillness, the strangeness, the novelty, all moved Mr. Lenox to say, "I would not have missed this for a hundred dollars!" "Missed what?" asked his wife. "This whole afternoon." "It's one way that people live, I suppose." "Yes, for they really do live; there is no stagnation; that is one thing that strikes me." "Don't you want to buy a farm here, and settle down?" asked Mrs. Lenox scornfully. "Live on hymns and long clams?" Meanwhile the interior of the bathing-house was changing its aspect. Part of the partition of boards had been removed and a long table improvised, running the length of the house, and made of planks laid on trestles. White cloths hid the rudeness of this board, and dishes and cups and viands were giving it a most hospitable look. A whiff of coffee aroma came now and then through the door at the back of the house, which opened near the place of cookery; piles of white bread and brown gingerbread, and golden butter and rosy ham and new cheese, made a most abundant and inviting display; and, after the guests were seated, Mr. Sears came in bearing a great dish of the clams, smoking hot. Well, Mrs. Lenox was hungry, through the combined effects of salt air and an early dinner; she found bread and butter and coffee and ham most excellent, but looked askance at the dish of clams; which, however, she saw emptied with astonishing rapidity. Noticing at last a striking heap of shells beside her husband's plate, the lady's fastidiousness gave way to curiosity; and after that,--it was well that another big dishful was coming, or _somebody_ would have been obliged to go short. At ten o'clock that evening Mr. and Mrs. Lenox took the night train to Boston. "I never passed a pleasanter afternoon in my life," was the gentleman's comment as the train started. "Pretty faces go a great way always with you men!" answered his wife. "There is something more than a pretty face there. And she is improved--changed, somehow--since a year ago. What do you think now of your brother's choice, Julia?" "It would have been his ruin!" said the lady violently. "I declare I doubt it. I am afraid he'll never find a better. I am afraid you have done him mistaken service." "George, this girl is _nobody_." "She is a lady. And she is intelligent, and she is cultivated, and she has excellent manners. I see no fault at all to be found. Tom does not need money." "She is nobody, nevertheless, George! It would have been miserable for Tom to lose all the advantage he is going to have with his wife, and to marry this girl whom no one knows, and who knows nobody." "I am sorry for poor Tom!" "George, you are very provoking. Tom will live to thank mamma and me all his life." "Do you know, I don't believe it. I am glad to see _she's_ all right, anyhow. I was afraid at the Isles she might have been bitten." "You don't know anything about it," returned his wife sharply. "Women don't show. _I_ think she was taken with Tom." "I hope not!" said the gentleman; "that's all I have to say." CHAPTER XXXII. A VISITOR. After that summer day, the time sped on smoothly at Shampuashuh; until the autumn coolness had replaced the heat of the dog days, and hay harvest and grain harvest were long over, and there began to be a suspicion of frost in the air. Lois had gathered in her pears, and was garnering her apples. There were two or three famous apple trees in the Lothrop old garden, the fruit of which kept sound and sweet all through the winter, and was very good to eat. One fair day in October, Mrs. Barclay, wanting to speak with Lois, was directed to the garden and sought her there. The day was as mild as summer, without summer's passion, and without spring's impulses of hope and action. A quiet day; the air was still; the light was mellow, not brilliant; the sky was clear, but no longer of an intense blue; the little racks of cloud were lying supine on its calm depths, apparently having nowhere to go and nothing to do. The driving, sweeping, changing forms of vapour, which in spring had come with rain and in summer had come with thunder, had all disappeared; and these little delicate lines of cloud lay purposeless and at rest on the blue. Nature had done her work for the year; she had grown the grass and ripened the grain, and manufactured the wonderful juices in the tissues of the fruit, and laid a new growth of woody fibre round the heart of the trees. She was resting now, as it were, content with her work. And so seemed Lois to be doing, at the moment Mrs. Barclay entered the garden. It was unusual to find her so. I suppose the witching beauty of the day beguiled her. But it was of another beauty Mrs. Barclay thought, as she drew near the girl. A short ladder stood under one of the apple trees, upon which Lois had been mounting to pluck her fruit. On the ground below stood two large baskets, full now of the ruddy apples, shining and beautiful. Beside them, on the dry turf, sat Lois with her hands in her lap; and Mrs. Barclay wondered at her as she drew near. Yet it is not too easy to tell why, at least so as to make the reader get at the sense of the words. I have the girl's image before my eyes, mentally, but words have neither form nor colour; how shall I paint with them? It was not the beauty of mere form and colour, either, that struck Mrs. Barclay in Lois's face. You may easily see more regular features and more dazzling complexion. It was not any particular brilliance of eye, or piquancy of expression. There was a soundness and fulness of young life; that is not so uncommon either. There was a steadfast strength and sweetness of nature. There was an unconscious, innocent grace, that is exceedingly rare. And a high, noble expression of countenance and air and movement, such as can belong only to one whose thoughts and aims never descend to pettinesses; who assimilates nobility by being always concerned with what is noble. And then, the face was very fair; the ruddy brown hair very rich and abundant; the figure graceful and good; all the spiritual beauty I have been endeavouring to describe had a favouring groundwork of nature to display itself upon. Mrs. Barclay's steps grew slower and slower as she came near, that she might prolong the view, which to her was so lovely. Then Lois looked at her and slightly smiled. "Lois, my dear, what are you doing?" "Not exactly nothing, Mrs. Barclay; though it looks like it. Such a day one cannot bear to go in-doors!" "You are gathering your apples?" "I have got done for to-day." "What are you studying, here beside your baskets? What beautiful apples!" "Aren't they? These are our Royal Reddings; they are good for eating and cooking, and they keep perfectly. If only they are picked off by hand." "What were you studying, Lois? May I not know?" Mrs. Barclay took an apple and a seat on the turf beside the girl. "Hardly studying. Only musing--as such a day makes one muse. I was thinking, Mrs. Barclay, what use I could make of my life." "What _use?_ Can you make better use of it than you are doing, in taking care of Mrs. Armadale?" "Yes--as things are now. But in the common course of things I should outlive grandmamma." "Then you will marry somebody, and take care of him." "Very unlikely, I think." "May I ask, why?" "I do not know anybody that is the sort of man I could marry." "What do you require?" asked Mrs. Barclay. "A great deal, I suppose," said Lois slowly. "I have never studied that; I was not studying it just now. But I was thinking, what might be the best way of making myself of some use in the world. Foolish, too." "Why so?" "It is no use for us to lay plans for our lives; not much use for us to lay plans for anything. They are pretty sure to be broken up." "Yes," said Mrs. Barclay, sighing. "I wonder why!" "I suppose, because they do not fall in with God's plans for us." "His plans for us," repeated Mrs. Barclay slowly. "Do you believe in such things? That would mean, individual plans, Lois; for you individually, and for me?" "Yes, Mrs. Barclay--that is what I believe." "It is incomprehensible to me." "Why should it be?" "To think that the Highest should concern him self with such small details." "It is just because he is the Highest, and so high, that he can. Besides--do we know what _are_ small details?" "But why should he care what becomes of us?" said Mrs. Barclay gloomily. "O, do you ask that? When he is Love itself, and would have the very best things for each one of us?" "We don't have them, I am sure." "Because we will not, then. To have them, we must fall in with his plans." "My dear Lois, do you know that you are talking the profoundest mysteries?" "No. They are not mysteries to me. The Bible says all I have been saying." "That is sufficient for you, and you do not stop to look into the mystery. Lois, it is _all_ mystery. Look at all the wretched ruined lives one sees; what becomes of those plans for good for them?" "Failed, Mrs. Barclay; because of the people's unwillingness to come into the plans." "They do not know them!" "No, but they do know the steps which lead into them, and those steps they refuse to take." "I do not understand you. What steps?" "The Lord does not show us his plans. He shows us, one by one, the steps he bids us take. If we take them, one by one, they will bring us into all that God has purposed and meant for us--the very best that could come to us." "And you think his plans and purposes could be overthrown?" "Why, certainly. Else what mean Christ's lamentations over Jerusalem? 'O Jerusalem,... how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, and ye would not.' I would--ye would not; and the choice lies with us." "And suppose a person falls in with these plans, as you say, step by step?" "O, then it is all good," said Lois; "the way and the end; all good. There is no mistake nor misadventure." "Nor disaster?" "Not what turns out to be such." "Lois," said Mrs. Barclay, after a thoughtful pause, "you are a very happy person!" "Yes," said Lois, smiling; "and I have just told you the reason. Don't you see? I have no care about anything." "On your principles, I do not see what need you had to consider your future way of life; to speculate about it, I mean." "No," said Lois, rising, "I have not. Only sometimes one must look a little carefully at the parting of the ways, to see which road one is meant to take." "Sit down again. I did not come out here to talk of all this. I wanted to ask you something." Lois sat down. "I came to ask a favour." "How could you, Mrs. Barclay? I mean, nothing we could do could be a _favour_ to you!" "Yes, it could. I have a friend that wants to come to see me." "Well?" "May he come?" "Why, of course." "But it is a gentleman." "Well," said Lois again, smiling, "we have no objections to gentlemen." "It is a friend whom I have not seen in a very long while; a dear friend; a dear friend of my husband's in years gone by. He has just returned from Europe; and he writes to ask if he may call on his way to Boston and spend Sunday with me." "He shall be very welcome, Mrs. Barclay; and we will try to make him comfortable." "O, comfortable! there is no question of that. But will it not be at all inconvenient?" "Not in the least." "Then he may come?" "Certainly. When does he wish to come?" "This week--Saturday. His name is Dillwyn." "Dillwyn!" Lois repeated. "Dillwyn? I saw a Mr. Dillwyn at Mrs. Wishart's once or twice." "It must be the same. I do not know of two. And he knows Mrs. Wishart. So you remember him? What do you remember about him?" "Not much. I have an impression that he knows a great deal, and has very pleasant manners." "Quite right. That is the man. So he may come? Thank you." Lois took up one of her baskets of apples and carried it into the house, where she deposited it at Mrs. Armadale's feet. "They are beautiful this year, aren't they, mother? Girls, we are going to have a visitor." Charity was brushing up the floor; the broom paused. Madge was sewing; the needle remained drawn out. Both looked at Lois. "A visitor!" came from both pairs of lips. "Yes, indeed. A visitor. A gentleman. And he is coming to stay over Sunday. So, Charry, you must see and have things very special. And so must I." "A gentleman! Who is he? Uncle Tim?" "Not a bit of it. A young, at least a much younger, gentleman; a travelled gentleman; an elegant gentleman. A friend of Mrs. Barclay." "What are we to do with him?" "Nothing. Nothing whatever. We have nothing to do with him, and couldn't do it if we had." "You needn't laugh. We have got to lodge him and feed him." "That's easy. I'll put the white spread on the bed in the spare room; and you may get out your pickles." "Pickles! Is he fond of pickles?" "I don't know!" said Lois, laughing still. "I have an impression he is a man who likes all sorts of nice things." "I hate men who like nice things! But, Lois!--there will be Saturday tea, and Sunday breakfast and dinner and supper, and Monday morning breakfast." "Perhaps Monday dinner." "O, he can't stay to dinner." "Why not?" "It is washing day." "My dear Charry! to such men Monday is just like all other days; and washing is--well, of course, a necessity, but it is done by fairies, or it might be, for all they know about it." "There's five meals anyhow," Charity went on.--"Wouldn't it be a good plan to get uncle Tim to be here?" "What for?" "Why, we haven't a man in the house." "What then?" "Who'll talk to him?" "Mrs. Barclay will take care of that. You, Charity dear, see to your pickles." "I don't know what you mean," said Charity fretfully. "What are we going to have for dinner, Sunday? I could fricassee a pair of chickens." "No, Charity, you couldn't. Sunday is Sunday, just as much with Mr. Dillwyn here." "Dillwyn!" said Madge. "I've heard you speak of him." "Very likely. I saw him once or twice in my New York days." "And he gave you lunch." "Mrs. Wishart and me. Yes. And a good lunch it was. That's why I spoke of pickles, Charity. Do the very best you can." "I cannot do my best, unless I can cook the chickens," said Charity, who all this while stood leaning upon her broom. "I might do it for once." "Where is your leave to do wrong once?" "But this is a particular occasion--you may call it a necessity; and necessity makes an exception." "What is the necessity, Charity?" said Mrs. Armadale, who until now had not spoken. "Why, grandma, you want to treat a stranger well?" "With whatever I have got to give him. But Sunday time isn't mine to give." "But _necessary_ things, grandma?--we may do necessary things?" "What have you got in the house?" "Nothing on earth, except a ham to boil. Cold ham,--that's all. Do you think that's enough?" "It won't hurt him to dine on cold ham," the old lady said complacently. "Why don't you cook your chickens and have them cold too?" Lois asked. "Cold fricassee ain't worth a cent." "Cook them some other way. Roast them,--or-- Give them to me, and I'll do them for you! I'll do them, Charity. Then with your nice bread, and apple sauce, and potatoes, and some of my pears and apples, and a pumpkin pie, Charity, and coffee,--we shall do very well. Mr. Dillwyn has made a worse dinner in the course of his wanderings, I'll undertake to maintain." "What shall I have for supper?" Charity asked doubtfully. "Supper comes first." "Shortcake. And some of your cold ham. And stew up some quinces and apples together, Cherry. You don't want anything more,--or better." "Do you think he will understand having a cold dinner, Sunday?" Charity asked. "Men make so much of hot dinners." "What does it signify, my dear, whether he understands it or not?" said Mrs. Armadale. "What we have to do, is what the Lord tells us to do. That is all you need mind." "I mind what folks think, though," said Charity. "Mrs. Barclay's friend especially." "I do not think he will notice it," said simple Mrs. Armadale. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE VALUE OF MONEY. There was a little more bustle in the house than usual during the next two days; and the spare room was no doubt put in very particular order, with the best of all the house could furnish on the bed and toilet-table. Pantry and larder also were well stocked; and Lois was just watching the preparation of her chickens, Saturday evening, and therefore in the kitchen, when Mr. Dillwyn came to the door. Mrs. Barclay herself let him in, and brought him into her own warm, comfortable, luxurious-looking sitting-room. The evening was falling dusk, so that the little wood lire in Mrs. Barclay's chimney had opportunity to display itself, and I might say, the room too; which never could have showed to better advantage. The flickering light danced back again from gilded books, from the polished case of the piano, from picture frames, and pictures, and piles of music, and comfortable easy-chairs standing invitingly, and trinkets of art or curiosity; an unrolled engraving in one place, a stereoscope in another, a work-basket, and the bright brass stand of a microscope. The greeting was warm between the two friends; and then Mrs. Barclay sat down and surveyed her visitor, whom she had not seen for so long. He was not a beauty of Tom Caruthers' sort, but he was what I think better; manly and intelligent, and with an air and bearing of frank nobleness which became him exceedingly. That he was a man with a serious purpose in life, or any object of earnest pursuit, you would not have supposed; and that character had never belonged to him. Mrs. Barclay, looking at him, could not see any sign that it was his now. Look and manner were easy and careless as of old. "You are not changed," she remarked. "What should change me?" said he, while his eye ran rapidly over the apartment. "And you?--you do not look as if life was stagnating here." "It does not stagnate. I never was further from stagnation in all my life." "And yet Shampuashuh is in a corner!" "Is not most of the work of the world done in corners? It is not the butterfly, but the coral insect, that lays foundations and lifts up islands out of the sea." "You are not a coral insect any more than I am a butterfly," said Dillwyn, laughing. "Rather more." "I acknowledge it, thankfully. And I am rejoiced to know from your letters that the seclusion has been without any evil consequences to yourself. It has been pleasant?" "Royally pleasant. I have delighted in my building; even although I could not tell whether my island would not prove a dangerous one to mariners." "I have just been having a discourse on that subject with my sister. I think one's sisters are--I beg your pardon!--the mischief. Tom's sister has done for him; and mine is very eager to take care of me." "Did you consult her?" asked Mrs. Barclay, with surprise. "Nothing of the kind! I merely told her I was coming up here to see you. A few questions followed, as to what you were doing here,--which I did not tell her, by the way,--and she hit the bull's eye with the instinctive accuracy of a woman; poured out upon me in consequence a lecture upon imprudence. Of course I confessed to nothing, but that mattered not. All that Tom's sister urged upon him, my good sister pressed upon me." "So did I once, did I not?" "You are not going to repeat it?" "No; that is over, for me. I know better. But, Philip, I do not see the way very clear before you." He left the matter there, and went off into a talk with her upon widely-different subjects, touching or growing out of his travels and experiences during the last year and a half. The twilight darkened, and the fire brightened, and in the light of the fire the two sat and talked; till a door opened, and in the same flickering shine a figure presented itself which Mr. Dillwyn remembered. Though now it was clothed in nothing finer than a dark calico, and round her shoulders a little white worsted shawl was twisted. Mrs. Barclay began a sentence of introduction, but Mr. Dillwyn cut her short. "Do not do me such dishonour," he said. "Must I suppose that Miss Lothrop has forgotten me?" "Not at all, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois frankly; "I remember you very well. Tea will be ready in a minute--would you like to see your room first?" "You are too kind, to receive me!" "It is a pleasure. You are Mrs. Barclay's friend, and she is at home here; I will get a light." Which she did, and Mr. Dillwyn, seeing he could not find his own way, was obliged to accept her services and see her trip up the stairs before him. At the door she handed him the light and ran down again. There was a fire here too--a wood fire; blazing hospitably, and throwing its cheery light upon a wide, pleasant, country room, not like what Mr. Dillwyn was accustomed to, but it seemed the more hospitable. Nothing handsome there; no articles of luxury (beside the fire); the reflection of the blaze came back from dark old-fashioned chairs and chests of drawers, dark chintz hangings to windows and bed, white counterpane and napery, with a sonsy, sober, quiet air of comfort; and the air was fresh and sweet as air should be, and as air can only be at a distance from the smoke of many chimneys and the congregated habitations of many human beings. I do not think Mr. Dillwyn spent much attention upon these details; yet he felt himself in a sound, clear, healthy atmosphere, socially as well as physically; also had a perception that it was very far removed from that in which he had lived and breathed hitherto. How simply that girl had lighted him up the stairs, and given him his brass candlestick at the door of his room! What _à plomb_ could have been more perfect! I do not mean to imply that Mr. Dillwyn knew the candlestick was brass; I am afraid there was a glamour over his eyes which made it seem golden. He found Mrs. Barclay seated in a very thoughtful attitude before her fire, when he came down again; but just then the door of the other room was opened, and they were called in to tea. The family were in rather gala trim. Lois, as I said, wore indeed only a dark print dress, with her white fichu over it; but Charity had put on her best silk, and Madge had stuck two golden chrysanthemums in her dark hair (with excellent effect), and Mrs. Armadale was stately in her best cap. Alas! Philip Dillwyn did not know what any of them had on. He was placed next to Mrs. Armadale, and all supper time his special attention, so far as appeared, was given to the old lady. He talked to her, and he served her, with an easy, pleasant grace, and without at all putting himself forward or taking the part of the distinguished stranger. It was simply good will and good breeding; however, it produced a great effect. "The air up here is delicious!" he remarked, after he had attended to all the old lady's immediate wants, and applied himself to his own supper. "It gives one a tremendous appetite." "I allays like to see folks eat," said Mrs. Armadale. "After one's done the gettin' things ready, I hate to have it all for nothin'." "It shall not be for nothing this time, as far as I am concerned." "Ain't the air good in New York?" Mrs. Armadale next asked. "I do not think it ever was so sweet as this. But when you crowd a million or so of people into room that is only enough for a thousand, you can guess what the consequences must be." "What do they crowd up so for, then?" "It must be the case in a great city." "I don't see the sense o' that," said Mrs. Armadale. "Ain't the world big enough?" "Far too big," said Mr. Dillwyn. "You see, when people's time is very valuable, they cannot afford to spend too much of it in running about after each other." "What makes their time worth any more'n our'n?" "They are making money so fast with it." "And is _that_ what makes folks' time valeyable?" "In their opinion, madam." "I never could see no use in havin' much money," said the old lady. "But there comes a question," said Dillwyn. "What is 'much'?" "More'n enough, I should say." "Enough for what? That also must be settled." "I'm an old-fashioned woman," said the old lady, "and I go by the old-fashionedst book in the world. That says, 'we brought nothing into this world, and we can carry nothing out; therefore, having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.'" "But, again, what sort of food, and what sort of raiment?" urged the gentleman pleasantly. "For instance; would you be content to exchange this delicious manufacture,--which seems to me rather like ambrosia than common food,--for some of the black bread of Norway? with no qualification of golden butter? or for Scotch oatmeal bannocks? or for sour corn cake?" "I would be quite content, if it was the Lord's will," said the old lady. "There's no obligation upon anybody to have it _sour_." Mr. Dillwyn laughed gently. "I can fancy," he said, "that you never would allow such a dereliction in duty. But, beside having the bread sweet, is it not allowed us to have the best we can get?" "The best we can _make_," answered Mrs. Armadale; "I believe in everybody doin' the best he kin with what he has got to work with; but food ain't worth so much that we should pay a large price for it." The gentleman's eye glanced with a scarcely perceptible movement over the table at which he was sitting. Bread, indeed, in piles of white flakiness; and butter; but besides, there was the cold ham in delicate slices, and excellent-looking cheese, and apples in a sort of beautiful golden confection, and cake of superb colour and texture; a pitcher of milk that was rosy sweet, and coffee rich with cream. The glance that took all this in was slight and swift, and yet the old lady was quick enough to see and understand it. "Yes," she said, "it's all our'n, all there is on the table. Our cow eats our own grass, and Madge, my daughter, makes the butter and the cheese. We've raised and cured our own pork; and the wheat that makes the bread is grown on our ground too; we farm it out on shares; and it is ground at a mill about four miles off. Our hens lay our eggs; it's all from home." "But suppose the case of people who have no ground, nor hens, nor pork, nor cow? they must buy." "Of course," said the old lady; "everybody ain't farmers." "I am ready to wish I was one," said Dillwyn. "But even then, I confess, I should want coffee and tea and sugar--as I see you. do." "Well, those things don't grow in America," said Mrs. Armadale. "And spice don't, neither, mother," observed Charity. "So it appears that even you send abroad for luxuries," Mr. Dillwyn went on. "And why not? And the question is, where shall we stop? If I want coffee, I must have money to buy it, and the better the coffee the more money; and the same with tea. In cities we must buy all we use or consume, unless one is a butcher or a baker. May I not try to get more money, in order that I may have better things? We have got round to our starting-point." "'They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" Mrs. Armadale said quietly. "Then where is the line?--Miss Lois, you are smiling. Is it at my stupidity?" "No," said Lois. "I was thinking of a lunch--such as I have seen it--in one of the great New York hotels." "Well?" said he, without betraying on his own part any recollection; "how does that come in? By way of illustrating Mrs. Armadale, or me?" "I seem to remember a number of things that illustrate both," said Lois; "but as I profited by them at the time, it would be ungrateful in me to instance them now." "You profited by them with pleasure, or otherwise?" "Not otherwise. I was very hungry." "You evade my question, however." "I will not. I profited by them with much pleasure." "Then you are on my side, as far as I can be said to have a side?" "I think not. The pleasure is undoubted; but I do not know that that touches the question of expediency." "I think it does. I think it settles the question. Mrs. Armadale, your granddaughter confesses the pleasure; and what else do we live for, but to get the most good out of life?" "What pleasure does she confess?" asked the old lady, with more eagerness than her words hitherto had manifested. "Pleasure in nice things, grandmother; in particularly nice things; that had cost a great deal to fetch them from nobody knows where; and pleasure in pretty things too. That hotel seemed almost like the halls of Aladdin to my inexperienced eyes. There is certainly pleasure in a wonderfully dainty meal, served in wonderful vessels of glass and china and silver, and marble and gold and flowers to help the effect. I could have dreamed myself into a fairy tale, often, if it had not been for the people." "Life is not a fairy tale," said Mrs. Armadale somewhat severely. "No, grandmother; and so the humanity present generally reminded me. But the illusion for a minute was delightful." "Is there any harm in making it as much like a fairy tale as we can?" Some of the little courtesies and hospitalities of the table came in here, and Mr. Dillwyn's question received no answer. His eye went round the table. No, clearly these people did not live in fairyland, and as little in the search after it. Good, strong, sensible, practical faces; women that evidently had their work to do, and did it; habitual energy and purpose spoke in every one of them, and purpose _attained_. Here was no aimless dreaming or fruitless wishing. The old lady's face was sorely weather-beaten, but calm as a ship in harbour. Charity was homely, but comfortable. Madge and Lois were blooming in strength and activity, and as innocent apparently of any vague, unfulfilled longings as a new-blown rose. Only when Mr. Dillwyn's eye met Mrs. Barclay's he was sensible of a different record. He half sighed. The calm and the rest were not there. The talk rambled on. Mr. Dillwyn made him self exceedingly pleasant; told of things he had seen in his travels, things and people, and ways of life; interesting even Mrs. Armadale with a sort of fascinated interest, and gaining, he knew, no little share of her good-will. So, just as the meal was ending, he ventured to bring forward the old subject again. "You will pardon me, Mrs. Armadale," he began,--"but you are the first person I ever met who did not value money." "Perhaps I am the first person you ever met who had something better." "You mean--?" said Philip, with a look of inquiry. "I do not understand." "I have treasure in heaven." "But the coin of that realm is not current here?--and we are _here_." "That coin makes me rich now; and I take it with me when I go," said the old lady, as she rose from the table. CHAPTER XXXIV. UNDER AN UMBRELLA. Mrs. Barclay returned to her own room, and Mr. Dillwyn was forced to follow her. The door was shut between them and the rest of the household. Mrs. Barclay trimmed her fire, and her guest looked on absently. Then they sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace; Mrs. Barclay smiling inwardly, for she knew that Philip was impatient; however, nothing could be more sedate to all appearance than she was. "Do you hear how the wind moans in the chimney?" she said. "That means rain." "Rather dismal, isn't it?" "No. In this house nothing is dismal. There is a wholesome way of looking at everything." "Not at money?" "It is no use, Philip, to talk to people about what they cannot understand." "I thought understanding on that point was universal." "They have another standard in this family for weighing things, from that which you and I have been accustomed to go by." "What is it?" "I can hardly tell you, in a word. I am not sure that I can tell you at all. Ask Lois." "When can I ask her? Do you spend your evenings alone?" "By no means! Sometimes I go out and read 'Rob Roy' to them. Sometimes the girls come to me for some deeper reading, or lessons." "Will they come to-night?" "Of course not! They would not interfere with your enjoyment of my society." "Cannot you ask Lois in, on some pretext?" "Not without her sister. It is hard on you, Philip! I will do the best for you I can; but you must watch your opportunity." Mr. Dillwyn gave it up with a good grace, and devoted himself to Mrs. Barclay for the rest of the evening. On the other side of the wall separating the two rooms, meanwhile a different colloquy had taken place. "So that is one of your fine people?" said Miss Charity. "Well, I don't think much of him." "I have no doubt he would return the compliment," said Madge. "No," said Lois; "I think he is too polite." "He was polite to grandmother," returned Charity. "Not to anybody else, that I saw. But, girls, didn't he like the bread!" "I thought he liked everything pretty well," said Madge. "When's he goin'?" Mrs. Armadale asked suddenly. "Monday, some time," Madge answered. "Mrs. Barclay said 'until Monday.' What time Monday I don't know." "Well, we've got things enough to hold out till then," said Charity, gathering up her dishes. "It's fun, too; I like to set a nice table." "Why, grandmother?" said Lois. "Don't you like Mrs. Barclay's friend?" "Well enough, child. I don't want him for none of our'n." "Why, grandmother?" said Madge. "His world ain't our world, children, and his hopes ain't our hopes--if the poor soul has any. 'Seems to me he's all in the dark." "That's only on one subject," said Lois. "About everything else he knows a great deal; and he has seen everything." "Yes," said Mrs. Armadale; "very like he has; and he likes to talk about it; and he has a pleasant tongue; and he is a civil man. But there's one thing he hain't seen, and that is the light; and one thing he don't know, and that is happiness. And he may have plenty of money--I dare say he has; but he's what I call a poor man. I don't want you to have no such friends." "But grandmother, you do not dislike to have him in the house these two days, do you?" "It can't be helped, my dear, and we'll do the best for him we can. But I don't want _you_ to have no such friends." "I believe we should go out of the world to suit grandmother," remarked Charity. "She won't think us safe as long as we're in it." The whole family went to church the next morning. Mr. Dillwyn's particular object, however, was not much furthered. He saw Lois, indeed, at the breakfast table; and the sight was everything his fancy had painted it. He thought of Milton's "Pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure"-- only the description did not quite fit; for there was a healthy, sweet freshness about Lois which gave the idea of more life and activity, mental and bodily, than could consort with a pensive character. The rest fitted pretty well; and the lines ran again and again through Mr. Dillwyn's head. Lois was gone to church long before the rest of the family set out; and in church she did not sit with the others; and she did not come home with them. However, she was at dinner. But immediately after dinner Mrs. Barclay with drew again into her own room, and Mr. Dillwyn had no choice but to accompany her. "What now?" he asked. "What do you do the rest of the day?" "I stay at home and read. Lois goes to Sunday school." Mr. Dillwyn looked to the windows. The rain Mrs. Barclay threatened had come; and had already begun in a sort of fury, in company with a wind, which drove it and beat it, as it seemed, from all points of the compass at once. The lines of rain-drops went slantwise past the windows, and then beat violently upon them; the ground was wet in a few minutes; the sky was dark with its thick watery veils. Wind and rain were holding revelry. "She will not go out in this weather," said the gentleman, with conviction which seemed to be agreeable. "The weather will not hinder her," returned Mrs. Barclay. "_This_ weather?" "No. Lois does not mind weather. I have learned to know her by this time. Where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought to do, there no hindrance will stop her. It is good you should learn to know her too, Philip." "Pray tell me,--is the question of 'ought' never affected by what should be legitimate hindrances?" "They are never credited with being legitimate," Mrs. Barclay said, with a slight laugh. "The principle is the same as that old soldier's who said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'Sir, if it is possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, it _must_ be done!'" "That will do for a soldier,", said Dillwyn. "At what o'clock does she go?" "In about a quarter of an hour I shall expect to hear her feet pattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shut without noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows." Mr. Dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; for when, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproof cloak did pass softly through the hall, he came out of Mrs. Barclay's room and confronted it; and I think his overcoat was on. "Miss Lois! you cannot be going out in this storm?" "O yes. The storm is nothing--only something to fight against." "But it blows quite furiously." "I don't dislike a wind," said Lois, laying her hand on the lock of the door. "You have no umbrella?" "Don't need it. I am all protected, don't you see? Mr. Dillwyn, _you_ are not going out?" "Why not?" "But you have nothing to call you out?" "I beg your pardon. The same thing, I venture to presume, that calls you out,--duty. Only in my case the duty is pleasure." "You are not going to take care of me?" "Certainly." "But there's no need. Not the least in the world." "From your point of view." He was so alertly ready, had the door open and his umbrella spread, and stood outside waiting for her, Lois did not know how to get rid of him. She would surely have done it if she could. So she found herself going up the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off the wind and rain from her face. It was vexatious and amusing. From her face! who had faced Sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember. It is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you are accustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. It is also agreeable. "You had better take my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I could shield you better." "Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as well take the good of it." And then Mr. Dillwyn had got things as he wanted them. "I ventured to assume, a little while ago, Miss Lois, that duty was taking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know what duty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, you can rebuke it." "It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible class, in the upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church." "I understood it was something of that kind, or I should not have asked. But in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?" "Yes, they would. At any rate, I am bound to show that I expect them." "_Do_ you expect them, to come out to-day?" "Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, still I must be there." "Why?--if you will pardon me for asking." "It is good they should know that I am regular and to be depended on. And, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest in the work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this world at one's best, that one is bound to do all one can." "All one can," Mr. Dillwyn repeated. "You cannot put it at a lower figure. I was struck with a word in one of Mrs. Barclay's books--'the Life and Correspondence of John Foster,'--'Power, to its very last particle, is duty.'" "But that would be to make life a terrible responsibility." "Say noble--not terrible!" said Lois. "I confess it seems to me terrible also. I do not see how you can get rid of the element of terribleness." "Yes,--if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done." "Who does his duty, at that rate?" "Some people _try_," said Lois. "And that trying must make life a servitude." "Service--not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the same wholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticed before. "How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inward smile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too. "There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all the distance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her, "I will walk at liberty, _for I seek thy precepts;_" but she judged they would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation from him, so she did not speak them. "_Service_," she went on, "I think is one of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be rendered servilely. It must be free, from the heart." "You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one's fellow creatures?" "No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. It will work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course." "Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn. "But very real! And very essential." "Is there not service--true service--that is given wholly to one's needy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such." "There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not the true. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; and is found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. True service, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where it is sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever to fail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything." "How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the words soberly?" "Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing. "Giving all what?" "All one's power,--according to Foster's judgment of it." "Do you know what that would end in?" "I think I do. How do you mean?" "Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave _all_ he had?" "Yes, of course I do." "What would be left for himself?" Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk and stood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion. And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to give them. "There would be left for him--all that the riches and love of God could do for his child." Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simple unconsciousness,--and for the moment did not think of replying. Then Lois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on. "I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do. Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, I think, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better than myself." "I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I do _not_ know better?" he said. "I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quite excuse me. Only--I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn." "Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be so interesting to you as it is to me." "I think I have said enough," said Lois, a little shyly. "No, not enough, for I want to know more. The sentence you quoted from Foster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves all the world with terrible arrears of obligation." "Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly,--"duty unfulfilled _is_ terrible. But, not 'all the world,' Mr. Dillwyn." "You are an exception." "I did not mean myself. I do not suppose I do all I ought to do. I do try to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who do better." "You agree then, that one is not bound by duties _unknown?_" Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," she said. "What should hinder any one from knowing his duty, Mr. Dillwyn." "Suppose a case of pure ignorance." "Then let ignorance study." "Study what?" "Mr. Dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better." "I do not know any such somebody." "Haven't you a Christian among all your friends?" "I have not a friend in the world, of whom I could ask such a question with the least hope of having it answered." "Where is your minister?" "My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wanderer over the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'" Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talking fast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement. "We shall have to stop talking now," Lois said, "for we are near my place." "Which is your place?" "Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that for our meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire for me." "You will let me come in?" "You?" said Lois. "O no! Nobody is there but my class." "You will let me be one of them to-day? Seriously,--I am going to wait to see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?" "I shall bid you go home," said Lois, laughing. "I am not going to do that." "Seriously, Mr. Dillwyn, I do not need the least care." "Perhaps. But I must look at the matter from my point of view." What a troublesome man! thought Lois; but then they were at the schoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, that it seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwyn went in with her, and how to turn him out Lois did not know. It was a bare little place. The sanded floor gave little help or seeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the place habitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there. Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and it was no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder. "Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, as far from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes nor ears? You must not be seen to have either--by any use you make of them. If you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. You can keep up the fire for us." She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyed orders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthest corner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears should be hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude might have suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation on things far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois and her six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, which was too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctly heard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyn desired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he must not be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve both purposes, of seeing and not seeing. The hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extended itself to full an hour and a half. He gave as close attention as ever when a student in college he had given to lecture or lesson. And yet, though he did this, Mr. Dillwyn was not, at least not at the time, thinking much of the matter of the lesson. He was studying the lecturer. And the study grew intense. It was not flattering to perceive, as he soon did, that Lois had entirely forgotten his presence. He saw it by the free unconcern with which she did her work, as well as in the absorbed interest she gave to it. Not flattering, and it cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his present purpose of observation. So he watched,--and listened. He heard the sweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, it is true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter than usual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mental harmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. It contrasted with the other voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, too high pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are apt to be. From the voices, Mr. Dillwyn's attention was drawn to what the voices said. And here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal to interest him. Those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to be acute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented to them, often cunning to deal with it. Mr. Dillwyn was in danger of smiling, more than once. And Lois met them, if not with the skill of a practised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and a woman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, and tact, and gentleness, and wisdom. It was something delightful to hear her soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under their softness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, and eagerness too; for Lois was talking with all her heart. Mr. Dillwyn lost his wonder that her class came out in the rain; he only wished he could be one of them, and have the privilege too! It was impossible but that with all this mental observation Mr. Dillwyn's eyes should also take notice of the fair exterior before them. They would not have been worthy to see it else. Lois had laid off her bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a little loosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be called disorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, full masses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. Nothing could be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eye noted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of every movement and attitude. The charm that comes, and always must come, from inward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence of consciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by any perfection of the physical structure. Then the tints of absolute health, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in such sweet modulations-- What a woman was this! Mr. Dillwyn could see, too, the effect of Mrs. Barclay's work. He was sure he could. The whole giving of that Bible lesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even the management of the voice told of it. Here was not a fine machine, sound and good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating to get it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running told how well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, and the schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that was Lois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp of a strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it was fancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once for all; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yet ungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made no difference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. He hardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her class, but as she came up to him he rose. "I have kept you too long, Mr. Dillwyn; but I could not help it; and really, you know, it was your own fault." "Not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak and handed her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Lois would have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it which even then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but the walk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind were unchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as they more nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven against them with greater fury. Lois was fain to cling to her companion's arm, and the umbrella had to be handled with discretion. But the storm had been violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which made the difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were now almost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing she had been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? And what gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though she felt it in every fibre of her being. And Mr. Dillwyn did not know, though the cause lay in him. He was taking care of Lois; he had been taking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as a man only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful of her, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, which Lois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. It was something she had never touched before in her life, and did not now know what it meant; at least I should say her _reason_ did not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuition of recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. This was nothing like Tom Caruthers, and anything she had received from him. Tom had been flattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, and no demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. It was the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of all the world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the most subtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; which the one renders and the other receives, without either being able to tell how it is done. The more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. Lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and did not know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompass her. She was ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; did not know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; could not guess why she was sorry to get home. Yet the fact was before her as she stepped in. "It has done you no harm!" said Mr. Dillwyn, smiling, as he met Lois's eyes, and saw her fresh, flushed cheeks. "Are you wet?" "I think not at all." "This must come off, however," he went on, proceeding to unfasten her cloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." And Lois submitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet on one side, to be taken off her. "Where is this to go? there seems to be no place to hang it here." "O, I will hang it up to dry in the kitchen, thank you," said Lois, offering to take it. "_I_ will hang it up to dry in the kitchen,--if you will show me the way. You cannot handle it." Lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wet or dry make any difference to her? However, she did not on this occasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docility preceded Mr. Dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were Mrs. Armadale and Madge, to the kitchen beyond, where Charity was just putting on the tea-kettle. CHAPTER XXXV. OPINIONS. Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a less entertaining man this evening than he had been during the former part of his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at the tea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into no discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclay looked at Lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there. Always on Sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity. The rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. It had become a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, and she and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, varied exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn and psaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally came first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs. Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Lois both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs. Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philip joined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could do in the Episcopal church." "Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philip absently. "Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folks won't practise." "I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts _are_ in it," said Mrs. Armadale. "But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said Dillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert this evening." "Was your'n in it?" asked Mrs. Armadale abruptly. "My heart? In the words? I am afraid I must own it was not, in the way you mean, madam. If I must answer truth." "Don't you always speak truth?" "I believe I may say, that _is_ my habit," Philip answered, smiling. "Then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean 'em?" The question looks abrupt, on paper. It did not sound equally so. Something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman forgive her on the spot. He sat down beside her. "Would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?" "It's not my place to bid or forbid. But you can judge for yourself. Do you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?" "I made no professions." "Ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?" "If you will forgive me--I did not say it," responded Philip. "Ain't singin' sayin'?" "They are generally looked upon as essentially different. People are never held responsible for the things they sing,--out of church," added Philip, smiling. "Is it otherwise with church singing?" "What's church singin' good for, then?" "I thought it was to put the minds of the worshippers in a right state;--to sober and harmonize them." "I thought it was to tell the Lord how we felt," said the old lady. "That is a new view of it, certainly." "_I_ thought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" said Charity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you had _your_ way; and then we should have nice music!" "I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind of sober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring of truth was there, at any rate. "Could the world be managed," he said, with very gentle deference; "could the world be managed on such principles of truth and purity? Must we not take people as we find them?" "Those are the Lord's principles," said Mrs. Armadale. "Yes, but you know how the world is. Must we not, a little, as I said, take people as we find them?" "The Lord won't do that," said the old lady. "He will either make them better, or he will cast them away." "But we? We must deal with things as they are." "How are you goin' to deal with 'em?" "In charity and kindness; having patience with what is wrong, and believing that the good God will have more patience yet." "You had better believe what he tells you," the old lady answered, somewhat sternly. "But grandmother," Lois put in here, "he _does_ have patience." "With whom, child?" Lois did not answer; she only quoted softly the words-- "'Plenteous in mercy, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth.'" "Ay, child; but you know what happens to the houses built on the sand." The party broke up here, Mrs. Barclay bidding good-night and leaving the dining-room, whither they had all gone to eat apples. As Philip parted from Lois he remarked,-- "I did not understand the allusion in Mrs. Armadale's last words." Lois's look fascinated him. It was just a moment's look, pausing before turning away; swift with eagerness and intent with some hidden feeling which he hardly comprehended. She only said,-- "Look in the end of the seventh chapter of Matthew." "Well," said Mrs. Barclay, when the door was closed, "what do you think of our progress?" "Progress?" repeated Philip vacantly. "I beg your pardon!"-- "In music, man!" said Mrs. Barclay, laughing. "O!--Admirable. Have you a Bible here?" "A Bible?" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "Yes--there is a Bible in every room, I believe. Yonder, on that table. Why? what do you want of one now?" "I have had a sermon preached to me, and I want to find the text." Mrs. Barclay asked no further, but she watched him, as with the book in his hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. Studied with grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and pondering with eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. Then he bade her good-night with a smile, and went away. He went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversation in the village his visit lasted a good while. That same evening Mrs. Marx came to make a call, just before supper. "How much pork are you goin' to want this year, mother?" she began, with the business of one who had been stirring her energies with a walk in a cool wind. "I suppose, about as usual," said Mrs. Armadale. "I forget how much that is; I can't keep it in my head from one year to another. Besides, I didn't know but you'd want an extra quantity, if your family was goin' to be larger." "It is not going to be larger, as I know." "If my pork ain't, I shall come short home. It beats me! I've fed 'em just the same as usual,--and the corn's every bit as good as usual, never better; good big fat yellow ears, that had ought to make a porker's heart dance for joy; and I should think they were sufferin' from continual lowness o' spirits, to judge by the way they _don't_ get fat. They're growing real long-legged and slab-sided--just the way I hate to see pigs look. I don' know what's the matter with 'em." "Where do you keep 'em?" "Under the barn--just where they always be. Well, you've had a visitor?" "Mrs. Barclay has." "I understood 'twas her company; but you saw him?" "We saw him as much as she did," put in Charity. "What's he like?" Nobody answered. "Is he one of your high-flyers?" "I don't know what you call high-flyers, aunt Anne," said Madge. "He was a gentleman." "What do you mean by _that?_ I saw some 'gentlemen' last summer at Appledore--and I don't want to see no more. Was he that kind?" "I wasn't there," said Madge, "and can't tell. I should have no objection to see a good many of them, if he is." "I heard he went to Sunday School with Lois, through the rain." "How did you know?" said Lois. "Why shouldn't I know?" "I thought nobody was out but me." "Do you think folks will see an umbrella walkin' up street in the rain, and not look to see if there's somebody under it?" "_I_ shouldn't," said Lois. "When should an umbrella be out walking, but in the rain?" "Well, go along. What sort of a man is he? and what brings him to Shampuashuh?" "He came to see Mrs. Barclay," said Madge. "He's a sort of man you are willin' to take trouble for," said Charity. "Real nice, and considerate; and to hear him talk, it is as good as a book; and he's awfully polite. You should have seen him marching in here with Lois's wet cloak, out to the kitchen with it, and hangin' it up. So to pay, I turned round and hung up his'n. One good turn deserves another, I told him. But at first, I declare, I thought I couldn't keep from laughin'." Mrs. Marx laughed a little here. "I know the sort," she said. "Wears kid gloves always and a little line of hair over his upper lip, and is lazy like. I would lose all my patience to have one o' them round for long, smokin' a cigar every other thing, and poisonin' all the air for half a mile." "I think he _is_ sort o' lazy," said Charity. "He don't smoke," said Lois. "Yes he does," said Madge. "I found an end of cigar just down by the front steps, when I was sweeping." "I don't think he's a lazy man, either," said Lois. "That slow, easy way does not mean laziness." "What does it mean?" inquired Mrs. Marx sharply. "It is nothing to us what it means," said Mrs. Armadale, speaking for the first time. "We have no concern with this man. He came to see Mrs. Barclay, his friend, and I suppose he'll never come again." "Why shouldn't he come again, mother?" said Charity. "If she's his friend, he might want to see her more than once, seems to me. And what's more, he _is_ coming again. I heard him askin' her if he might; and then Mrs. Barclay asked me if it would be convenient, and I said it would, of course. He said he would be comin' back from Boston in a few weeks, and he would like to stop again as he went by. And do you know _I_ think she coloured. It was only a little, but she ain't a woman to blush much; and _I_ believe she knows why he wants to come, as well as he does." "Nonsense, Charity!" said Madge incredulously. "Then half the world are busy with nonsense, that's all I have to say; and I'm glad for my part I've somethin' better to do." "Do you say he's comin' again?" inquired Mrs. Armadale. "He says so, mother." "What for?" "Why, to visit his friend Mrs. Barclay, of course." "She is our friend," said the old lady; "and her friends must be entertained; but he is not _our_ friend, children. We ain't of his kind, and he ain't of our'n." "What's the matter? Ain't he good?" asked Mrs. Marx. "He's _very_ good!" said Madge. "Not in grandmother's way," said Lois softly. "Mother," said Mrs. Marx, "you can't have everybody cut out on your pattern." Mrs. Armadale made no answer. "And there ain't enough o' your pattern to keep one from bein' lonesome, if we're to have nothin' to do with the rest." "Better so," said the old lady. "I don't want no company for my chil'en that won't help 'em on the road to heaven. They'll have company enough when they get there." "And how are you goin' to be the salt o' the earth, then, if you won't touch nothin'?" "How, if the salt loses its saltness, daughter?" "Well, mother, it always puzzles me, that there's so much to be said on both sides of things! I'll go home and think about it. Then he ain't one o' your Appledore friends, Lois?" "Not one of my friends at all, aunt Anne." So the talk ended. There was a little private extension of it that evening, when Lois and Madge went up to bed. "It's a pity grandma is so sharp about things," the latter remarked to her sister. "Things?" said Lois. "What things?" "Well--people. Don't you like that Mr. Dillwyn?" "Yes." "So do I. And she don't want us to have anything to do with him." "But she is right," said Lois. "He is not a Christian." "But one can't live only with Christians in this world. And, Lois, I'll tell you what I think; he is a great deal pleasanter than a good many Christians I know." "He is good company," said Lois. "He has seen a great deal and read a great deal, and he knows how to talk. That makes him pleasant." "Well, he's a great deal more improving to be with than anybody I know in Shampuashuh." "In one way." "Why shouldn't one have the pleasure, then, and the good, if he isn't a Christian?" "The pleasanter he is, I suppose the more danger, grandmother would think." "Danger of what?" "You know, Madge, it is not my say-so, nor even grandmother's. You know, Christians are not of the world." "But they must _see_ the world." "If we were to see much of that sort of person, we might get to wishing to see them always." "By 'that sort of person' I suppose you mean Mr. Dillwyn? Well, I have got so far as that already. I wish I could see such people always." "I am sorry." "Why? You ought to be glad at my good taste." "I am sorry, because you are wishing for what you cannot have." "How do you know that? You cannot tell what may happen." "Madge, a man like Mr. Dillwyn would never think of a girl like you or me." "I am not wanting him to think of me," said Madge rather hotly. "But, Lois, if you come to that, I think I--and you--are fit for anybody." "Yes," said Lois quietly. "I think so too. But _they_ do not take the same view. And if they did, Madge, we could not think of them." "Why not?--_if_ they did. I do not hold quite such extreme rules as you and grandmother do." "And the Bible."-- "Other people do not think the Bible is so strict." "You know what the words are, Madge." "I don't know what the words mean." Lois was brushing out the thick masses of her beautiful hair, which floated about over her in waves of golden brown; and Madge had been thinking, privately, that if anybody could have just that view of Lois, his scruples--if he had any--would certainly give way. Now, at her sister's last words, however, Lois laid down her brush, and, coming up, laid hold of Madge by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shaking. It ended in something of a romp, but Lois declared Madge should never say such a thing again. CHAPTER XXXVI. TWO SUNDAY SCHOOLS. Lois was inclined now to think it might be quite as well if something hindered Mr. Dillwyn's second visit. She did not wonder at Madge's evident fascination; she had felt the same herself long ago, and in connection with other people; the charm of good breeding and gracious manners, and the habit of the world, even apart from knowledge and cultivation and the art of conversation. Yes, Mr. Dillwyn was a good specimen of this sort of attraction; and for a moment Lois's imagination recalled that day's two walks in the rain; then she shook off the impression. Two poor Shampuashuh girls were not likely to have much to do with that sort of society, and--it was best they should not. It would be just as well if Mr. Dillwyn was hindered from coming again. But he came. A month had passed; it was the beginning of December when he knocked next at the door, and cold and grey and cloudy and windy as it is December's character in certain moods to be. The reception he got was hearty in proportion; fires were larger, the table even more hospitably spread; Mrs. Barclay even more cordial, and the family atmosphere not less genial. Nevertheless the visit, for Mr. Dillwyn's special ends, was hardly satisfactory. He could get no private speech with Lois. She was always "busy;" and at meal-times it was obviously impossible, and would have been impolitic, to pay any particular attention to her. Philip did not attempt it. He talked rather to every one else; made himself delightful company; but groaned in secret. "Cannot you make some excuse for getting her in here?" he asked Mrs. Barclay at evening. "Not without her sister." "With her sister, then." "They are very busy just now preparing some thing they call 'apple butter.' It's unlucky, Philip. I am very sorry. I always told you your way looked to me intricate." Fortune favoured him, however, in an unexpected way. After a day passed in much inward impatience, for he had not got a word with Lois, and he had no excuse for prolonging his stay beyond the next day, as they sat at supper, the door opened, and in came two ladies. Mr. Dillwyn was formally presented to one of them as to "my aunt, Mrs. Marx;" the other was named as "Mrs. Seelye." The latter was a neat, brisk little body, with a capable air and a mien of business; all whose words came out as if they had been nicely picked and squared, and sorted and packed, and served in order. "Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Armadale" she began, in a chirruping little voice. Indeed, her whole air was that of a notable little hen looking after her chickens. Charity assured her it was no interruption. "Mrs. Seelye and I had our tea hours ago," said Mrs. Marx. "I had muffins for her, and we ate all we could then. We don't want no more now. We're on business." "Yes," said Mrs. Seelye. "Mrs. Marx and I, we've got to see everybody, pretty much; and there ain't much time to do it in; so you see we can't choose, and we just come here to see what you'll do for us." "What do you want us to do for you, Mrs. Seelye?" Lois asked. "Well, I don't know; only all you can. We want your counsel, and then your help. Mr. Seelye he said, Go to the Lothrop girls first. I didn't come _first_, 'cause there was somebody else on my way here; but this is our fourth call, ain't it, Mrs. Marx?" "I thought I'd never get you away from No. 3," was the answer. "They were very much interested,--and I wanted to make them all understand--it was important that they should all understand--" "And there are different ways of understanin'," added Mrs. Marx; "and there are a good many of 'em--the Hicks's, I mean; and so, when we thought we'd got it all right with one, we found somebody else was in a fog; and then _he_ had to be fetched out." "But we are all in a fog," said Madge, laughing. "What are you coming to? and what are we to understand?" "We have a little plan," said Mrs. Seelye. "It'll be a big one, before we get through with it," added her coadjutor. "Nobody'll be frightened here if you call it a big one to start with, Mrs. Seelye. I like to look things in the face." "So do we," said Mrs. Armadale, with a kind of grim humour,--"if you will give us a chance." "Well, it's about the children," said Mrs. Seelye. "Christmas--" added Mrs. Marx. "Be quiet, Anne," said her mother. "Go on, Mrs. Seelye. Whose children?" "I might say, they are all Mr. Seelye's children," said the little lady, laughing; "and so they are in a way, as they are all belonging to his church. He feels he is responsible for the care of 'em, and he _don't_ want to lose 'em. And that's what it's all about, and how the plan came up." "How's he goin' to lose 'em?" Mrs. Armadale asked, beginning now to knit again. "Well, you see the other church is makin' great efforts; and they're goin' to have a tree." "What sort of a tree? and what do they want a tree for?" "Why, a fir tree!"--and, "Why, a Christmas tree!" cried the two ladies who advocated the "plan," both in a breath. "Mother don't know about that," Mrs. Marx went on. "It's a new fashion, mother,--come up since your day. They have a green tree, planted in a tub, and hung with all sorts of things to make it look pretty; little candles especially; and at night they light it up; and the children are tickled to death with it." "In-doors?" "Why, of course in-doors. Couldn't be out-of-doors, in the snow." "I didn't know," said the old lady; "I don't understand the new fashions. I should think they would burn up the house, if it's in-doors." "O no, no danger," explained Mrs. Seelye. "They make them wonderfully pretty, with the branches all hung full with glass balls, and candles, and ribbands, and gilt toys, and papers of sugar plums--cornucopia, you know; and dolls, and tops, and jacks, and trumpets, and whips, and everything you can think of,--till it is as full as it can be, and the branches hang down with the weight; and it looks like a fairy tree; and then the heavy presents lie at the foot round about and cover the tub." "I should think the children would be delighted," said Madge. "I don't believe it's as much fun as Santa Claus and the stocking," said Lois. "No, nor I," said Mrs. Barclay. "But we have nothing to do with the children's stockings," said Mrs. Seelye. "They may hang up as many as they like. That's at home. This is in the church." "O, in the church! I thought you said it was in the house--in people's houses," said Charity. "So it is; but _this_ tree is to be in the church." "What tree?" "La! how stupid you are, Charity," exclaimed her aunt. "Didn't Mrs. Seelye tell you?--the tree the other church are gettin' up." "Oh--" said Charity. "Well, you can't hinder 'em, as I see." "Don't want to hinder 'em! What should we hinder 'em for? But we don't want 'em to get all our chil'en away; that's what we're lookin' at." "Do you think they'd go?" "Mr. Seelye's afraid it'll thin off the school dreadful," said Mr. Seelye's helpmate. "They're safe to go," added Mrs. Marx. "Ask children to step in and see fairyland, and why shouldn't they go? I'd go if I was they. All the rest of the year it ain't fairyland in Shampuashuh. I'd go fast enough." "Then I don't see what you are goin' to do about it," said Charity, "but to sit down and count your chickens that are left." "That's what we came to tell you," said the minister's wife. "Well, tell," said Charity. "You haven't told yet, only what the other church is going to do." "Well, we thought the only way was for us to do somethin' too." "Only not another tree," said Lois. "Not that, for pity's sake." "Why not?" asked the little minister's wife, with an air of being somewhat taken aback. "Why haven't we as good a right to have a tree as they have?" "_Right_, if you like," said Lois; "but right isn't all." "Go on, and let's hear your wisdom, Lois," said her aunt. "I s'pose you'll say first, we can't do it." "We can do it, perhaps," said Lois; "but, aunt Anne, it would make bad feeling." "That's not our look-out," rejoined Mrs. Marx. "We haven't any bad feeling." "No, not in the least," added Mrs. Seelye. "_We_ only want to give our children as good a time as the others have. That's right." "'Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory,'" Mrs. Armadale's voice was here heard to say. "Yes, I know, mother, you have old-fashioned ideas," said Mrs. Marx; "but the world ain't as it used to be when you was a girl. Now everybody's puttin' steam on; and churches and Sunday schools as well as all the rest. We have organs, and choirs, and concerts, and celebrations, and fairs, and festivals; and if we don't go with the crowd, they'll leave us behind, you see." "I don't believe in it all!" said Mrs. Armadale. "Well, mother, we've got to take the world as we find it. Now the children all through the village are all agog with the story of what the yellow church is goin' to do; and if the white church don't do somethin', they'll all run t'other way--that you may depend on. Children are children." "I sometimes think the grown folks are children," said the old lady. "Well, we ought to be children," said Mrs. Seelye; "I am sure we all know that. But Mr. Seelye thought this was the only thing we could do." "There comes in the second difficulty, Mrs. Seelye," said Lois. "We cannot do it." "I don't see why we cannot. We've as good a place for it, quite." "I mean, we cannot do it satisfactorily. It will not be the same thing. We cannot raise the money. Don't it take a good deal?" "Well, it takes considerable. But I think, if we all try, we can scare it up somehow." Lois shook her head. "The other church is richer than we are," she said. "That's a fact," said Charity. Mrs. Seelye hesitated. "I don't know," she said,--"they have one or two rich men. Mr. Georges--" "O, and Mr. Flare," cried Madge, "and Buck, and Setterdown; and the Ropers and the Magnuses." "Yes," said Mrs. Seelye; "but we have more people, and there's none of 'em to call poor. If we get 'em interested--and those we have spoken to are very much taken with the plan--very much; I think it would be a great disappointment now if we were to stop; and the children have got talking about it. I think we can do it; and it would be a very good thing for the whole church, to get 'em interested." "You can always get people interested in play," said Mrs. Armadale. "What you want, is to get 'em interested in work." "There'll be a good deal of work about this, before it's over," said Mrs. Seelye, with a pleased chuckle. "And I think, when they get their pride up, the money will be coming." Mrs. Marx made a grimace, but said nothing. "'When pride cometh, than cometh shame,'" said Mrs. Armadale quietly. "O yes, some sorts of pride," said the little minister's wife briskly; "but I mean a proper sort. We don't want to let our church go down, and we don't want to have our Sunday school thinned out; and I can tell you, where the children go, there the fathers and mothers will be going, next thing." "What do you propose to do?" said Lois. "We have not fairly heard yet." "Well, we thought we'd have some sort of celebration, and give the school a jolly time somehow. We'd dress up the church handsomely with evergreens; and have it well lighted; and then, we would have a Christmas tree if we could. Or, if we couldn't, then we'd have a real good hot supper, and give the children presents. But I'm afraid, if we don't have a tree, they'll all run off to the other church; and I think they're going already, so as to get asked. Mr. Seelye said the attendance was real thin last Sabbath." There followed an animated discussion of the whole subject, with every point brought up again, and again and again. The talkers were, for the most part, Charity and Madge, with the two ladies who had come in; Mrs. Armadale rarely throwing in a word, which always seemed to have a disturbing power; and things were taken up and gone over anew to get rid of the disturbance. Lois sat silent and played with her spoon. Mrs. Barclay and Philip listened with grave amusement. "Well, I can't sit here all night," said Charity at last, rising from behind her tea-board. "Madge and Lois,--just jump up and put away the things, won't you; and hand me up the knives and plates. Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Barclay. If other folks in the village are as busy as I am, you'll come short home for your Christmas work, Mrs. Seelye." "It's the busy people always that help," said the little lady propitiatingly. "That's a fact; but I don't see no end o' this to take hold of. You hain't got the money; and if you had it, you don't know what you want; and if you did know, it ain't in Shampuashuh; and I don't see who is to go to New York or New Haven, shopping for you. And if you had it, who knows how to fix a Christmas tree? Not a soul in our church." Mrs. Barclay and her guest withdrew at this point of the discussion. But later, when the visitors were gone, she opened the door of her room, and said, "Madge and Lois, can you come in here for a few minutes? It is business." The two girls came in, Madge a little eagerly; Lois, Mrs. Barclay fancied, with a manner of some reserve. "Mr. Dillwyn has something to suggest," she began, "about this plan we have heard talked over; that is, if you care about it's being carried into execution." "I care, of course," said Madge. "If it is to be done, I think it will be great fun." "If it is to be done," Lois repeated. "Grandmother does not approve of it; and I always think, what she does not like, I must not like." "Always?" asked Mr. Dillwyn. "I try to have it always. Grandmother thinks that the way--the best way--to keep a Sunday school together, is to make the lessons interesting." "I am sure she is right!" said Mr. Dillwyn. "But to the point," said Mrs. Barclay. "Lois, they will do this thing, I can see. The question now is, do you care whether it is done ill or well?" "Certainly! If it is done, I should wish it to be as well done as possible. Failure is more than failure." "How about ways and means?" "Money? O, if the people all set their hearts on it, they could do it well enough. But they are slow to take hold of anything out of the common run they are accustomed to. The wheels go in ruts at Shampuashuh." "Shampuashuh is not the only place," said Philip. "Then will you let an outsider help?" "Help? We would be very glad of help," said Madge; but Lois remarked, "I think the church ought to do it themselves, if they want to do it." "Well, hear my plan," said Mr. Dillwyn. "I think you objected to two rival trees?" "I object to rival anythings," said Lois; "in church matters especially." "Then I propose that no tree be set up, but instead, that you let Santa Claus come in with his sledge." "Santa Claus!" cried Lois. "Who would be Santa Claus?" "An old man in a white mantle, his head and beard covered with snow and fringed with icicles; his dress of fur; his sledge a large one, and well heaped up with things to delight the children. What do you think?" Madge's colour rose, and Lois's eye took a sparkle; both were silent. Then Madge spoke. "I don't see how that plan could be carried out, any more than the other. It is a great deal _better_, it is magnificent; but it is a great deal too magnificent for Shampuashuh." "Why so?" "Nobody here knows how to do it." "I know how." "You! O but,--that would be too much--" "All you have to do is to get the other things ready, and let it be known that at the proper time Santa Claus will appear, with a well-furnished sled. Sharp on time." "Well-furnished!--but there again--I don't believe we can raise money enough for that." "How much money?" asked Dillwyn, with an amused smile. "O, I can't tell--I suppose a hundred dollars at least." "I have as much as that lying useless--it may just as well do some good. It never was heard that anybody but Santa Claus furnished his own sled. If you will allow me, I will take care of that." "How splendid!" cried Madge. "But it is too much; it wouldn't be right for us to let you do all that for a church that is nothing to you." "On the contrary, you ought to encourage me in my first endeavours to make myself of some use in the world. Miss Madge, I have never, so far, done a bit of good in my life." "O, Mr. Dillwyn! I cannot believe that. People do not grow useful so all of a sudden, without practice," said Madge, hitting a great general truth. "It is a fact, however," said he, half lightly, and yet evidently meaning what he said. "I have lived thirty-two years in the world--nearly thirty-three--without making my life of the least use to anybody so far as I know. Do you wonder that I seize a chance?" Lois's eyes were suddenly lifted, and then as suddenly lowered; she did not speak. "I can read that," he said laughingly, for his eyes had caught the glance. "You mean, if I am so eager for chances, I might make them! Miss Lois, I do not know how." "Come, Philip," said Mrs. Barclay, "you are making your character unnecessarily bad. I know you better than that. Think what you have done for me." "I beg your pardon," said he. "Think what you have done for me. That score cannot be reckoned to my favour. Have no scruples, Miss Madge, about employing me. Though I believe Miss Lois thinks the good of this undertaking a doubtful one. How many children does your school number?" "All together,--and they would be sure for once to be all together!--there are a hundred and fifty." "Have you the names?" "O, certainly." "And ages--proximately?" "Yes, that too." "And you know something, I suppose, about many of them; something about their families and conditions?" "About _all_ of them?" said Madge. "Yes, indeed we do." "Till Mrs. Barclay came, you must understand," put in Lois here, "we had nothing, or not much, to study besides Shampuashuh; so we studied that." "And since Mrs. Barclay came?--" asked Philip. "O, Mrs. Barclay has been opening one door after another of knowledge, and we have been peeping in." "And what special door offers most attraction to your view, of them all?" "I don't know. I think, perhaps, for me, geology and mineralogy; but almost every one helps in the study of the Bible." "O, do they!" said Dillwyn somewhat dryly. "I like music best," said Madge. "But that is not a door into knowledge," objected Lois. "I meant, of all the doors Mrs. Barclay has opened to us." "Mrs. Barclay is a favoured person." "It is we that are favoured," said Madge. "Our life is a different thing since she came. We hope she will never go away." Then Madge coloured, with some sudden thought, and she went back to the former subject. "Why do you ask about the children's ages and all that, Mr. Dillwyn?" "I was thinking-- When a thing is to be done, I like to do it well. It occurred to me, that as Santa Claus must have something on his sledge for each one, it might be good, if possible, to secure some adaptation or fitness in the gift. Those who would like books should have books, and the right books; and playthings had better not go astray, if we can help it; and perhaps the poorer children would be better for articles of clothing.--I am only throwing out hints." "Capital hints!" said Lois. "You mean, if we can tell what would be good for each one--I think we can, pretty nearly. But there are few _poor_ people in Shampuashuh, Mr. Dillwyn." "Shampuashuh is a happy place." "This plan will give you an immensity of work, Mr. Dillwyn." "What then?" "I have scruples. It is not fair to let you do it. What is Shampuashuh to you?" "It might be difficult to make that computation," said Mr. Dillwyn dryly. "Have no scruples, Miss Lois. As I told you, I have nothing better to do with myself. If you can make me useful, it will be a rare chance." "But there are plenty of other things to do, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois. He gave her only a glance and smile by way of answer, and plunged immediately into the business question with Madge. Lois sat by, silent and wondering, till all was settled that could be settled that evening, and she and Madge went back to the other room. CHAPTER XXXVII. AN OYSTER SUPPER. "Hurrah!" cried Madge, but softly--"Now it will go! Mother! what do you think? Guess, Charity! Mr. Dillwyn is going to take our Sunday school celebration on himself; he's going to do it; and we're to have, not a stupid Christmas tree, but Santa Claus and his sled; and he'll be Santa Claus! Won't it be fun?" "Who'll be Santa Claus?" said Charity, looking stupefied. "Mr. Dillwyn. In fact, he'll be Santa Claus and his sled too; he'll do the whole thing. All we have got to do is to dress the children and ourselves, and light up the church." "Will the committees like that?" "Like it? Of course they will! Like it, indeed! Don't you see it will save them all expense? They'll have nothing to do but dress up and light up." "And warm up too, I hope. What makes Mr. Dillwyn do all that? I don't just make out." "I'll tell you," said Madge, shaking her finger at the others impressively. "He's after Mrs. Barclay. So this gives him a chance to come here again, don't you see?" "After Mrs. Barclay?" repeated Charity. "I want to know!" "I don't believe it," said Lois. "She is too old for him." "She's not old," said Madge. "And he is no chicken, my dear. You'll see. It's she he's after. He's coming next time as Santa Claus, that's all. And we have got to make out a list of things--things for presents,--for every individual girl and boy in the Sunday school; there's a job for you. Santa Claus will want a big sled." "_Who_ is going to do _what?_" inquired Mrs. Armadale here. "I don't understand, you speak so fast, children." "Mother, instead of a Christmas tree, we are going to have Santa Claus and his sled; and the sled is to be heaped full of presents for all the children; and Mr. Dillwyn is going to do it, and get the presents, and be Santa Claus himself." "How, _be_ Santa Claus?" "Why, he will dress up like Santa Claus, and come in with his sled." "Where?" "In the church, grandmother; there is no other place. The other church have their Sunday-school room you know; but we have none." "They are going to have their tree in the church, though," said Charity; "they reckon the Sunday-school room won't be big enough to hold all the folks." "Are they going to turn the church into a playhouse?" Mrs. Armadale asked. "It's for the sake of the church and the school, you know, mother. Santa Claus will come in with his sled and give his presents,--that is all. At least, that is all the play there will be." "What else will there be?" "O, there'll be singing, grandma," said Madge; "hymns and carols and such things, that the children will sing; and speeches and prayers, I suppose." "The church used to be God's house, in my day," said the old lady, with a concerned face, looking up from her knitting, while her fingers went on with their work as busily as ever. "They don't mean it for anything else, grandmother," said Madge. "It's all for the sake of the school." "Maybe they think so," the old lady answered. "What else, mother? what else should it be?" But this she did not answer. "What's Mr. Dillwyn got to do with it?" she asked presently. "He's going to help," said Madge. "It's nothing but kindness. He supposes it is something good to do, and he says he'd like to be useful." "He hain't no idea how," said Mrs. Armadale, "Poor creatur'! You can tell him, it ain't the Lord's work he's doin'." "But we cannot tell him that, mother," said Lois. "If the people want to have this celebration,--and they will,--hadn't we better make it a good one? Is it really a bad thing?" "The devil's ways never help no one to heaven, child, not if they go singin' hymns all the way." "But, mother!" cried Madge. "Mr. Dillwyn ain't a Christian, maybe, but he ain't as bad as that." "I didn't mean Mr. Dillwyn, dear, nor no one else. I meant theatre work." "_Santa Claus_, mother?" "It's actin', ain't it?" The girls looked at each other. "There's very little of anything like acting about it," Lois said. "'Make straight paths for your feet'!" said Mrs. Armadale, rising to go to bed. "'Make straight paths for your feet,' children. Straight ways is the shortest too. If the chil'en that don't love their teachers wants to go to the yellow church, let 'em go. I'd rather have the Lord in a little school, than Santa Claus in a big one." She was leaving the room, but the girls stayed her and begged to know what they should do in the matter of the lists they were engaged to prepare for Mr. Dillwyn. "You must do what you think best," she said. "Only don't be mixed up with it all any more than you can help, Lois." Why did the name of one child come to her lips and not the other? Did the old lady's affection, or natural acuteness, discern that Mr. Dillwyn was _not_ drawn to Shampuashuh by any particular admiration of his friend Mrs. Barclay? Had she some of that preternatural intuition, plain old country woman though she was, which makes a woman see the invisible and hear the inaudible? which serves as one of the natural means of defence granted to the weaker creatures. I do not know; I do not think she knew; however, the warning was given, and not on that occasion alone. And as Lois heeded all her grandmother's admonitions, although in this case without the most remote perception of this possible ground to them, it followed that Mr. Dillwyn gained less by his motion than he had hoped and anticipated. The scheme went forward, hailed by the whole community belonging to the white church, with the single exception of Mrs. Armadale. It went forward and was brought to a successful termination. I might say, a triumphant termination; only the triumph was not for Mr. Dillwyn, or not in the line where he wanted it. He did his part admirably. A better Santa Claus was never seen, nor a better filled sled. And genial pleasantness, and wise management, and cool generalship, and fun and kindness, were never better represented. So it was all through the consultations and arrangements that preceded the festival, as well as on the grand occasion itself; and Shampuashuh will long remember the time with wonder and exultation; but it was Madge who was Mr. Dillwyn's coadjutor and fellow-counsellor. It was Madge and Mrs. Barclay who helped him in all the work of preparing and ticketing the parcels for the sled; as well as in the prior deliberations as to what the parcels should be. Madge seemed to be the one at hand always to answer a question. Madge went with him to the church; and in general, Lois, though sympathizing and curious, and interested and amused, was very much out of the play. Not so entirely as to make the fact striking; only enough to leave Mr. Dillwyn disappointed and tantalized. I am not going into a description of the festival and the show. The children sang; the minister made a speech to them, not ten consecutive words of which were listened to by three-quarters of the people. The church was filled with men, women, and children; the walls were hung with festoons and wreaths, and emblazoned with mottoes; the anthems and carols followed each other till the last thread of patience in the waiting crowd gave way. And at last came what they were waiting for--Santa Claus, all fur robes and snow and icicles, dragging after him a sledge that looked like a small mountain with the heap of articles piled and packed upon it. And then followed a very busy and delightful hour and a half, during which the business was--the distribution of pleasure. It was such warm work for Santa Claus, that at the time he had no leisure for thinking. Naturally, the thinking came afterwards. He and Mrs. Barclay sat by her fire, resting, after coming home from the church. Dillwyn was very silent and meditative. "You must be glad it is done, Philip," said his friend, watching him, and wishing to get at his thoughts. "I have no particular reason to be glad." "You have done a good thing." "I am not sure if it is a good thing. Mrs. Armadale does not think so." "Mrs. Armadale has rather narrow notions." "I don't know. I should be glad to be sure she is not right. It's discouraging," he added, with half a smile;--"for the first time in my life I set myself to work; and now am not at all certain that I might not just as well have been idle." "Work is a good thing in itself," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "Pardon me!--work for an end. Work without an end--or with the end not attained--it is no better than a squirrel in a wheel." "You have given a great deal of pleasure." "To the children! For ought I know, they might have been just as well without it. There will be a reaction to-morrow, very likely; and then they will wish they had gone to see the Christmas tree at the other church." "But they were kept at their own church." "How do I know that is any good? Perhaps the teaching at the other school is the best." "You are tired," said Mrs. Barclay sympathizingly. "Not that. I have done nothing to tire me; but it strikes me it is very difficult to see one's ends in doing good; much more difficult than to see the way to the ends." "You have partly missed your end, haven't you?" said Mrs. Barclay softly. He moved a little restlessly in his chair; then got up and began to walk about the room; then came and sat down again. "What are you going to do next?" she asked in the same way. "Suppose you invite them--the two girls--or her alone--to make you a visit in New York?" "Where?" "At any hotel you prefer; say, the Windsor." "O Philip, Philip!"-- "What?--You could have pleasant rooms, and be quite private and comfortable; as much as if you were in your own house." "And what should we cost you?" "You are not thinking of _that?_" said he. "I will get you a house, if you like it better; but then you would have the trouble of a staff of servants. I think the Windsor would be much the easiest plan." "You _are_ in earnest!" "In earnest!" he repeated in surprise. "Have you ever questioned it? You judge because you never saw me in earnest in anything before in my life." "No, indeed," said Mrs. Barclay. "I always knew it was in you. What you wanted was only an object." "What do you say to my plan?" "I am afraid they would not come. There is the care of the old grandmother; they would not leave everything to their sister alone." "Tempt them with pictures and music, and the opera." "The opera! Philip, she would not go to a theatre, or anything theatrical, for any consideration. They are very strict on that point, and Sunday-keeping, and dancing. Do not speak to her of the opera." "They are not so far wrong. I never saw a decent opera yet in my life." "Philip!" exclaimed Mrs. Barclay in the greatest surprise. "I never heard you say anything like that before." "I suppose it makes a difference," he said thoughtfully, "with what eyes a man looks at a thing. And dancing--I don't think I care to see her dance." "Philip! You are extravagant." "I believe I should be fit to commit murder if I saw her waltzing with anybody." "Jealous already?" said Mrs. Barclay slyly. "If you like.--Do you see her as I see her?" he asked abruptly. There was a tone in the last words which gave Mrs. Barclay's heart a kind of constriction. She answered with gentle sympathy, "I think I do." "I have seen handsomer women," he went on;--"Madge is handsomer, in a way; you may see many women more beautiful, according to the rules; but I never saw any one so lovely!" "I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Barclay. "I never saw anything so lovely!" he repeated. "She is most like--" "A white lily," said Mrs. Barclay. "No, that is not her type. No. As long as the world stands, a rose just open will remain the fairest similitude for a perfect woman. It's commonness cannot hinder that. She is not an unearthly Dendrobium, she is an earthly rose-- 'Not too good For human nature's daily food,' --if one could find the right sort of human nature! Just so fresh, unconscious, and fair; with just such a dignity of purity about her. I cannot fancy her at the opera, or dancing." "A sort of unapproachable tea-rose?" said Mrs. Barclay, smiling at him, though her eyes were wistful. "No," said he, "a tea-rose is too fragile. There is nothing of that about her, thank heaven!" "No," said Mrs. Barclay, "there is nothing but sound healthy life about her; mental and bodily; and I agree with you, sweet as ever a human life can be. In the garden or at her books,--hark! that is for supper." For here there came a slight tap on the door. "Supper!" cried Philip. "Yes; it is rather late, and the girls promised me a cup of coffee, after your exertions! But I dare say everybody wants some refreshment by this time. Come!" There was a cheery supper table spread in the dining-room; coffee, indeed, and Stoney Creek oysters, and excellently cooked. Only Charity and Madge were there; Mrs. Armadale had gone to bed, and Lois was attending upon her. Mr. DilIwyn, however, was served assiduously. "I hope you're hungry! You've done a load of good this evening, Mr. Dillwyn," said Charity, as she gave him his coffee. "Thank you. I don't see the connection," said Philip, with an air as different as possible from that he had worn in talking to Mrs. Barclay in the next room. "People ought to be hungry when they have done a great deal of work," Madge explained, as she gave him a plate of oysters. "I do not feel that I have done any work." "O, well! I suppose it was play to you," said Charity, "but that don't make any difference. You've done a load of good. Why, the children will never be able to forget it, nor the grown folks either, as far as that goes; they'll talk of it, and of you, for two years, and more." "I am doubtful about the real worth of fame, Miss Charity, even when it lasts two years." "O, but you've done so much _good!_" said the lady. "Everybody sees now that the white church can hold her own. Nobody'll think of making disagreeable comparisons, if they have fifty Christmas trees." "Suppose I had helped the yellow church?" Charity looked as if she did not know what he would be at. Just then in came Lois and took her place at the table; and Mr. Dillwyn forgot all about rival churches. "Here's Mr. Dillwyn don't think he's done any good, Lois!" cried her elder sister. "Do cheer him up a little. I think it's a shame to talk so. Why, we've done all we wanted to, and more. There won't a soul go away from our church or school after this, now they see what we can do; and I shouldn't wonder if we got some accessions from the other instead. And here's Mr. Dillwyn says he don't know as he's done any good!" Lois lifted her eyes and met his, and they both smiled. "Miss Lois sees the matter as I do," he said. "These are capital oysters. Where do they come from?" "But, Philip," said Mrs. Barclay, "you have given a great deal of pleasure. Isn't that good?" "Depends--" said he. "Probably it will be followed by a reaction." "And you have kept the church together," added Charity, who was zealous. "By a rope of sand, then, Miss Charity." "At any rate, Mr. Dillwyn, you _meant_ to do good," Lois put in here. "I do not know, Miss Lois. I am afraid I was thinking more of pleasure, myself; and shall experience myself the reaction I spoke of. I think I feel the shadow of it already, as a coming event." "But if we aren't to have any pleasure, because afterwards we feel a little flat,--and of course we do," said Charity; "everybody knows that. But, for instance, if we're not to have green peas in summer, because we can't have 'em any way but dry in winter,--things would be very queer! Queerer than they are; and they're queer enough already." This speech called forth some merriment. "You think even the dry remains of pleasure are better than nothing!" said Philip. "Perhaps you are right." "And to have those, we _must_ have had the green reality," said Lois merrily. "I wonder if there is any way of keeping pleasure green," said Dillwyn. "Vain, vain, Mr. Dillwyn!" said Mrs. Barclay. "_Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe!_ don't you know? Solomon said, I believe, that all was vanity. And he ought to know." "But he didn't know," said Lois quickly. "Lois!" said Charity--"it's in the Bible." "I know it is in the Bible that he said so," Lois rejoined merrily. "Was he not right, then?" Mr. Dillwyn asked. "Perhaps," Lois answered, now gravely, "if you take simply his view." "What was his view? Won't you explain?" "I suppose you ain't going to set up to be wiser than Solomon, at this time of day," said Charity severely. But that stirred Lois's merriment again. "Explain, Miss Lois!" said Dillwyn. "I am not Solomon, that I should preach," she said. "You just said you knew better than he," said Charity. "How you should know better than the Bible, I don't see. It's news." "Why, Charity, Solomon was not a good man." "How came he to write proverbs, then?" "At least he was not always a good man." "That don't hinder his knowing what was vanity, does it?" "But, Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Go back, and tell us your secret, if you have one. How was Solomon's view mistaken? or what is yours?" "These things were all given for our pleasure, Mrs. Barclay." "But they die--and they go--and they fade," said Mrs. Barclay. "You will not understand me," said Lois; "and yet it is true. If you are Christ's--then, 'all things are yours;... the world, or life, or _death_, or things present, or things to come: all are yours.' There is no loss, but there comes more gain." "I wish you'd let Mr. Dillwyn have some more oysters," said Charity; "and, Madge, do hand along Mrs. Barclay's cup. You mustn't talk, if you can't eat at the same time. Lois ain't Solomon yet, if she does preach. You shut up, Lois, and mind your supper. My rule is, to enjoy things as I go along; and just now, it's oysters." "I will say for Lois," here put in Mrs. Barclay, "that she does exemplify her own principles. I never knew anybody with such a spring of perpetual enjoyment." "She ain't happier than the rest of us," said the elder sister. "Not so happy as grandmother," added Madge. "At least, grandmother would say so. I don't know." CHAPTER XXXVIII. BREAKING UP. Mr. Dillwyn went away. Things returned to their normal condition at Shampuashuh, saving that for a while there was a great deal of talk about the Santa Clans doings and the principal actor in them, and no end of speculations as to his inducements and purposes to be served in taking so much trouble. For Shampuashuh people were shrewd, and did not believe, any more than King Lear, that anything could come of nothing. That he was _not_ moved by general benevolence, poured out upon the school of the white church, was generally agreed. "What's we to him?" asked pertinently one of the old ladies; and vain efforts were made to ascertain Mr. Dillwyn's denomination. "For all I kin make out, he hain't got none," was the declaration of another matron. "I don't b'lieve he's no better than he should be." Which was ungrateful, and hardly justified Miss Charity's prognostications of enduring fame; by which, of course, she meant good fame. Few had seen Mr. Dillwyn undisguised, so that they could give a report of him; but Mrs. Marx assured them he was "a real personable man; nice and plain, and takin' no airs. She liked him first-rate." "Who's he after? Not one o' your gals?" "Mercy, no! He, indeed! He's one of the high-flyers; he won't come to Shampuashuh to look for a wife. 'Seems to me he's made o' money; and he's been everywhere; he's fished for crocodiles in the Nile, and eaten his luncheon at the top of the Pyramids of Egypt, and sailed to the North Pole to be sure of cool lemonade in summer. _He_ won't marry in Shampuashuh." "What brings him here, then?" "The spirit of restlessness, I should say. Those people that have been everywhere, you may notice, can't stay nowhere. I always knew there was fools in the world, but I _didn't_ know there was so many of 'em as there be. He ain't no fool neither, some ways; and that makes him a bigger fool in the end; only I don't know why the fools should have all the money." And so, after a little, the talk about this theme died out, and things settled down, not without some of the reaction Mr. Dillwyn had predicted; but they settled down, and all was as before in Shampuashuh. Mr. Dillwyn did not come again to make a visit, or Mrs. Marx's aroused vigilance would have found some ground for suspicion. There did come numerous presents of game and fruit from him, but they were sent to Mrs. Barclay, and could not be objected against, although they came in such quantities that the whole household had to combine to dispose of them. What would Philip do next?--Mrs. Barclay queried. As he had said, he could not go on with repeated visits to the house. Madge and Lois would not hear of being tempted to New York, paint the picture as bright as she would. Things were not ripe for any decided step on Mr. Dillwyn's part, and how should they become so? Mrs. Barclay could not see the way. She did for Philip what she could by writing to him, whether for his good or his harm she could not decide. She feared the latter. She told him, however, of the sweet, quiet life she was leading; of the reading she was doing with the two girls, and the whole family; of the progress Lois and Madge were making in singing and drawing and in various branches of study; of the walks in the fresh sea-breezes, and the cosy evenings with wood fires and the lamp; and she told him how they enjoyed his game, and what a comfort the oranges were to Mrs. Armadale. This lasted through January, and then there came a change. Mrs. Armadale was ill. There was no more question of visits, or of studies; and all sorts of enjoyments and occupations gave place to the one absorbing interest of watching and waiting upon the sick one. And then, that ceased too. Mrs. Armadale had caught cold, she had not strength to throw off disease; it took violent form, and in a few days ran its course. Very suddenly the little family found itself without its head. There was nothing to grieve for, but their own loss. The long, weary earth-journey was done, and the traveller had taken up her abode where there is "The rest begun, That Christ hath for his people won." She had gone triumphantly. "Through God we shall do valiantly"--being her last--uttered words. Her children took them as a legacy, and felt rich. But they looked at her empty chair, and counted themselves poorer than ever before. Mrs. Barclay saw that the mourning was deep. Yet, with the reserved strength of New England natures, it made no noise, and scarce any show. Mrs. Barclay lived much alone those first days. She would gladly have talked to somebody; she wanted to know about the affairs of the little family, but saw no one to talk to. Until, two or three days after the funeral, coming home one afternoon from a walk in the cold, she found her fire had died out; and she went into the next room to warm herself. There she saw none of the usual inmates. Mrs. Armadale's chair stood on one side the fire, unoccupied, and on the other side stood uncle Tim Hotchkiss. "How do you do, Mr. Hotchkiss? May I come and warm myself? I have been out, and I am half-frozen." "I guess you're welcome to most anything in this house, ma'am,--and fire we wouldn't grudge to anybody. Sit down, ma'am;" and he set a chair for her. "It's pretty tight weather." "We had nothing like this last winter," said Mrs. Barclay, shivering. "We expect to hev one or two snaps in the course of the winter," said Mr. Hotchkiss. "Shampuashuh ain't what you call a cold place; but we expect to see them two snaps. It comes seasonable this time. I'd rayther hev it now than in March. My sister--that's gone,--she could always tell you how the weather was goin' to be. I've never seen no one like her for that." "Nor for some other things," said Mrs. Barclay. "It is a sad change to feel her place empty." "Ay," said uncle Tim, with a glance at the unused chair,--"it's the difference between full and empty. 'I went out full, and the Lord has brought me back empty', Ruth's mother-in-law said." "Who is Ruth?" Mrs. Barclay asked, a little bewildered, and willing to change the subject; for she noticed a suppressed quiver in the hard features. "Do I know her?" "I mean Ruth the Moabitess. Of course you know her. She was a poor heathen thing, but she got all right at last. It was her mother-in-law that was bitter. Well--troubles hadn't ought to make us bitter. I guess there's allays somethin' wrong when they do." "Hard to help it, sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay. "She wouldn't ha' let you say that," said the old man, indicating sufficiently by his accent of whom he was speaking. "There warn't no bitterness in her; and she had seen trouble enough! She's out o' it now." "What will the girls do? Stay on and keep the house here just as they have done?" "Well, I don' know," said Mr. Hotchkiss, evidently glad to welcome a business question, and now taking a chair himself. "Mrs. Marx and me, we've ben arguin' that question out, and it ain't decided. There's one big house here, and there's another where Mrs. Marx lives; and there's one little family, and here's another little family. It's expensive to scatter over so much ground. They had ought to come to Mrs. Marx, or she had ought to move in here, and then the other house could be rented. That's how the thing looks to me. It's expensive for five people to take two big houses to live in. I know, the girls have got you now; but they might not keep you allays; and we must look at things as they be." "I must leave them in the spring," said Mrs. Barclay hastily. "In the spring, must ye!" "Must," she repeated. "I would like to stay here the rest of my life; but circumstances are imperative. I must go in the spring." "Then I think that settles it," said Mr. Hotchkiss. "I'm glad to know it. That is! of course I'm sorry ye're goin'; the girls be very fond of you." "And I of them," said Mrs. Barclay; "but I must go." After that, she waited for the chance of a talk with Lois. She waited not long. The household had hardly settled down into regular ways again after the disturbance of sickness and death, when Lois came one evening at twilight into Mrs. Barclay's room. She sat down, at first was silent, and then burst into tears. Mrs. Barclay let her alone, knowing that for her just now the tears were good. And the woman who had seen so much heavier life-storms, looked on almost with a feeling of envy at the weeping which gave so simple and frank expression to grief. Until this feeling was overcome by another, and she begged Lois to weep no more. "I do not mean it--I did not mean it," said Lois, drying her eyes. "It is ungrateful of me; for we have so much to be thankful for. I am so glad for grandmother!"--Yet somehow the tears went on falling. "Glad?"--repeated Mrs. Barclay doubtfully. "You mean, because she is out of her suffering." "She did not suffer much. It is not that. I am so glad to think she has got home!" "I suppose," said Mrs. Barclay in a constrained voice, "to such a person as your grandmother, death has no fear. Yet life seems to me more desirable." "She has entered into life!" said Lois. "She is where she wanted to be, and with what she loved best. And I am very, very glad! even though I do cry." "How can you speak with such certain'ty, Lois? I know, in such a case as that of your grandmother, there could be no fear; and yet I do not see how you can speak as if you knew where she is, and with whom." "Only because the Bible tells us," said Lois, smiling even through wet eyes. "Not the _place;_ it does not tell us the place; but with Christ. That they are; and that is all we want to know. 'Beyond the sighing and the weeping.' --It makes me gladder than ever I can tell you, to think of it." "Then what are those tears for, my dear?" "It's the turning over a leaf," said Lois sadly, "and that is always sorrowful. And I have lost--uncle Tim says," she broke off suddenly, "he says,--can it be?--he says you say you must go from us in the spring?" "That is turning over another leaf," said Mrs. Barclay. "But is it true?" "Absolutely true. Circumstances make it imperative. It is not my wish. I would like to stay here with you all my life." "I wish you could. I half hoped you would," said Lois wistfully. "But I cannot, my dear. I cannot." "Then that is another thing over," said Lois. "What a good time it has been, this year and a half you have been with us! how much worth to Madge and me! But won't you come back again?" "I fear not. You will not miss me so much; you will all keep house together, Mr. Hotchkiss tells me." "_I_ shall not be here," said Lois. "Where will you be?" Mrs. Barclay started. "I don't know; but it will be best for me to do something to help along. I think I shall take a school somewhere. I think I can get one." "A _school_, my dear? Why should you do such a thing?" "To help along," said Lois. "You know, we have not much to live on here at home. I should make one less here, and I should be earning a little besides." "Very little, Lois!" "Very little will do." "But you do a great deal now towards the family support. What will become of your garden?" "Uncle Tim can take care of that. Besides, Mrs. Barclay, even if I could stay at home, I think I ought not. I ought to be doing something--be of some use in the world. I am not needed here, now dear grandmother is gone; and there must be some other place where I am needed." "My dear, somebody will want you to keep house for him, some of these days." Lois shook her head. "I do not think of it," she said. "I do not think it is very likely; that is, anybody _I_ should want. But if it were true," she added, looking up and smiling, "that has nothing to do with present duty." "My dear, I cannot bear to think of your going into such drudgery!" "Drudgery?" said Lois. "I do not know,--perhaps I should not find it so. But I may as well do it as somebody else." "You are fit for something better." "There is nothing better, and there is nothing happier," said Lois, rising, "than to do what God gives us to do. I should not be unhappy, Mrs. Barclay. It wouldn't be just like these days we have passed together, I suppose;--these days have been a garden of flowers." And what have they all amounted to? thought Mrs. Barclay when she was left alone. Have I done any good--or only harm--by acceding to that mad proposition of Philip's? Some good, surely; these two girls have grown and changed, mentally, at a great rate of progress; they are educated, cultivated, informed, refined, to a degree that I would never have thought a year and a half could do. Even so! _have_ I done them good? They are lifted quite out of the level of their surroundings; and to be lifted so, means sometimes a barren living alone. Yet I will not think that; it is better to rise in the scale of being, if ever one can, whatever comes of it; what one is in oneself is of more importance than one's relations to the world around. But Philip?--I have helped him nourish this fancy--and it is not a fancy now--it is the man's whole life. Heigh ho! I begin to think he was right, and that it is very difficult to know what is doing good and what isn't. I must write to Philip-- So she did, at once. She told him of the contemplated changes in the family arrangements; of Lois's plan for teaching a district school; and declared that she herself must now leave Shampuashuh. She had done what she came for, whether for good or for ill. It was done; and she could no longer continue living there on Mr. Dillwyn's bounty. _Now_ it would be mere bounty, if she stayed where she was; until now she might say she had been doing his work. His work was done now, her part of it; the rest he must finish for himself. Mrs. Barclay would leave Shampuashuh in April. This letter would bring matters to a point, she thought, if anything could; she much expected to see Mr. Dillwyn himself appear again before March was over. He did not come, however; he wrote a short answer to Mrs. Barclay, saying that he was sorry for her resolve, and would combat it if he could; but felt that he had not the power. She must satisfy her fastidious notions of independence, and he could only thank her to the last day of his life for what she had already done for him; service which thanks could never repay. He sent this letter, but said nothing of coming; and he did not come. Later, Mrs. Barclay wrote again. The household changes were just about to be made; she herself had but a week or two more in Shampuashuh; and Lois, against all expectation, had found opportunity immediately to try her vocation for teaching. The lady placed over a school in a remote little village had suddenly died; and the trustees of the school had considered favourably Lois's application. She was going in a day or two to undertake the charge of a score or two of boys and girls, of all ages, in a wild and rough part of the country; where even the accommodations for her own personal comfort, Mrs. Barclay feared, would be of the plainest. To this letter also she received an answer, though after a little interval. Mr. Dillwyn wrote, he regretted Lois's determination; regretted that she thought it necessary; but appreciated the straightforward, unflinching sense of duty which never consulted with ease or selfishness. He himself was going, he added, on business, for a time, to the north; that is, not Massachusetts, but Canada. He would therefore not see Mrs. Barclay until after a considerable interval. Mrs. Barclay did not know what to make of this letter. Had Philip given up his fancy? It was not like him. Men are fickle, it is true; but fickle in his friendships she had never known Mr. Dillwyn to be. Yet this letter said nothing of love, or hope, or fear; it was cool, friendly, business-like. Mrs. Barclay nevertheless did not know how to believe in the business. _He_ have business! What business? She had always known him as an easy, graceful, pleasure-taker; finding his pleasure in no evil ways, indeed; kept from that by early associations, or by his own refined tastes and sense of honour; but never living to anything but pleasure. His property was ample and unencumbered; even the care of that was not difficult, and did not require much of his time. And now, just when he ought to put in his claim for Lois, if he was ever going to make it; just when she was set loose from her old ties and marking out a new and hard way of life for herself, he ought to come; and he was going on business to Canada! Mrs. Barclay was excessively disgusted and disappointed. She had not, indeed, all along seen how Philip's wooing could issue successfully, if it ever came to the point of wooing; the elements were too discordant, and principles too obstinate; and yet she had worked on in hope, vague and doubtful, but still hope, thinking highly herself of Mr. Dillwyn's pretensions and powers of persuasion, and knowing that in human nature at large all principle and all discordance are apt to come to a signal defeat when Love takes the field. But now there seemed to be no question of wooing; Love was not on hand, where his power was wanted; the friends were all scattered one from another--Lois going to the drudgery of teaching rough boys and girls, she herself to the seclusion of some quiet seaside retreat, and Mr. Dillwyn--to hunt bears?--in Canada. CHAPTER XXXIX. LUXURY. So they were all scattered. But the moving and communicating wires of human society seem as often as any way to run underground; quite out of sight, at least; then specially strong, when to an outsider they appear to be broken and parted for ever. Into the history of the summer it is impossible to go minutely. What Mr. Dillwyn did in Canada, and how Lois fought with ignorance and rudeness and prejudice in her new situation, Mrs. Barclay learned but very imperfectly from the letters she received; so imperfectly, that she felt she knew nothing. Mr. Dillwyn never mentioned Miss Lothrop. Could it be that he had prematurely brought things to a decision, and so got them decided wrong? But in that case Mrs. Barclay felt sure some sign would have escaped Lois; and she gave none. The summer passed, and two-thirds of the autumn. One evening in the end of October, Mrs. Wishart was sitting alone in her back drawing-room. She was suffering from a cold, and coddling herself over the fire. Her major-domo brought her Mr. Dillwyn's name and request for admission, which was joyfully granted. Mrs. Wishart was denied to ordinary visitors; and Philip's arrival was like a benediction. "Where have you been all summer?" she asked him, when they had talked awhile of some things nearer home. "In the backwoods of Canada." "The backwoods of Canada!" "I assure you it is a very enjoyable region." "What _could_ you find to do there?" "More than enough. I spent my time between hunting--fishing--and studying." "Studying what, pray? Not backwoods farming, I suppose?" "Well, no, not exactly. Backwoods farming is not precisely in my line." "What is in your line that you could study there?" "It is not a bad place to study anything;--if you except, perhaps, art and antiquity." "I did not know you studied anything _but_ art." "It is hardly a sufficient object to fill a man's life worthily; do you think so?" "What would fill it worthily?" the lady asked, with a kind of dreary abstractedness. And if Philip had surprised her a moment before, he was surprised in his turn. As he did not answer immediately, Mrs. Wishart went on. "A man's life, or a woman's life? What would fill it worthily? Do you know? Sometimes it seems to me that we are all living for nothing." "I am ready to confess that has been the case with me,--to my shame be it said." "I mean, that there is nothing really worth living for." "_That_ cannot be true, however." "Well, I suppose I say so at the times when I am unable to enjoy anything in my life. And yet, if you stop to think, what _does_ anybody's life amount to? Nobody's missed, after he is gone; or only for a minute; and for himself--There is not a year of _my_ life that I can remember, that I would be willing to live over again." "Apparently, then, to enjoy is not the chief end of existence. I mean, of this existence." "What do we know of any other? And if we do not enjoy ourselves, pray what in the world should we live for?" "I have seen people that I thought enjoyed themselves," Philip said slowly. "Have you? Who were they? I do not know them." "You know some of them. Do you recollect a friend of mine, for whom you negotiated lodgings at a far-off country village?" "Yes, I remember. They took her, didn't they?" "They took her. And I had the pleasure once or twice of visiting her there." "Did she like it?" "Very much. She could not help liking it. And I thought those people seemed to enjoy life. Not relatively, but positively." "The Lothrops!" cried Mrs. Wishart. "I can not conceive it. Why, they are very poor." "That made no hindrance, in their case." "Poor people, I am afraid they have not been enjoying themselves this year." "I heard of Mrs. Armadale's death." "Yes. O, she was old; she could not be expected to live long. But they are all broken up." "How am I to understand that?" "Well, you know they have very little to live upon. I suppose it was for that reason Lois went off to a distance from home to teach a district school. You know,--or _do_ you know?--what country schools are, in some places; this was one of the places. Pretty rough; and hard living. And then a railroad was opened in the neighbourhood--the place became sickly--a fever broke out among Lois's scholars and the families they came from; and Lois spent her vacation in nursing. Then got sick herself with the fever, and is only just now getting well." "I heard something of this before from Mrs. Barclay." "Then Madge went to take care of Lois, and they were both there. That is weeks and weeks ago,--months, I should think." "But the sick one is well again?" "She is better. But one does not get up from those fevers so soon. One's strength is gone. I have sent for them to come and make me a visit and recruit." "They are coming, I hope?" "I expect them here to-morrow." Mr. Dillwyn had nearly been betrayed into an exclamation. He remembered himself in time, and replied with proper self-possession that he was very glad to hear it. "Yes, I told them to come here and rest. They must want it, poor girls, both of them." "Then they are coming to-morrow?" "Yes." "By what train?" "I believe, it is the New Haven train that gets in about five o'clock. Or six. I do not know exactly." "I know. Now, Mrs. Wishart, you are not well yourself, and must not go out. I will meet the train and bring them safe to you." "You? O, that's delightful. I have been puzzling my brain to know how I should manage; for I am not fit to go out yet, and servants are so unsatisfactory. Will you really? That's good of you!" "Not at all. It is the least I can do. The family received me most kindly on more than one occasion; and I would gladly do them a greater service than this." At two o'clock next day the waiting-room of the New Haven station held, among others, two very handsome young girls; who kept close together, waiting for their summons to the train. One of them was very pale and thin and feeble-looking, and indeed sat so that she leaned part of her weight upon her sister. Madge was pale too, and looked somewhat anxious. Both pairs of eyes watched languidly the moving, various groups of travellers clustered about in the room. "Madge, it's like a dream!" murmured the one girl to the other. "What? If you mean this crowd, _my_ dreams have more order in them." "I mean, being away from Esterbrooke, and off a sick-bed, and moving, and especially going to--where we are going. It's a dream!" "Why?" "Too good to be true. I had thought, do you know, I never should make a visit there again." "Why not, Lois?" "I thought it would be best not. But now the way seems clear, and I can take the fun of it. It is clearly right to go." "Of course! It is always right to go wherever you are asked." "O no, Madge!" "Well,--wherever the invitation is honest, I mean." "O, that isn't enough." "What else? supposing you have the means to go. I am not sure that we have that condition in the present instance. But if you have, what else is to be waited for?" "Duty--" Lois whispered. "O, bother duty! Here have you gone and almost killed yourself for duty." "Well,--supposing one does kill oneself?--one must do what is duty." "That isn't duty." "O, it may be." "Not to kill yourself. You have almost killed yourself, Lois." "I couldn't help it." "Yes, you could. You make duty a kind of iron thing." "Not iron," said Lois; she spoke slowly and faintly, but now she smiled. "It is golden!" "That don't help. Chains of gold may be as hard to break as chains of iron." "Who wants them broken?" said Lois, in the same slow, contented way. "Duty? Why Madge, it's the King's orders!" "Do you mean that you were ordered to go to that place, and then to nurse those children through the fever?" "Yes, I think so." "I should be terribly afraid of duty, if I thought it came in such shapes. There's the train!--Now if you can get downstairs--" That was accomplished, though with tottering steps, and Lois was safely seated in one of the cars, and her head pillowed upon the back of the seat. There was no more talking then for some time. Only when Haarlem bridge was past and New York close at hand, Lois spoke. "Madge, suppose Mrs. Wishart should not be here to meet us? You must think what you would do." "Why, the train don't go any further, does it?" "No!--but it goes back. I mean, it will not stand still for you. It moves away out of the station-house as soon as it is empty." "There will be carriages waiting, I suppose. But I am sure I hope she will meet us. I wrote in plenty of time. Don't worry, dear! we'll manage." "I am not worrying," said Lois. "I am a great deal too happy to worry." However, that was not Madge's case, and she felt very fidgety. With Lois so feeble, and in a place so unknown to her, and with baggage checks to dispose of, and so little time to do anything, and no doubt a crowd of doubtful characters lounging about, as she had always heard they did in New York; Madge did wish very anxiously for a pilot and a protector. As the train slowly moved into the Grand Central, she eagerly looked to see some friend appear. But none appeared. "We must go out, Madge," said Lois. "Maybe we shall find Mrs. Wishart--I dare say we shall--she could not come into the cars--" The two made their way accordingly, slowly, at the end of the procession filing out of the car, till Madge got out upon the platform. There she uttered an exclamation of joy. "O Lois!--there's Mr. Dillwyn?" "But we are looking for Mrs. Wishart," said Lois. The next thing she knew, however, somebody was carefully helping her down to the landing; and then, her hand was on a stronger arm than that of Mrs. Wishart, and she was slowly following the stream of people to the front of the station-house. Lois was too exhausted by this time to ask any questions; suffered herself to be put in a carriage passively, where Madge took her place also, while Mr. Dillwyn went to give the checks of their baggage in charge to an expressman. Lois then broke out again with, "O Madge, it's like a dream!" "Isn't it?" said Madge. "I have been in a regular fidget for two hours past, for fear Mrs. Wishart would not be here." "I didn't _fidget_," said Lois, "but I did not know how I was going to get from the cars to the carriage. I feel in a kind of exhausted Elysium!" "It's convenient to have a man belonging to one," said Madge. "Hush, pray!" said Lois, closing her eyes. And she hardly opened them again until the carriage arrived at Mrs. Wishart's, which was something of a drive. Madge and Mr. Dillwyn kept up a lively conversation, about the journey and Lois's condition, and her summer; and how he happened to be at the Grand Central. He went to meet some friends, he said coolly, whom he expected to see by that train. "Then we must have been in your way," exclaimed Madge regretfully. "Not at all," he said. "But we hindered you from taking care of your friends?" "No," he said indifferently; "by no means. They are taken care of." And both Madge and Lois were too simple to know what he meant. At Mrs. Wishart's, Lois was again helped carefully out and carefully in, and half carried up-stairs to her own room, whither it was decided she had better go at once. And there, after being furnished with a bowl of soup, she was left, while the others went down to tea. So Madge found her an hour afterwards, sunk in the depths of a great, soft easy-chair, gazing at the fanciful flames of a kennel coal fire. "O Madge, it's a dream!" Lois said again languidly, though with plenty of expression. "I can't believe in the change from Esterbrooke here." "It's a change from Shampuashuh," Madge returned. "Lois, I didn't know things could be so pretty. And we have had the most delightful tea, and something--cakes--Mrs. Wishart calls _wigs_, the best things you ever saw in your life; but Mr. Dillwyn wouldn't let us send some up to you." "Mr. Dillwyn!"-- "Yes, he said they were not good for you. He has been just as pleasant as he could be. I never saw anybody so pleasant. I like Mr. Dillwyn _very_ much." "Don't!" said Lois languidly. "Why?" "You had better not." "But why not? You are ungrateful, it seems to me, if you don't like him." "I like him," said Lois slowly; "but he belongs to a different world from ours. The worlds can't come together; so it is best not to like him too much." "How do you mean, a different world?" "O, he's different, Madge! All his thoughts and ways and associations are unlike ours--a great way off from ours; and must be. It is best as I said. I guess it is best not to like anybody too much." With which oracular and superhumanly wise utterance Lois closed her eyes softly again. Madge, provoked, was about to carry on the discussion, when, noticing how pale the cheek was which lay against the crimson chair cushion, and how very delicate the lines of the face, she thought better of it and was silent. A while later, however, when she had brought Lois a cup of gruel and biscuit, she broke out on a new theme. "What a thing it is, that some people should have so much silver, and other people so little!" "What silver are you thinking of?" "Why, Mrs. Wishart's, to be sure. Who's else? I never saw anything like it, out of Aladdin's cave. Great urns, and salvers, and cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls, and cake-baskets, and pitchers, and salt-cellars. The salt-cellars were lined with something yellow, or washed, to hinder the staining, I suppose." "Gold," said Lois. "Gold?" "Yes. Plated with gold." "Well I never saw anything like the sideboard down-stairs; the sideboard and the tea-table. It is funny, Lois, as I said, why some should have so much, and others so little." "We, you mean? What should we do with a load of silver?" "I wish I had it, and then you'd see! You should have a silk dress, to begin with, and so should I." "Never mind," said Lois, letting her eyelids fall again with an expression of supreme content, having finished her gruel. "There are compensations, Madge." "Compensations! What compensations? We are hardly respectably dressed, you and I, for this place." "Never mind!" said Lois again. "If you had been sick as I was, and in that place, and among those people, you would know something." "What should I know?" "How delightful this chair is;--and how good that gruel, out of a china cup;--and how delicious all this luxury! Mrs. Wishart isn't as rich as I am to-night." "The difference is, she can keep it, and you cannot, you poor child!" "O yes, I can keep it," said Lois, in the slow, happy accent with which she said everything to-night;--"I can keep the remembrance of it, and the good of it. When I get back to my work, I shall not want it." "Your work!" said Madge. "Yes." "Esterbrooke!" "Yes, if they want me." "You are never going back to that place!" exclaimed Madge energetically. "Never! not with my good leave. Bury yourself in that wild country, and kill yourself with hard work! Not if I know it." "If that is the work given me," said Lois, in the same calm voice. "They want somebody there, badly; and I have made a beginning." "A nice beginning!--almost killed yourself. Now, Lois, don't think about anything! Do you know, Mrs. Wishart says you are the handsomest girl she ever saw!" "That's a mistake. I know several much handsomer." "She tried to make Mr. Dillwyn say so too; and he wouldn't." "Naturally." "It was funny to hear them; she tried to drive him up to the point, and he wouldn't be driven; he said one clever thing after another, but always managed to give her no answer; till at last she pinned him with a point-blank question." "What did he do then?" "Said what you said; that he had seen women who would be called handsomer." The conversation dropped here, for Lois made no reply, and Madge recollected she had talked enough. CHAPTER XL. ATTENTIONS. It was days before Lois went down-stairs. She seemed indeed to be in no hurry. Her room was luxuriously comfortable; Madge tended her there, and Mrs. Wishart visited her; and Lois sat in her great easy-chair, and rested, and devoured the delicate meals that were brought her; and the colour began gently to come back to her face, in the imperceptible fashion in which a white Van Thol tulip takes on its hues of crimson. She began to read a little; but she did not care to go down-stairs. Madge told her everything that went on; who came, and what was said by one and another. Mr. Dillwyn's name was of very frequent occurrence. "He's a real nice man!" said Madge enthusiastically. "Madge, Madge, Madge!--you mustn't speak so," said Lois. "You must not say 'real nice.'" "I don't, down-stairs," said Madge, laughing. "It was only to you. It is more expressive, Lois, sometimes, to speak wrong than to speak right." "Do not speak so expressively, then." "But I must, when I am speaking of Mr. Dillwyn. I never saw anybody so nice. He is teaching me to play chess, Lois, and it is such fun." "It seems to me he comes here very often." "He does; he is an old friend of Mrs. Wishart's, and she is as glad to see him as I am." "Don't be too glad, Madge. I do not like to hear you speak so." "Why not?" "It was one of the reasons why I did not want to accept Mrs. Barclay's invitation last winter, that I knew he would be visiting her constantly. I did not expect to see him _here_ much." Lois looked grave. "What harm in seeing him, Lois? why shouldn't one have the pleasure? For it is a pleasure; his talk is so bright, and his manner is so very kind and graceful; and _he_ is so kind. He is going to take me to drive again." "You go to drive with Mrs. Wishart. Isn't that enough?" "It isn't a quarter so pleasant," Madge said, laughing again. "Mr. Dillwyn talks, something one likes to hear talked. Mrs. Wishart tells me about old families, and where they used to live, and where they live now; what do I care about old New York families! And Mr. Dillwyn lets _me_ talk. I never have anything whatever to say to Mrs. Wishart; she does it all." "I would rather have you go driving with her, though." "Why, Lois? That's ridiculous. I like to go with Mr. Dillwyn." "Don't like it too well." "How can I like it too well?" "So much that you would miss it, when you do not have it any longer." "Miss it!" said Madge, half angrily. "I might _miss_ it, as I might miss any pleasant thing; but I could stand that. I'm not a chicken just out of the egg. I have missed things before now, and it hasn't killed me." "Don't think I am foolish, Madge. It isn't a question of how much you can stand. But the men like--like this one--are so pleasant with their graceful, smooth ways, that country girls like you and me might easily be drawn on, without knowing it, further than they want to go." "He does not want to draw anybody on!" said Madge indignantly. "That's the very thing. You might think--or I might think--that pleasant manner means something; and it don't mean anything." "I don't want it to 'mean anything,' as you say; but what has our being country girls to do with it?" "We are not accustomed to that sort of society, and so it makes, I suppose, more impression. And what might mean something to others, would not to us. From such men, I mean." "What do you mean by 'such men'?" asked Madge, who was getting rather excited. "Rich--fashionable--belonging to the great world, and having the ways of it. You know what Mr. Dillwyn is like. It is not what we have in Shainpuashuh." "But, Lois!--what are you talking about? I don't care a red cent for all this, but I want to understand. You said such a manner would mean nothing to _us_." "Yes." "Why not to us, as well as anybody else?" "Because we are nobodies, Madge." "What do you mean?" said the other hotly. "Just that. It is quite true. You are nobody, and I am nobody. You see, if we were somebody, it would be different." "If you think--I'll tell you what, Lois! I think you are fit to be the wife of the best man that lives and breathes." "I think so myself," Lois returned quietly. "And I am." "I think you are, Madge. But that makes no difference. My dear, we are nobody." "How?"--impatiently. "Isn't our family as respectable as anybody's? Haven't we had governors and governors, of Massachusetts and Connecticut both; and judges and ministers, ever so many, among our ancestors? And didn't a half-dozen of 'em, or more, come over in the 'Mayflower'?" "Yes, Madge; all true; and I am as glad of it as you are." "Then you talk nonsense!" "No, I don't," said Lois, sighing a little. "I have seen a little more of the world than you have, you know, dear Madge; not very much, but a little more than you; and I know what I am talking about. We are unknown, we are not rich, we have none of what they call 'connections.' So you see I do not want you to like too much a person who, beyond civility, and kindness perhaps, would never think of liking you." "I don't want him to, that's one thing," said Madge. "But if all that is true, he is meaner than I think him; that's what I've got to say. And it is a mean state of society where all that can be true." "I suppose it is human nature," said Lois. "It's awfully mean human nature!" "I guess there is not much true nobleness but where the religion of Christ comes in. If you have got that, Madge, be content and thankful." "But nobody likes to be unjustly depreciated." "Isn't that pride?" "One must have some pride. I can't make religion _everything_, Lois. I was a woman before I was a Christian." "If you want to be a happy woman, you will let religion be everything." "But, Lois!--wouldn't _you_ like to be rich, and have pretty things about you?" "Don't ask me," said Lois, smiling. "I am a woman too, and dearly fond of pretty things. But, Madge, there is something else I love better," she added, with a sudden sweet gravity; "and that is, the will of my God. I would rather have what he chooses to give me. Really and truly; I would _rather_ have that." The conversation therewith was at an end. In the evening of that same day Lois left her seclusion and came down-stairs for the first time. She was languid enough yet to be obliged to move slowly, and her cheeks had not got back their full colour, and were thinner than they used to be; otherwise she looked well, and Mrs. Wishart contemplated her with great satisfaction. Somewhat to Lois's vexation, or she thought so, they found Mr. DilIwyn down-stairs also. Lois had the invalid's place of honour, in a corner of the sofa, with a little table drawn up for her separate tea; and Madge and Mr. Dillwyn made toast for her at the fire. The fire gave its warm light, the lamps glittered with a more brilliant illumination; ruddy hues of tapestry and white gleams from silver and glass filled the room, with lights and shadows everywhere, that contented the eye and the imagination too, with suggestions of luxury and plenty and sheltered comfort. Lois felt the shelter and the comfort and the pleasure, with that enhanced intensity which belongs to one's sensations in a state of convalescence, and in her case was heightened by previous experiences. Nestled among cushions in her corner, she watched everything and took the effect of every detail; tasted every flavour of the situation; but all with a thoughtful, wordless gravity; she hardly spoke at all. After tea, Mr. Dillwyn and Madge sat down to the chess-board. And then Lois's attention fastened upon them. Madge had drawn the little table that held the chessmen into very close proximity to the sofa, so that she was just at Lois's hand; but then her whole mind was bent upon the game, and Lois could study her as she pleased. She did study Madge. She admired her sister's great beauty; the glossy black hair, the delicate skin, the excellent features, the pretty figure. Madge was very handsome, there was no doubt; Mr. Dillwyn would not have far to look, Lois thought, to find one handsomer than herself was. There was a frank, fine expression of face, too; and manners thoroughly good. They lacked some of the quietness of long usage, Lois thought; a quick look or movement now and then, or her eager eyes, or an abrupt tone of voice, did in some measure betray the country girl, to whom everything was novel and interesting; and distinguished her from the half _blasé_, wholly indifferent air of other people. She will learn that quietness soon enough, thought Lois; and then, nothing could be left to desire in Madge. The quietness had always been a characteristic of Lois herself; partly difference of temperament, partly the sweeter poise of Lois's mind, had made this difference between the sisters; and now of course Lois had had more experience of people and the world. But it was not in her the result of experience, this fair, unshaken balance of mind and manner which was always a charm in her. However, this by the way; the girl herself was drawing no comparisons, except so far as to judge her sister handsomer than herself. From Madge her eye strayed to Mr. Dillwyn, and studied him. She was lying back a little in shadow, and could do it safely. He was teaching Madge the game; and Lois could not but acknowledge and admire in him the finished manner she missed in her sister. Yes, she could not help admiring it. The gentle, graceful, easy way, in which he directed her, gave reproofs and suggestions about the game, and at the same time kept up a running conversation with Mrs. Wishart; letting not one thing interfere with another, nor failing for a moment to attend to both ladies. There was a quiet perfection about the whole home picture; it remained in Lois's memory for ever. Mrs. Wishart sat on an opposite sofa knitting; not a long blue stocking, like her dear grandmother, but a web of wonderful hues, thick and soft, and various as the feathers on a peacock's neck. It harmonized with all the rest of the room, where warmth and colour and a certain fulness of detail gave the impression of long-established easy living. The contrast was very strong with Lois's own life surroundings; she compared and contrasted, and was not quite sure how much of this sort of thing might be good for her. However, for the present here she was, and she enjoyed it. Then she queried if Mr. Dillwyn were enjoying it. She noticed the hand which he had run through the locks of his hair, resting his head on the hand. It was well formed, well kept; in that nothing remarkable; but there was a certain character of energy in the fingers which did not look like the hand of a lazy man. How could he spend his life so in doing nothing? She did not fancy that he cared much about the game, or much about the talk; what was he there for, so often? Did he, possibly, care about Madge? Lois's thoughts came back to the conversation. "Mrs. Wishart, what is to be done with the poor of our city?" Mr. Dillwyn was saying. "I don't know! I wish something could be done with them, to keep them from coming to the house. My cook turns away a dozen a day, some days." "Those are not the poor I mean." "They are poor enough." "They are to a large extent pretenders. I mean the masses of solid poverty which fill certain parts of the city--and not small parts either. It is no pretence there." "I thought there were societies enough to look after them. I know I pay my share to keep up the societies. What are they doing?" "Something, I suppose. As if a man should carry a watering-pot to Vesuvius." "What in the world has turned _your_ attention that way? I pay my subscriptions, and then I discharge the matter from my mind. It is the business of the societies. What has set you to thinking about it?" "Something I have seen, and something I have heard." "What have you heard? Are you studying political economy? I did not know you studied anything but art criticism." "What do you do with your poor at Shampuashuh, Miss Madge?" "We do not have any poor. That is, hardly any. There is nobody in the poorhouse. A few--perhaps half a dozen--people, cannot quite support themselves. Check to your queen, Mr. Dillwyn." "What do you do with them?" "O, take care of them. It's very simple. They understand that whenever they are in absolute need of it, they can go to the store and get what they want." "At whose expense?" "O, there is a fund there for them. Some of the better-off people take care of that." "I should think that would be quite too simple," said Mrs. Wishart, "and extremely liable to abuse." "It is never abused, though. Some of the people, those poor ones, will come as near as possible to starving before they will apply for anything." Mrs. Wishart remarked that Shampuashuh was altogether unlike all other places she ever had heard of. "Things at Shampuashuh are as they ought to be," Mr. Dillwyn said. "Now, Mr. Dillwyn," cried Madge, "I will forgive you for taking my queen, if you will answer a question for me. What is 'art criticism'?" "Why, Madge, you know!" said Lois from her sofa corner. "I do not admire ignorance so much as to pretend to it," Madge rejoined. "What is art criticism, Mr. Dillwyn?" "What is art?" "That is what I do not know!" said Madge, laughing. "I understand criticism. It is the art that bothers me. I only know that it is something as far from nature as possible." "O Madge, Madge!" said Lois again; and Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little. "On the contrary, Miss Madge. Your learning must be unlearnt. Art is really so near to nature--Check!--that it consists in giving again the facts and effects of nature in human language." "Human language? That is, letters and words?" "Those are the symbols of one language." "What other is there?" "Music--painting--architecture---- I am afraid, Miss Madge, that is check-mate?" "You said you had seen and heard something, Mr. Dillwyn," Mrs. Wishart now began. "Do tell us what. I have neither seen nor heard anything in an age." Mr. Dillwyn was setting the chessmen again. "What I saw," he said, "was a silk necktie--or scarf--such as we wear. What I heard, was the price paid for making it." "Was there anything remarkable about the scarf?" "Nothing whatever; except the aforesaid price." "What _was_ the price paid for making it?" "Two cents." "Who told you?" "A friend of mine, who took me in on purpose that I might see and hear, what I have reported." "_Two cents_, did you say? But that's no price!" "So I thought." "How many could a woman make in a day, Madge, of those silk scarfs?" "I don't know--I suppose, a dozen." "A dozen, I was told, is a fair day's work," Mr. Dillwyn said. "They do more, but it is by working on into the night." "Good patience! Twenty-five cents for a hard day's work!" said Mrs. Wishart. "A dollar and a half a week! Where is bread to come from, to keep them alive to do it?" "Better die at once, I should say," echoed Madge. "Many a one would be glad of that alternative, I doubt not," Mr. Dillwyn went on. "But there is perhaps an old mother to be taken care of, or a child or two to feed and bring up." "Don't talk about it!" said Mrs. Wishart. "It makes me feel blue." "I must risk that. I want you to think about it. Where is help to come from? These are the people I was thinking of, when I asked you what was to be done with our poor." "I don't know why you ask me. _I_ can do nothing. It is not my business." "Will it do to assume that as quite certain?" "Why yes. What can I do with a set of master tailors?" "You can cry down the cheap shops; and say why." "Are the dear shops any better?" Mr. Dillwyn laughed. "Presumably! But talking--even your talking--will not do all. I want you to think about it." "I don't want to think about it," answered the lady. "It's beyond _me_. Poverty is people's own fault. Industrious and honest people can always get along." "If sickness does not set in, or some father, or husband, or son does not take to bad ways." "How can I help all that?" asked the lady somewhat pettishly. "I never knew you were in the benevolent and reformatory line before, Mr. Dillwyn. What has put all this in your head?" "Those scarfs, for one thing. Another thing was a visit I had lately occasion to make. It was near midday. I found a room as bare as a room could be, of all that we call comfort; in the floor a small pine table set with three plates, bread, cold herrings, and cheese. That was the dinner for a little boy, whom I found setting the table, and his father and mother. The parents work in a factory hard by, from early to late; they have had sickness in the family this autumn, and are too poor to afford a fire to eat their dinner by, or to make it warm, so the other child, a little girl, has been sent away for the winter. It was frostily cold the day I was there. The boy goes to school in the afternoon, and comes home in time to light up a fire for his father and mother to warm themselves by at evening. And the mother has all her housework to do after she comes home." "That's better than the other case," said Mrs. Wishart. "But what could be done, Mr. Dillwyn?" said Lois from her corner. "It seems as if something was wrong. But how could it be mended?" "I want Mrs. Wishart to consider of that." "I can't consider it!" said the lady. "I suppose it is intended that there should be poor people always, to give us something to do." "Then let us do it." "How?" "I am not certain; but I make a suggestion. Suppose all the ladies of this city devoted their diamonds to this purpose. Then any number of dwelling-houses could be put up; separate, but so arranged as to be warmed by steam from a general centre, at a merely nominal cost for each one; well ventilated and comfortable; so putting an end to the enormity of tenement houses. Then a commission might be established to look after the rights of the poor; to see that they got proper wages, were not cheated, and that all should have work who wanted it. So much might be done." "With no end of money." "I proposed to take the diamonds of the city, you know." "And why just the diamonds?" inquired Mrs. Wishart. "Why don't you speak of some of the indulgences of the men? Take the horses--or the wines--" "I am speaking to a lady," said Dillwyn, smiling. "When I have a man to apply to, I will make my application accordingly." "Ask him for his tobacco?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Certainly for his tobacco. There is as much money spent in this city for tobacco as there is for bread." Madge exclaimed in incredulous astonishment; and Lois asked if the diamonds of the city would amount to very much. "Yes, Miss Lois. American ladies are very fond of diamonds; and it is a common thing for one of them to have from ten thousand to twenty thousand or thirty thousand dollars' worth of them as part of the adornment of her pretty person at one time." "Twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on at once!" cried Madge. "I call that wicked!" "Why?" asked Mr. Dillwyn, smiling. "There's no wickedness in it," said Mrs. Wishart. "How should it be wicked? You put on a flower; and another, who can afford it, puts on a diamond. What's the difference?" "My flower does not cost anybody anything," said Madge. "What do my diamonds cost anybody?" returned Mrs. Wishart. Madge was silent, though not because she had nothing to say; and at this precise moment the door opened, and visitors were ushered in. CHAPTER XLI. CHESS. There entered upon the scene, that is, a little lady of very gay and airy manner; whose airiness, however, was thoroughly well bred. She was accompanied by a tall, pleasant-looking man, of somewhat dreamy aspect; and they were named to Lois and Madge as Mrs. and Mr. Burrage. To Mr. Dillwyn they were not named; and the greet ing in that quarter was familiar; the lady giving him a nod, and the gentleman an easy "Good evening." The lady's attention came round to him again as soon as she was seated. "Why, Philip, I did not expect to find you. What are you doing here?" "I was making toast a little while ago." "I did not know that was one of your accomplishments." "They said I did it well. I have picked up a good deal of cooking in the course of my travels." "In what part of the world did you learn to make toast?" asked the lady, while a pair of lively eyes seemed to take note rapidly of all that was in the room; rapidly but carefully, Lois thought. She was glad she herself was hidden in the shadowy sofa corner. "I believe that is always learned in a cold country, where people have fire," Mr. Dillwyn answered the question. "These people who travel all over get to be insufferable!" the little lady went on, turning to Mrs. Wishart; "they think they know everything; and they are not a bit wiser than the rest of us. You were not at the De Large's luncheon,--what a pity! I know; your cold shut you up. You must take care of that cold. Well, you lost something. This is the seventh entertainment that has been given to that English party; and every one of them has exceeded the others. There is nothing left for the eighth. Nobody will dare give an eighth. One is fairly tired with the struggle of magnificence. It's the battle of the giants over again, with a difference." "It is not a battle with attempt to destroy," said her husband. "Yes, it is--to destroy competition. I have been at every one of the seven but one--and I am absolutely tired with splendour. But there is really nothing left for any one else to do. I don't see how one is to go any further--without the lamp of Aladdin." "A return to simplicity would be grateful," remarked Mrs. Wishart. "And as new as anything else could be." "Simplicity! O, my dear Mrs. Wishart!--don't talk of simplicity. We don't want simplicity. We have got past that. Simplicity is the dream of children and country folks; and it means, eating your meat with your fingers." "It's the sweetest way of all," said Dillwyn. "Where did you discover that? It must have been among savages. Children--country folks--_and_ savages, I ought to have said." "Orientals are not savages. On the contrary, very far exceeding in politeness any western nation I know of." "You would set a table, then, with napkins and fingers! Or are the napkins not essential?" "C'est selon," said Dillwyn. "In a strawberry bed, or under a cherry tree, I should vote them a nuisance. At an Asiatic grandee's table you would have them embroidered and perfumed; and one for your lap and another for your lips." "Evidently they are long past the stage of simplicity. Talking of napkins we had them embroidered--and exquisitely--Japanese work; at the De Larges'. Mine had a peacock in one corner; or I don't know if it was a peacock; it was a gay-feathered bird--" "A peacock has a tail," suggested Mr. Dillwyn. "Well, I don't know whether it had a tail, but it was most exquisite; in blue and red and gold; I never saw anything prettier. And at every plate were such exquisite gifts! really elegant, you know. Flowers are all very well; but when it comes to jewellery, I think it is a little beyond good taste. Everybody can't do it, you know; and it is rather embarrassing to _nous autres_." "Simplicity _has_ its advantages," observed Mr. Dillwyn. "Nonsense, Philip! You are as artificial a man as any one I know." "In what sense?" asked Mr. Dillwyn calmly. "You are bound to explain, for the sake of my character, that I do not wear false heels to my boots." "Don't be ridiculous! You have no need to wear false heels. _Art_ need not be _false_, need it?" "True art never is," said Mr. Dillwyn, amid some laughter. "Well, artifice, then?" "Artifice, I am afraid, is of another family, and not allied to truth." "Well, everybody that knows you knows you are true; but they know, too, that if ever there was a fastidious man, it is you; and a man that wants everything at its last pitch of refinement." "Which desirable stage I should say the luncheon you were describing had not reached." "You don't know. I had not told you the half. Fancy!--the ice floated in our glasses in the form of pond lilies; as pretty as possible, with broad leaves and buds." "How did they get it in such shapes?" asked Madge, with her eyes a trifle wider open than was usual with them. "O, froze it in moulds, of course. But you might have fancied the fairies had carved it. Then, Mrs. Wishart, there was an arrangement of glasses over the gas burners, which produced the most silver sounds of music you ever heard; no chime, you know, of course; but a most peculiar, sweet, mysterious succession of musical breathings. Add to that, by means of some invisible vaporizers, the whole air was filled with sweetness; now it was orange flowers, and now it was roses, and then again it would be heliotrope or violets; I never saw anything so refined and so exquisite in my life. Waves of sweetness, rising and falling, coming and going, and changing; it was perfect." The little lady delivered herself of this description with much animation, accompanying the latter part of it with a soft waving of her hand; which altogether overcame Philip's gravity, and he burst into a laugh, in which Mr. Burrage presently joined him; and Lois and Madge found it impossible not to follow. "What's the matter, Philip?" the lady asked. "I am reminded of an old gentleman I once saw at Gratz; he was copying the Madonna della Seggia in a mosaic made with the different-coloured wax heads of matches." "He must have been out of his head." "That was the conclusion I came to." "Pray what brought him to your remembrance just then?" "I was thinking of the different ways people take in the search after happiness." "And one worth as much as another, I suppose you mean? That is a matter of taste. Mrs. Wishart, I see _your_ happiness is cared for, in having such charming friends with you. O, by the way!--talking of seeing,--_have_ you seen Dulles & Grant's new Persian rugs and carpets?" "I have been hardly anywhere. I wanted to take Madge to see Brett's Collection of Paintings; but I have been unequal to any exertion." "Well, the first time you go anywhere, go to Dulles & Grant's. Take her to see those. Pictures are common; but these Turkish rugs and things are not. They are the most exquisite, the most odd, the most delicious things you ever saw. I have been wanting to ruin myself with them ever since I saw them. It's high art, really. Those Orientals are wonderful people! There is one rug--it is as large as this floor, nearly,--well, it is covered with medallions in old gold, set in a wild, irregular design of all sorts of Cashmere shawl colours--thrown about anyhow; and yet the effect is rich beyond description; simple, too. Another,--O, that is very rare; it is a rare Keelum carpet; let me see if I can describe it. The ground is a full bright red. Over this run palm leaves and little bits of ruby and maroon and gold mosaic; and between the palm leaves come great ovals of olive mixed with black, blue, and yellow; shading off into them. I _never_ saw anything I wanted so much." "What price?" "O, they are all prices. The Keelum carpet is only fifteen hundred--but my husband says it is too much. Then another Persian carpet has a centre of red and white. Round this a border of palm leaves. Round these another border of deliciously mixed up warm colours; warm and rich. Then another border of palms; and then the rest of the carpet is in blended shades of dark dull red and pink, with olive flowers thrown over it. O, I can't tell you the half. You must go and see. They have immensely wide borders, all of them; and great thick, soft piles." "Have you been to Brett's Collection?" "Yes." "What is there?" "The usual thing. O, but I haven't told you what I have come here for to-night." "I thought it was, to see me." "Yes, but not for pleasure, this time," said the lively lady, laughing. "I had business--I really do have business sometimes. I came this evening, because I wanted to see you when I could have a chance to explain myself. Mrs. Wishart, I want you to take my place. They have made me first directress of the Forlorn Children's Home." "Does the epithet apply to the place? or to the children?" Mr. Dillwyn asked. "Now I _cannot_ undertake the office," Mrs. Burrage went on without heeding him. "My hands are as full as they can hold, and my head fuller. You must take it, Mrs. Wishart. You are just the person." "I?" said Mrs. Wishart, with no delighted expression. "What are the duties?" "O, just oversight, you know; keeping things straight. Everybody needs to be kept up to the mark. I cannot, for our Reading Club meets just at the time when I ought to be up at the Home." The ladies went into a closer discussion of the subject in its various bearings; and Mr. Dillwyn and Madge returned to their chess play. Lois lay watching and thinking. Mr. Burrage looked on at the chess-board, and made remarks on the game languidly. By and by the talk of the two ladies ceased, and the head of Mrs. Burrage came round, and she also studied the chess-players. Her face was observant and critical, Lois thought; oddly observant and thoughtful. "Where did you get such charming friends to stay with you, Mrs. Wishart? You are to be envied." Mrs. Wishart explained, how Lois had been ill, and had come to get well under her care. "You must bring them to see me. Will you? Are they fond of music? Bring them to my next musical evening." And then she rose; but before taking leave she tripped across to Lois's couch and came and stood quite close to her, looking at her for a moment in what seemed to the girl rather an odd silence. "You aren't equal to playing chess yet?" was her equally odd abrupt question. Lois's smile showed some amusement. "My brother is such an idle fellow, he has got nothing better to do than to amuse sick people. It's charity to employ him. And when you are able to come out, if you'll come to me, you shall hear some good music. Good-bye!" Her brother! thought Lois as she went off. Mr. Dillwyn, _her_ brother! I don't believe she likes Madge and me to know him. Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Burrage drove away in silence for a few minutes; then the lady broke out. "There's mischief there, Chauncey!" "What mischief?" the gentleman asked innocently. "Those girls." "Very handsome girls. At least the one that was visible." "The other's worse. _I_ saw her. The one you saw is handsome; but the other is peculiar. She is rare. Maybe not just so handsome, but more refined; and _peculiar_. I don't know just what it is in her; but she fascinated me. Masses of auburn hair--not just auburn--more of a golden tint than brown--with a gold _reflet_, you know, that is so lovely; and a face--" "Well, what sort of a face?" asked Mr. Burrage, as his spouse paused. "Something between a baby and an angel, and yet with a sort of sybil look of wisdom. I believe she put one of Domenichino's sybils into my head; there's that kind of complexion--" "My dear," said the gentleman, laughing, "you could not tell what complexion she was of. She was in a shady corner." "I was quite near her. Now that sort of thing might just catch Philip." "Well," said the gentleman, "you cannot help that." "I don't know if I can or no!" "Why should you want to help it, after all?" "Why? I don't want Philip to make a mis-match." "Why should it be a mis-match?" "Philip has got too much money to marry a girl with nothing." Mr. Burrage laughed. His wife demanded to know what he was laughing at? and he said "the logic of her arithmetic." "You men have no more logic in action, than we women have in speculation. I am logical the other way." "That is too involved for me to follow. But it occurs to me to ask, Why should there be any match in the case here?" "That's so like a man! Why shouldn't there? Take a man like my brother, who don't know what to do with himself; a man whose eye and ear are refined till he judges everything according to a standard of beauty;--and give him a girl like that to look at! I said she reminded me of one of Domenichino's sybils--but it isn't that. I'll tell you what it is. She is like one of Fra Angelico's angels. Fancy Philip set down opposite to one of Fra Angelico's angels in flesh and blood!" "Can a man do better than marry an angel?" "Yes! so long as he is not an angel himself, and don't live in Paradise." "They do not marry in Paradise," said Mr. Burrage dryly. "But why a fellow may not get as near a paradisaical condition as he can, with the drawback of marriage, and in this mundane sphere,--I do not see." "Men never see anything till afterwards. I don't know anything about this girl, Chauncey, except her face. But it is just the way with men, to fall in love with a face. I do not know what she is, only she is nobody; and Philip ought to marry somebody. I know where they are from. She has no money, and she has no family; she has of course no breeding; she has probably no education, to fit her for being his wife. Philip ought to have the very reverse of all that. Or else he ought not to marry at all, and let his money come to little Phil Chauncey." "What are you going to do about it?" asked the gentleman, seeming amused. But Mrs. Burrage made no answer, and the rest of the drive, long as it was, was rather stupid. CHAPTER XLII. RULES. The next day Mr. Dillwyn came to take Madge to see Brett's Collection of Paintings. Mrs. Wishart declared herself not yet up to it. Madge came home in a great state of delight. "It was so nice!" she explained to her sister; "just as nice as it could be. Mr. Dillwyn was so pleasant; and told me everything and about everything; about the pictures, and the masters; I shouldn't have known what anything meant, but he explained it all. And it was such fun to see the people." "The people!" said Lois. "Yes. There were a great many people; almost a crowd; and it _did_ amuse me to watch them." "I thought you went to see the paintings." "Well, I saw the paintings; and I heard more about them than I can ever remember." "What was there?" "O, I can't tell you. Landscapes and landscapes; and then Holy Families; and saints in misery, of one sort or another; and battle-pieces, but those were such confusion that all I could make out was horses on their hind-legs; and portraits. I think it is nonsense for people to try to paint battles; they can't do it; and, besides, as far as the fighting goes, one fight is just like another. Mr. Dillwyn told me of a travelling showman, in Germany, who travelled about with the panorama of a battle; and every year he gave it a new name, the name of the last battle that was in men's mouths; and all he had to do was to change the uniforms, he said. He had a pot of green paint for the Prussians, and red for the English, and blue, I believe, for the French, and so on; and it did just as well." "What did you see that you liked best?" "I'll tell you. It was a little picture of kittens, in and out of a basket. Mr. Dillwyn didn't care about it; but I thought it was the prettiest thing there. Mrs. Burrage was there." "Was she?" "And Mr. Dillwyn does know more than ever anybody else in the world, I think. O, he was so nice, Lois! so nice and kind. I wouldn't have given a pin to be there, if it hadn't been for him. He wouldn't let me get tired; and he made everything amusing; and O, I could have sat there till now and watched the people." "The people! If the pictures were good, I don't see how you could have eyes for the people." "'The proper study of mankind is _man_,' my dear; and I like them alive better than painted. It was fun to see the dresses; and then the ways. How some people tried to be interested--" "Like you?" "What do you mean? I _was_ interested; and some talked and flirted, and some stared. I watched every new set that came in. Mr. DilIwyn says he will come and take us to the Philarmonic, as soon as the performances begin." "Madge, it is _better_ for us to go with Mrs. Wishart." "She may go too, if she likes." "And it is _better_ for us not to go with Mr. DilIwyn, more than we can help." "I won't," said Madge. "I can't help going with him whenever he asks me, and I am not going any other time." "What did Mrs. Burrage say to you?" "Hm!-- Not much. I caught her looking at me more than once. She said she would have a musical party next week, and we must come; and she asked if you would be well enough." "I hope I shall not." "That's nonsense. Mr. Dillwyn wants us to go, I know." "That is not a reason for going." "I think it _is_. He is just as good as he can be, and I like him more than anybody else I ever saw in my life. I'd like to see the thing he'd ask me, that I wouldn't do." "Madge, Madge!" "Hush, Lois; that's nonsense." "Madge you trouble me very much." "And that's nonsense too." Madge was beginning to get over the first sense of novelty and strangeness in all about her; and, as she overcame that, a feeling of delight replaced it, and grew and grew. Madge was revelling in enjoyment. She went out with Mrs. Wishart, for drives in the Park and for shopping expeditions in the city, and once or twice to make visits. She went out with Mr. Dillwyn, too, as we have seen, who took her to drive, and conducted her to galleries of pictures and museums of curiosities; and finally, and with Mrs. Wishart, to a Philharmonic rehearsal. Madge came home in a great state of exultation; though Lois was almost indignant to find that the place and the people had rivalled the performance in producing it. Lois herself was almost well enough to go, though delicate enough still to allow her the choice of staying at home. She was looking like herself again; yet a little paler in colour and more deliberate in action than her old wont; both the tokens of a want of strength which continued to be very manifest. One day Madge came home from going with Mrs. Wishart to Dulles & Grant's. I may remark that the evening at Mrs. Burrage's had not yet come off, owing to a great storm the night of the music party; but another was looming up in the distance. "Lois," Madge delivered herself as she was taking off her wrappings, "it is a great thing to be rich!" "One needs to be sick to know how true that is," responded Lois. "If you could guess what I would have given last summer and fall for a few crumbs of the comfort with which this house is stacked full--like hay in a barn!" "But I am not thinking of comfort." "I am. How I wanted everything for the sick people at Esterbrooke. Think of not being able to change their bed linen properly, nor anything like properly!" "Of course," said Madge, "poor people do not have plenty of things. But I was not thinking of _comfort_, when I spoke." "Comfort is the best thing." "Don't you like pretty things?" "Too well, I am afraid." "You cannot like them too well. Pretty things were meant to be liked. What else were they made for? And of all pretty things--O, those carpets and rugs! Lois, I never saw or dreamed of anything so magnificent. I _should_ like to be rich, for once!" "To buy a Persian carpet?" "Yes. That and other things. Why not?" "Madge, don't you know this was what grandmother was afraid of, when we were learning to know Mr. Dillwyn?" "What?" said Madge defiantly. "That we would be bewitched--or dazzled--and lose sight of better things; I think 'bewitched' is the word; all these beautiful things and this luxurious comfort--it is bewitching; and so are the fine manners and the cultivation and the delightful talk. I confess it. I feel it as much as you do; but this is just what dear grandmother wanted to protect us from." "_What_ did she want to protect us from?" repeated Madge vehemently. "Not Persian carpets, nor luxury; we are not likely to be tempted by either of them in Shampuashuh." "We might _here_." "Be tempted? To what? I shall hardly be likely to go and buy a fifteen-hundred-dollar carpet. And it was _cheap_ at that, Lois! I can live without it, besides. I haven't got so far that I can't stand on the floor, without any carpet at all, if I must. You needn't think it." "I do not think it. Only, do not be tempted to fancy, darling, that there is any way open to you to get such things; that is all." "Any way open to me? You mean, I might marry a rich man some day?" "You might think you might." "Why shouldn't I?" "Because, dear Madge, you will not be asked. I told you why. And if you were,--Madge, you would not, you _could_ not, marry a man that was not a Christian? Grandmother made me promise I never would." "She did not make me promise it. Lois, don't be ridiculous. I don't want to marry anybody at present; but I like Persian carpets, and nothing will make me say I don't. And I like silver and gold; and servants, and silk dresses, and ice-cream, and pictures, and big houses, and big mirrors, and all the rest of it." "You can find it all in the eighteenth chapter of Revelation, in the description of the city Babylon; which means the world." "I thought Babylon was Rome." "Read for yourself." I think Madge did not read it for herself, however; and the days went on after the accustomed fashion, till the one arrived which was fixed for Mrs. Chauncey Burrage's second musical party. The three ladies were all invited. Mrs. Wishart supposed they were all going; but when the day came Lois begged off. She did not feel like going, she said; it would be far pleasanter to her if she could stay at home quietly; it would be better for her. Mrs. Wishart demurred; the invitation had been very urgent; Mrs. Burrage would be disappointed; and, besides, she was a little proud herself of her handsome young relations, and wanted the glory of producing them together. However, Lois was earnest in her wish to be left at home; quietly earnest, which is the more difficult to deal with; and, knowing her passionate love for music, Mrs. Wishart decided that it must be her lingering weakness and languor which indisposed her for going. Lois was indeed looking well again; but both her friends had noticed that she was not come back to her old lively energy, whether of speaking or doing. Strength comes back so slowly, they said, after one of those fevers. Yet Madge was not satisfied with this reasoning, and pondered, as she and Mrs. Wishart drove away, what else might be the cause of Lois's refusal to go with them. Meanwhile Lois, having seen them off and heard the house door close upon them, drew up her chair before the fire and sat down. She was in the back drawing-room, the windows of which looked out to the river and the opposite shore; but the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn, and only the interior view to be had now. So, or any way, Lois loved the place. It was large, roomy, old-fashioned, with none of the stiffness of new things about it; elegant, with the many tokens of home life, and of a long habit of culture and comfort. In a big chimney a big wood fire was burning quietly; the room was softly warm; a brilliant lamp behind Lois banished even imaginary gloom, and a faint red shine came from the burning hickory logs. Only this last illumination fell on Lois's face, and in it Lois's face showed grave and troubled. She was more like a sybil at this moment, looking into confused earthly things, than like one of Fra Angelico's angels rejoicing in the clear light of heaven. Lois pulled her chair nearer to the fire, and bent down, leaning towards it; not for warmth, for she was not in the least cold; but for company, or for counsel. Who has not taken counsel of a fire? And Lois was in perplexity of some sort, and trying to think hard and to examine into herself. She half wished she had gone to the party at Mrs. Burrage's. And why had she not gone? She did not want, she did not think it was best, to meet Mr. Dillwyn there. And why not, seeing that she met him constantly where she was? Well, _that_ she could not help; this would be voluntary; put ting herself in his way, and in his sister's way. Better not, Lois said to herself. But why, better not? It would surely be a pleasant gathering at Mrs. Burrage's, a pleasant party; her parties always were pleasant, Mrs. Wishart said; there would be none but the best sort of people there, good talking and good music; Lois would have liked it. What if Mr. Dillwyn were there too? Must she keep out of sight of him? Why should she keep out of sight of him? Lois put the question sharply to her conscience. And she found that the answer, if given truly, would be that she fancied Mr. Dillwyn liked her sister's society better than her own. But what then? The blood began to rush over Lois's cheeks and brow and to burn in her pulses. _Then_, it must be that she herself liked _his_ society--liked him--yes, a little too well; else what harm in his preferring Madge? O, could it be? Lois hid her face in her hands for a while, greatly disturbed; she was very much afraid the case was even so. But suppose it so; still, what of it? What did it signify, whom Mr. Dillwyn liked? to Lois he could never be anything. Only a pleasant acquain'tance. He and she were in two different lines of life, lines that never cross. Her promise was passed to her grandmother; she could never marry a man who was not a Christian. Happily Mr. Dillwyn did not want to marry her; no such question was coming up for decision. Then what was it to her if he liked Madge? Something, because it was not liking that would end in anything; it was impossible a man in his position and circumstances should choose for a wife one in hers. If he could make such a choice, it would be Madge's duty, as much as it would be her own, to refuse him. Would Madge refuse? Lois believed not. Indeed, she thought no one could refuse him, that had not unconquerable reasons of conscience; and Madge, she knew, did not share those which were so strong in her own mind. Ought Madge to share them? Was it indeed an absolute command that justified and necessitated the promise made to her grandmother? or was it a less stringent thing, that might possibly be passed over by one not so bound? Lois's mind was in a turmoil of thoughts most unusual, and most foreign to her nature and habit; thoughts seemed to go round in a whirl. And in the midst of the whirl there would come before her mind's eye, not now Tom Caruthers' face, but the vision of a pair of pleasant grey eyes at once keen and gentle; or of a close head of hair with a white hand roving amid the thick locks of it; or the outlines of a figure manly and lithe; or some little thing done with that ease of manner which was so winning. Sometimes she saw them as in Mrs. Wishart's drawing-room, and sometimes at the table in the dear old house in Shampuashuh, and sometimes under the drip of an umbrella in a pouring rain, and sometimes in the old schoolhouse. Manly and kind, and full of intelligence, filled with knowledge, well-bred, and noble; so Lois thought of him. Yet he was not a Christian, therefore no fit partner for Madge or for any one else who was a Christian. Could that be the absolute fact? Must it be? Was such the inevitable and universal conclusion? On what did the logic of it rest? Some words in the Bible bore the brunt of it, she knew; Lois had read them and talked them over with her grandmother; and now an irresistible desire took possession of her to read them again, and more critically. She jumped up and ran up-stairs for her Bible. The fire was down in her own room; the gas was not lit; so she went back to the bright drawing-room, which to-night she had all to herself. She laid her book on the table and opened it, and then was suddenly checked by the question--what did all this matter to her, that she should be so fiercely eager about it? Dismay struck her anew. What was any un-Christian man to her, that her heart should beat so at considering possible relations between them? No such relations were desired by any such person; what ailed Lois even to take up the subject? If Mr. Dillwyn liked either of the sisters particularly, it was Madge. Probably his liking, if it existed, was no more than Tom Caruthers', of which Lois thought with great scorn. Still, she argued, did it not concern her to know with certain'ty what Madge ought to do, in the event of Mr. Dillwyn being not precisely like Tom Caruthers? CHAPTER XLIII. ABOUT WORK. The sound of the opening door made her start up. She would not have even a servant surprise her so; kneeling on the floor with her face buried in her hands on the table. She started up hurriedly; and then was confounded to see entering--Mr. Dillwyn himself. She had heard no ring of the door-bell; that must have been when she was up-stairs getting her Bible. Lois found her feet, in the midst of a terrible confusion of thoughts; but the very inward confusion admonished her to be outwardly calm. She was not a woman of the world, and she had not had very much experience in the difficult art of hiding her feelings, or _acting_ in any way; nevertheless she was a true woman, and woman's blessed--or cursed?--instinct of self-command came to her aid. She met Mr. Dillwyn with a face and manner perfectly composed; she knew she did; and cried to herself privately some thing very like a sea captain's order to his helmsman--"Steady! keep her so." Mr. Dillwyn saw that her face was flushed; but he saw, too, that he had disturbed her and startled her; that must be the reason. She looked so far from being delighted, that he could draw no other conclusion. So they shook hands. She thought he did not look delighted either. Of course, she thought, Madge was not there. And Mr. Dillwyn, whatever his mood when he came, recognized immediately the decided reserve and coolness of Lois's manner, and, to use another nautical phrase, laid his course accordingly. "How do you do, this evening?" "I think, quite well. There is nobody at home but me, Mr. Dillwyn." "So I have been told. But it is a great deal pleasanter here, even with only one-third of the family, than it is in my solitary rooms at the hotel." At that Lois sat down, and so did he. She could not seem to bid him go away. However, she said-- "Mrs. Wishart has taken Madge to your sister's. It is the night of her music party." "Why did not Mrs. Wishart take you?" "I thought--it was better for me to stay at home," Lois answered, with a little hesitation. "You are not afraid of an evening alone!" "No, indeed; how could I be? Indeed, I think in New York it is rather a luxury." Then she wished she had not said that. Would he think she meant to intimate that he was depriving her of a luxury? Lois was annoyed at herself; and hurried on to say something else, which she did not intend should be so much in the same line as it proved. Indeed, she was shocked the moment she had spoken. "Don't you go to your sister's music parties, Mr. Dillwyn?" "Not universally." "I thought you were so fond of music"--Lois said apologetically. "Yes," he said, smiling. "That keeps me away." "I thought,"--said Lois,--"I thought they said the music was so good?" "I have no doubt they say it. And they mean it honestly." "And it is not?" "I find it quite too severe a tax on my powers of simulation and dissimulation. Those are powers you never call in play?" he added, with a most pleasant smile and glance at her. "Simulation and dissimulation?" repeated Lois, who had by no means got her usual balance of mind or manner yet. "Are those powers which ought to be called into play?" "What are you going to do?" "When?" "When, for instance, you are in the mood for a grand theme of Handel, and somebody gives you a sentimental bit of Rossini. Or when Mendelssohn is played as if 'songs without words' were songs without meaning. Or when a singer simply displays to you a VOICE, and leaves music out of the question altogether." "That is hard!" said Lois. "What is one to do then?" "It is hard," Lois said again. "But I suppose one ought always to be true." "If I am true, I must say what I think." "Yes. If you speak at all." "What will _they_ think then?" "Yes," said Lois. "But, after all, that is not the first question." "What is the first question?" "I think--to do right." "But what _is_ right? What will people think of me, if I tell them their playing is abominable?" "You need not say it just with those words," said Lois. "And perhaps, if anybody told them the truth, they would do better. At any rate, what they think is not the question, Mr. Dillwyn." "What is the question?" he asked, smiling. "What the Lord will think." "Miss Lois, do you never use dissimulation?" Lois could not help colouring, a little distressed. "I try not," she answered. "I dare say I do, sometimes. I dare not say I do not. It is very difficult for a woman to help it." "More difficult for a woman than for a man?" "I do not know. I suppose it is." "Why should that be?" "I do not know--unless because she is the weaker, and it may be part of the defensive armour of a weak animal." Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little. "But that is _dis_simulation," said Lois. "One is not bound always to say all one thinks; only never to say what one does not think." "You would always give a true answer to a question?" "I would try." "I believe it. And now, Miss Lois, in that trust, I am going to ask you a question. Do you recollect a certain walk in the rain?" "Certainly!" she said, looking at him with some anxiety. "And the conversation we held under the umbrella, without simulation or dissimulation?" "Yes." "You tacitly--perhaps more than tacitly--blamed me for having spent so much of my life in idleness; that is uselessly, to all but myself." "Did I?" "You did. And I have thought about it since. And I quite agree with you that to be idle is to be neither wise nor dignified. But here rises a difficulty. I think I would like to be of some use in the world, if I could. But I do not know what to set about." Lois waited, with silent attention. "My question is this: How is a man to find his work in the world?" Lois's eyes, which had been on his face, went away to the fire. His, which had been on the ground, rose to her face. "I am in a fog," he said "I believe every one has his work," Lois remarked. "I think you said so." "The Bible says so, at any rate." "_Then_ how is a man to find his work?" Philip asked, half smiling; at the same time he drew up his chair a little nearer the fire, and began to put the same in order. Evidently he was not going away immediately, and had a mind to talk out the subject. But why with her? And was he not going to his sister's?-- "If each one has, not only his work but his peculiar work, it must be a very important matter to make sure he has found it. A wheel in a machine can do its own work, but it cannot take the part of another wheel. And your words suppose an exact adjustment of parts and powers." "The Bible words," said Lois. "Yes. Well, to my question. I do not know what I ought to do, Miss Lois. I do not see the work to my hand. How am I ever to be any wiser?" "I am the last person you should ask. And besides,--I do not think anybody knows enough to set another his appointed task." "How is he to find it, then?" "He must ask the One who does know." "Ask?--_Pray_, you mean?" "Yes, pray. He must ask to be shown what he ought to do, and how to do it. God knows what place he is meant to fill in the world." "And if he asks, will he be told?" "Certainly. That is the promise. 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; _and it shall be given him_.'" Lois's eyes came over to her questioner at the last words, as it were, setting a seal to them. "How will he get the answer? Suppose, for instance, I want wisdom; and I kneel down and pray that I may know my work. I rise from my prayer,--there is no voice, nor writing, nor visible sign; how am I the wiser?" "You think it will _not_ be given him?" Lois said, with a faint smile. "I do not say that. I dare not. But how?" "You must not think that, or the asking will be vain. You must believe the Lord's promise." Lois was warming out of her reserve, and possibly Mr. Dillwyn had a purpose that she should; though I think he was quite earnest with his question. But certainly he was watching her, as well as listening to her. "Go on," he said. "How will the answer come to me?" "There is another condition, too. You must be quite willing to hear the answer." "Why?" "Else you will be likely to miss it. You know, Mr. Dillwyn,--you do _not_ know much about housekeeping things,--but I suppose you understand, that if you want to weigh anything truly, your balance must hang even." He smiled. "Well, then,--Miss Lois?" "The answer? It comes different ways. But it is sure to come. I think one way is this,--You see distinctly one thing you ought to do; it is not life-work, but it is one thing. That is enough for one step. You do that; and then you find that that one step has brought you where you can see a little further, and another step is clear. That will do," Lois concluded, smiling; "step by step, you will get where you want to be." Mr. Dillwyn smiled too, thoughtfully, as it were, to himself. "Was it _so_ that you went to teach school at that unlucky place?--what do you call it?" "It was not unlucky. Esterbrooke. Yes, I think I went so." "Was not that a mistake?" "No, I think not." "But your work there was broken up?" "O, but I expect to go back again." "Back! There? It is too unhealthy." "It will not be unhealthy, when the railroad is finished." "I am afraid it will, for some time. And it is too rough a place for you." "That is why they want me the more." "Miss Lois, you are not strong enough." "I am very strong!" she answered, with a delicious smile. "But there is such a thing--don't you think so?--as fitness of means to ends. You would not take a silver spade to break ground with?" "I am not at all a silver spade," said Lois. "But if I were; suppose I had no other?" "Then surely the breaking ground must be left to a different instrument." "That won't do," said Lois, shaking her head. "The instrument cannot choose, you know, where it will be employed. It does not know enough for that." "But it made you ill, that work." "I am recovering fast." "You came to a good place for recovering," said Dillwyn, glancing round the room, and willing, perhaps, to leave the subject. "Almost too good," said Lois. "It spoils one. You cannot imagine the contrast between what I came from--and _this_. I have been like one in dreamland. And there comes over me now and then a strange feeling of the inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way I am cared for is so very different from the very best and utmost that could be done for the poor people at Esterbrooke. Think of my soups and creams and ices and oranges and grapes!--and there, very often I could not get a bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could I do without beef-tea? And what would I not have given for an orange sometimes! I do not mean, for myself. I could get hardly anything the sick people really wanted. And here--it is like rain from the clouds." "Where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?" "It seems as if things _need_ not be so unequal." "And what does your silver spade expect to do there?" "Don't say that! I have no silver spade. But just so far as I could help to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, the inequality would be made up--or on the way to be made up." "What refining measures are you thinking of?--beside your own presence and example." "I was certainly not thinking of _that_. Why, Mr. Dillwyn, knowledge itself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and I could help them to more comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. I began to teach them singing, which has a great effect; and I carried all the pictures I had with me. Most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge of Bible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. The rest is really in order to that." "Wasn't it very hard work?" "No," said Lois. "Some things were hard; but not the work." "Because you like it." "Yes. O, Mr. Dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one's work, if it is work one is sure God has given." "That must be because you love him," said Philip gravely. "Yet I understand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrument and its proper work must agree." He was silent a minute, and Lois did not break the pause. If he would think, let him think, was her meaning. Then he began again. "There are different ways. What would you think of a man who spent his whole life in painting?" "I should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work." "I think it was truly his, and he served God in it." "Who was he?" "A Catholic monk, in the fifteenth century." "What did he paint? What was his name?" "His name was Fra Angelico--by reason of the angelic character which belonged to him and to his paintings; otherwise Fra Giovanni; he was a monk in a Dominican cloister. He entered the convent when he was twenty years old; and from that time, till he was sixty-eight, he served God and his generation by painting." Lois looked somewhat incredulous. Mr. Dillwyn here took from one of his pockets a small case, opened it and put it in her hands. It was an excellent copy of a bit of Fra Angelico's work. "That," he said as he gave it her, "is the head of one of Fra Angelico's angels, from a group in a large picture. I had this copy made for myself some years ago--at a time when I only dimly felt what now I am beginning to understand." Lois scarce heard what he said. From the time she received the picture in her hands she lost all thought of everything else. The unearthly beauty and purity, the heavenly devotion and joy, seized her heart as with a spell. The delicate lines of the face, the sweet colouring, the finished, perfect handling, were most admirable; but it was the marvellous spiritual love and purity which so took possession of Lois. Her eyes filled and her cheeks flushed. It was, so far as painting could give it, the truth of heaven; and that goes to the heart of the human creature who perceives it. Mr. Dillwyn was watching her, meanwhile, and could look safely, secure that Lois was in no danger of finding it out; and while she, very likely, was thinking of the distance between that angel face and her own, Philip, on the other hand, was following the line of his sister's thought, and tracing the fancied likeness. Like one of Fra Angelico's angels! Yes, there was the same sort of grave purity, of unworldly if not unearthly spiritual beauty. Truly the rapt joy was not there, nor the unshadowed triumph; but love,--and innocence,--and humility,--and truth; and not a stain of the world upon it. Lois said not one word, but looked and looked, till at last she tendered the picture back to its owner. "Perhaps you would like to keep it," said he, "and show it to your sister." He brought it to have Madge see it! thought Lois. Aloud-- "No--she would enjoy it a great deal more if you showed it to her;--then you could tell her about it." "I think you could explain it better." As he made no motion to take back the picture, Lois drew in her hand again and took a further view. How beautiful was the fair, bright, rapt, blissful face of the angel!--as if, indeed, he were looking at heaven's glories. "Did he--did the painter--always paint like this?" "Always, I believe. He improved in his manner as he went on; he painted better and better; but from youth to age he was incessantly doing the one thing, serving God with his pencil. He never painted for money; that is, not for himself; the money went into the church's treasury. He did not work for fame; much of his best work is upon the walls of the monks' cells, where few would see it. He would not receive office. He lived upon the Old and New Testaments, and prayer; and the one business of his life was to show forth to the world what he believed, in such beautiful wise that they might be won to believe it too." "That is exactly the work we have to do,--everybody," said Lois, lifting her eyes with a bright light in them. "I mean, everybody that is a Christian. That is it;--to show forth Christ, and in such wise that men may see and believe in him too. That is the word in Philippians--'shining as lights in the world, holding forth the word of life.' I did not know it was possible to do it in painting--but I see it is. O, thank you for showing me this!--it has done me good." Her eyes were glistening as she gave him the picture again. Philip put it in security, in silence, and rose up. "Well," said he, "now I will go and hear somebody play the 'Carnival of Venice,' as if it were all rattle and no fun." "Is that the way they play it?" "It is the way some people play it. Good night." The door closed after him, and Lois sat down alone before the fire again. CHAPTER XLIV. CHOOSING A WIFE. She did not open her Bible to go on with the investigation Mr. Dillwyn had broken off. Now that he had just been with her in proper person, an instinct of scared modesty fled from the question whether or no he were a man whom a Christian woman might marry. What was it to her? Lois said to herself; what did it concern her, whether such a marriage were permissible or no? Such a question would never come to her for decision. To Madge, perhaps? But now the other question did ask for consideration;--Why she winced at the idea that it might come to Madge? Madge did not share her sister's scruple; Madge had not made the promise Lois had made; if Mr. Dillwyn asked her, she would accept him, Lois had little doubt. Perhaps he would ask her; and why, why did Lois wish he would not? For she perceived that the idea gave her pain. Why should it give her pain? For herself, the thing was a fixed fact; whatever the Bible said--and she knew pretty well what it said--for _her_, such a marriage was an impossibility. And why should she think about it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. Fra Angelico's angel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, glad face, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, the lofty exaltation above them. So ought she to be. And then, while this thought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of Mr. Dillwyn at the music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak, how Madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and Lois suddenly felt as if she herself were very much alone. Not merely alone now, to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?)--not now, but all through her life. It suddenly seemed to Lois as if she were henceforth to be always alone. Madge would no doubt marry--somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home for Lois. She had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see it all quite clearly. Mrs. Barclay's work had been, to separate her, in a certain way, from her family and her surroundings. They fitted together no longer. Lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which they did not share, but which now were become part of her being; the society in which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years, ago, could no longer content her. It was not inanimate nature, her garden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; Lois could have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought it no hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; the social level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; the aesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least the perception of them. Lois pondered and revolved this all till she began to grow rather dreary. Think of the Esterbrooke school, and of being alone there! Rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed, ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; long days of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicate arrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of the question. And Madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in Europe, and seeing Fra Angelico's paintings. Then the angel's face recurred to Lois, and she pulled herself up. The angel's face and the painter's history both confronted her. On one hand, the seraphic purity and joy of a creature who knew no will but God's will; on the other hand, the quiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. Four hundred years ago, Fra Angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearing witness to God's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teaching and admonishing herself. What did it signify just _how_ her own work should be done, if only it were like work? What matter whether rough or smooth, alone or in company? Where the service is to be done, there the Master puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for the servant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step he follow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power, that he show forth Christ to men. Then something like that angel's security would be with him all the way, and something like that angel's joy be at the end of it. The little picture had helped and comforted Lois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almost contented. She went, however, in good time, before Madge could return home; she did not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation which might be expected. And Madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, that she was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. But all Lois had gained was a respite. The next morning, as soon as they were awake, Madge began. "Lois, we had a grand time last night! You were so stupidly asleep when I came home, I couldn't tell you. We had a beautiful time! O Lois, Mrs. Burrage's house is just magnificent!" "I suppose so." "The floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods--a sort of mosaic--" "Parquetry." "What?--I call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders,--O, elegant! And they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of all sorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. She has got one of those Persian carpets she was telling about, Lois." "I dare say." "And the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sort of drapery--curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. And O, Lois, the flowers!--" "Where were they?" "Everywhere! On tables, and little shelves on the wall--" "Brackets." "O, well!--shelves they _are_, call them what you like; and stands of plants and pots of plants--the whole place was sweet with the smell, and green with the leaves, and brilliant with the flowers--" "Seems to have been brilliant generally." "So it was, just _brilliant_, with all that, and with the lights, and with the people." "Were the people brilliant too?" "And the playing." "O,--the playing!" "Everybody said so. It wasn't like Mrs. Barclay's playing." "What was it like?" "It looked like very hard work, to me. My dear, I saw the drops of sweat standing on one man's forehead;--he had been playing a pretty long piece," Madge added, by way of accounting for things. "I never saw anything like it, in all my life!" "Like what?--sweat on a man's forehead?" "Like the playing. Don't be ridiculous." "It is not I," said Lois, who meanwhile had risenn and was getting dressed. Madge was doing the same, talking all the while. "So the playing was something to be _seen_. What was the singing?" Madge stood still, comb in hand. "I don't know!" she said gravely. Lois could not help laughing. "Well, I don't," Madge went on. "It was so queer, some of it, I did not know which way to look. Some of it was regular yelling, Lois; and if people are going to yell, I'd rather have it out-of-doors. But one man--I think he thought he was doing it remarkably well--the goings up and down of his voice--" "Cadences--" "Well, the cadences if you choose; they made me think of nothing but the tones of the lions and other beasts in the menagerie. Don't you know how they roar up and down? first softly and then loud? I had everything in the world to do not to laugh out downright. He was singing something meant to be very pathetic; and it was absolutely killing." "It was not all like that, I suppose?" "No. There was some I liked. But nothing one-half so good as your singing a hymn, Lois. I wish you could have been there to give them one. Only you could not sing a hymn in such a place." "Why not?" "Why, because! It would be out of place." "I would not go anywhere where a hymn would be out of place." "That's nonsense. But O, how the people were dressed, Lois! Brilliant! O you may well say so. It took away my breath at first" "You got it again, I hope?" "Yes. But O, Lois, it _is_ nice to have plenty of money." "Well, yes. And it is nice _not_ to have it--if the Lord makes it so." "Makes _what_ so? You are very unsympathetic this morning, Lois! But if you had only been there. O Lois, there were one or two fur rugs--fur skins for rugs,--the most beautiful things I ever saw. One was a leopard's skin, with its beautiful spots; the other was white and thick and fluffy--I couldn't find out what it was." "Bear, maybe." "Bear! O Lois--those two skins finished me! I kept my head for a while, with all the mosaic floors and rich hangings and flowers and dresses,--but those two skins took away the little sense I had left. They looked so magnificent! so luxurious." "They are luxurious, no doubt." "Lois, I don't see why some people should have so much, and others so little." "The same sort of question that puzzled David once." "Why should Mrs. Burrage have all that, and you and I have only yellow painted floors and rag carpets?" "I don't want 'all that.'" "Don't you?" "No." "I do." "Madge, those things do not make people happy." "It's all very well to say so, Lois. I should like just to try once." "How do you like Mrs. Burrage?" Madge hesitated a trifle. "She is pleasant,--pretty, and clever, and lively; she went flying about among the people like a butterfly, stopping a minute here and a minute there, but I guess it was not to get honey but to give it. She was a little honeyfied to me, but not much. I don't--think"--(slowly) "she liked to see her brother making much of me." Lois was silent. "He was there; I didn't tell you. He came a little late. He said he had been here, and as he didn't find us he came on to his sister's." "He was here a little while." "So he said. But he was so good, Lois! He was _very_ good. He talked to me, and told me about things, and took care of me, and gave me supper. I tell you, I thought madam his sister looked a little askance at him once or twice. I _know_ she tried to get him away." Lois again made no answer. "Why should she, Lois?" "Maybe you were mistaken." "I don't think I was mistaken. But why should she, Lois?" "Madge, dear, you know what I told you." "About what?" "About that; people's feelings. You and I do not belong to this gay, rich world; we are not rich, and we are not fashionable, and we do not live as they live, in any way; and they do not want us; why should they?" "We should not hurt them!" said Madge indignantly. "Nor be of any use or pleasure to them." "There isn't a girl among them all to compare with you, as far as looks go." "I am afraid that will not help the matter," said Lois, smiling; but then she added with earnest and almost anxious eagerness, "Madge, dear, don't think about it! Happiness is not there; and what God gives us is best. Best for you and best for me. Don't you wish for riches!--or for anything we haven't got. What we have to do, is to live so as to show forth Christ and his truth before men." "Very few do that," said Madge shortly. "Let us be some of the few." "I'd like to do it in high places, then," said Madge. "O, you needn't talk, Lois! It's a great deal nicer to have a leopard skin under your feet than a rag-carpet." Lois could not help smiling, though something like tears was gathering. "And I'd rather have Mr. Dillwyn take care of me than uncle Tim Hotchkiss." The laughter and the tears came both more unmistakeably. Lois felt a little hysterical. She finished dressing hurriedly, and heard as little as possible of Madge's further communications. It was a few hours later, that same morning, that Philip Dillwyn strolled into his sister's breakfast-room. It was a room at the back of the house, the end of a suite; and from it the eye roved through half-drawn _portières_ and between rows of pillars, along a vista of the parquetted floors Madge had described to her sister; catching here the glitter of gold from a picture frame, and there a gleam of white from a marble figure, through the half light which reigned there. In the breakfast-room it was bright day; and Mrs. Burrage was finishing her chocolate and playing with bits of dry toast, when her brother came in. Philip had hardly exchanged greetings and taken his seat, when his attention was claimed by Mrs. Burrage's young son and heir, who forthwith thrust himself between his uncle's knees, a bat in one hand, a worsted ball in the other. "Uncle Phil, mamma says her name usen't to be Burrage--it was your name?" "That is correct." "If it was your name once, why isn't it your name now?" "Because she changed it and became Burrage." "What made her be Burrage?" "That is a deep question in mental philosophy, which I am unable to answer, Chauncey." "She says, it's because she married papa." "Does not your mother generally speak truth?" Young Philip Chauncey seemed to consider this question; and finally waiving it, went on pulling at a button of his uncle's coat in the energy of his inquiries. "Uncle Phil, you haven't got a wife?" "No." "Why haven't you?" "An old cookery book says, 'First catch your hare.'" "Must you catch your wife?" "I suppose so." "How do you catch her?" But the answer to this most serious inquiry was met by such a burst of laughter on the part of both the older persons in the room, that Phil had to wait; nothing daunted, however, returned to the charge. "Uncle Phil, if you had a wife, what would her name be?" "If ever I have one, Chauncey, her name will be--" But here the speaker had very nearly, in his abstraction, brought out a name that would, to say the least, have astonished his sister. He caught himself up just in time, and laughed. "If ever I have one, her name will be mine." "I did not know, last night, but you had chosen the lady to whom you intended to do so much honour," his sister observed coolly, looking at him across her chocolate cup. "Or who I hoped would do me so much honour. What did you think of my supposed choice?" he asked with equal coolness. "What could I think, except that you were like all other men--distraught for a pretty face." "One might do worse," observed Philip, in the same tone, while that of his sister grew warmer. "Some men,--but not you, Philip?" "What distinguishes me from the mass?" "You are too old to be made a fool of." "Old enough to be wise, certainly." "And you are too fastidious to be satisfied with anything short of perfection; and then you fill too high a position in the world to marry a girl who is nobody." "So?"--said Philip, using, which it always vexed his sister to have him do, the half questioning, half admiring, wholly unattackable German expression. "Then the person alluded to seemed to you something short of perfection?" "She is handsome," returned his sister; "she has a very handsome face; anybody can see that; but that does not make her your equal." "Humph!--You suppose I can find that rare bird, my equal, do you?" "Not there." "What's the matter with her?" "She is simply nobody." "Seems to say a good deal," responded Philip. "I do not know just _what_ it says." "You know as well as I do! And she is unformed; unused to all the ways of the world; a mere novice in society." "Part of that is soon mended," said Philip easily. "I heard your uncle, or Burrage's uncle, old Colonel Chauncey, last night declaring that there is not a girl in the city that has such manners as one of the Miss Lothrops; manners of 'mingled grace and dignity,' he said." "That was the other one." "That was the other one." "_She_ has been in New York before?" "Yes." "That was the one that Tom Caruthers was bewitched with?" "Have you heard _that_ story?" said Mr. Dillwyn dryly. "Why shouldn't I hear it?" "No reason, that I know. It is one of the 'ways of the world' you referred to, to tell everything of everybody,--especially when it is not true." "Isn't that story true?" "It has no inherent improbability. Tom is open to influences, and--" He stopped. "I know it is true; for Mrs. Caruthers told me herself." "Poor Tom!"-- "It was very good for him, that the thing was put an end to. But _you_--you should fly at higher game than Tom Caruthers can strike, Philip." "Thank you. There was no occasion for your special fear last night. I am in no danger there. But I know a man, Jessie,--a man I think much of, too,--who _is_ very much drawn to one of those ladies. He has confessed as much to me. What advice shall I give him? He is a man that can please himself; he has abundant means, and no ties to encumber him." "Does he hold as high a position as you?" "Quite." "And may pretend to as much?" "He is not a man of pretensions. But, taking your words as they mean, I should say, yes." "Is it any use to offer him advice?" "I think he generally hears mine--if he is not too far gone in something." "Ah!--Well, Philip, tell him to think what he is doing." "O, I _have_ put that before him." "He would make himself a great goose." "Perhaps I ought to have some arguments wherewith to substantiate that prophecy." "He can see the whole for himself. Let him think of the fitness of things. Imagine such a girl set to preside over his house--a house like this, for instance. Imagine her helping him receive his guests; sitting at the head of his table. Fancy it; a girl who has been accustomed to sanded floors, perhaps, and paper window-shades, and who has fed on pumpkins and pork all her life." Mr. Dillwyn smiled, as his eye roved over what of his sister's house was visible from where he sat, and he remembered the meal-times in Shampuashuh; he smiled, but his eye had more thought in it than Mrs. Burrage liked. She was watching him. "I cannot tell what sort of a house is in question in the present case," he said at length. "Perhaps it would not be a house like this." "It _ought_ to be a house like this." "Isn't that an open question?" "No! I am supposing that this man, your friend-- Do I know him?" "Do you not know everybody? But I have no permission to disclose his name." "And I do not care for it, if he is going to make a _mésalliance;_ a marriage beneath him. Such marriages turn out miserably. A woman not fit for society drags her husband out of it; a woman who has not refined tastes makes him gradually coarse; a woman with no connections keeps him from rising in life; if she is without education, she lets all the best part of him go to waste. In short, if he marries a nobody he becomes nobody too; parts with all his antecedents, and buries all his advantages. It's social ruin, Philip! it is just ruin." "If this man only does not prefer the bliss of ruining himself!"--said her brother, rising and lightly stretching himself. Mrs. Burrage looked at him keenly and doubtfully. "There is no greater mistake a man can make, than to marry beneath him," she went on. "Yes, I think that too." "It sinks him below his level; it is a weight round his neck; people afterwards, when he is mentioned say,--'_He married such a one, you know;_' and, '_Didn't he marry unfortunately?_'--He is like depreciated coin. It kills him, Philip, politically." "And fashionably." "O, fashionably! of course." "What's left to a man when he ceases to be fashionable?" "Well, of course he chooses a new set of associates." "But if Tom Caruthers had married as you say he wanted to marry, his wife would have come at once into his circle, and made one of it?" "Provided she could hold the place." "Of that I have no doubt." "It was a great gain to Tom that he missed." "The world has odd balances to weigh loss and gain!" said Philip. "Why, Philip, in addition to everything else, these girls are _religious;_--not after a reasonable fashion, you know, but puritanical; prejudiced, and narrow, and stiff." "How do you know all that?" "From that one's talk last night. And from Mrs. Wishart." "Did _she_ say they were puritanical?" "Yes. O yes! they are stiff about dancing and cards; and I had nearly laughed last night at the way Miss--what's her name?--opened her eyes at me when I spoke of the theatre." "She does not know what the theatre is," said Philip. "She thinks she does." "She does not know the half." "Philip," said Mrs. Burrage severely and discontentedly, "you are not agreeing with me." "Not entirely, sister." "You are as fond of the theatre, or of the opera, as anybody I know." "I never saw a decent opera in my life." "Philip!" "Nor did you." "How ridiculous! You have been going to the opera all your life, and the theatre too, in half a dozen different countries." "Therefore I claim to know of what I speak. And if I had a wife--" he paused. His thoughts made two or three leaps; the vision of Lois's sweet, pure dignity came before him, and words were wanting. "What if you had a wife?" asked his sister impatiently. "I would rather she would be anything but a 'fast' woman." "She needn't be 'fast'; but she needn't be precise either." There was something in Philip's air or his silence which provoked Mrs. Burrage. She went on with some heat, and defiantly. "I have no objection to religion, in a proper way. I always teach Chauncey to make the responses." "Make them yourself?" "Of course." "Do you mean them?" "Mean them!"-- "Yes. Do you mean what you say? When you have said, 'Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners'--did you feel guilty? or miserable?" "Miserable!"-- "Yes. Did you feel miserable?" "Philip, I have no idea what you are driving at, unless you are defending these two precise, puritanical young country-women." "A little of that," he said, smiling, "and a little of something else." He had risen, as if to go. His sister looked at him, vexed and uncertain. She was proud of her brother, she admired him, as almost people did who knew Mr. Dillwyn. Suddenly she changed her tactics; rose up, and coming to him laid both her hands on his shoulders so that she could raise herself up to kiss him. "Don't _you_ go and be foolish!" she said. "I will forgive your friend, Philip, but I will not forgive you!" CHAPTER XLV. DUTY. The days of December went by. Lois was herself again, in health; and nothing was in the way of Madge's full enjoyment of New York and its pleasures, so she enjoyed them to the full. She went wherever Mrs. Wishart would take her. That did not involve any very outrageous dissipation, for Mrs. Wishart, though fond of society, liked it best in moderation. Moderate companies and moderate hours suited her. However, Madge had enough to content her new thirst for excitement and variety, especially as Mr. Dillwyn continually came in to fill up gaps in her engagements. He took her to drive, or to see various sights, which for the country-bred girl were full of enchantment; and he came to the house constantly on the empty evenings. Lois queried again and again what brought him there? Madge it must be; it could hardly be the society of his old friend Mrs. Wishart. It was not her society that he sought. He was general in his attentions, to be sure; but he played chess with Madge, he accompanied Madge's singing, he helped Madge in her French reading and Italian pronunciation, and took Madge out. He did none of these things with Lois. Truly Lois had been asked, and would not go out either alone or with her sister in Mr. Dillwyn's carriage or in Mr. Dillwyn's convoy. And she had been challenged, and invariably declined, to sing with them; and she did not want to learn the game of chess, and took no help from anybody in her studies. Indeed, Lois kept herself persistently in the background, and refused to accompany her friends to any sort of parties; and at home, though she must sit down-stairs in the evening, she withdrew from the conversation as much as she could. "My dear," said Mrs. Wishart, much vexed at last, "you do not think it is _wicked_ to go into society, I hope?" "Not for you. I do not think it would be right for me." "Why not, pray? Is this Puritanism?" "Not at all," said Lois, smiling. "She is a regular Puritan, though," said Madge. "It isn't that," Lois repeated. "I like going out among people as well as Madge does. I am afraid I might like it too well." "What do you mean by 'too well'?" demanded her protectress, a little angrily. "More than would be good for me. Just think--in a little while I must go back to Esterbrooke and teaching; don't you see, I had better not get myself entangled with what would unfit me for my work?" "Nonsense! That is not your work." "You are _never_ going back to that horrid place!" exclaimed Madge. But they both knew, from the manner of Lois's quiet silence, that their positions would not be maintained. "There's the more reason, if you are going back there by and by, why you should take all the advantage you can of the present," Mrs. Wishart added. Lois gave her a sweet, grateful look, acknowledging her tenderness, but not granting her conclusions. She got away from the subject as soon as she could. The question of the sisters' return home had already been broached by Lois; received, however, by Mrs. Wishart with such contempt, and by Madge with such utter disfavour, that Lois found the point could not be carried; at least not at that time; and then winter began to set in, and she could find no valid reason for making the move before it should be gone again, Mrs. Wishart's intention being unmistakeable to keep them until spring. But how was she going to hold out until spring? Lois felt herself very uncomfortable. She could not possibly avoid seeing Mr. Dillwyn constantly; she could not always help talking to him, for sometimes he would make her talk; and she was very much afraid that she liked to talk to him. All the while she was obliged to see how much attention he was paying to Madge, and it was no secret how well Madge liked it; and Lois was afraid to look at her own reasons for disliking it. Was it merely because Mr. Dillwyn was a man of the world, and she did not want her sister to get entangled with him? her sister, who had made no promise to her grandmother, and who was only bound, and perhaps would not be bound, by Bible commands? Lois had never opened her Bible to study the point, since that evening when Mr. Dillwyn had interrupted her. She was ashamed to do it. The question ought to have no interest for her. So days went by, and weeks, and the year was near at an end, when the first snow came. It had held off wonderfully, people said; and now when it came it came in earnest. It snowed all night and all day; and slowly then the clouds thinned and parted and cleared away, and the westering sun broke out upon a brilliant world. Lois sat at her window, looking out at it, and chiding herself that it made her feel sober. Or else, by contrast, it let her know how sober she was. The spectacle was wholly joy-inspiring, and so she had been wont to find it. Snow lying unbroken on all the ground, in one white, fair glitter; snow lying piled up on the branches and twigs of trees, doubling them with white coral; snow in ridges and banks on the opposite shore of the river; and between, the rolling waters. Madge burst in. "Isn't it glorious?" said Lois. "Come here and see how black the river is rolling between its white banks." "Black? I didn't know anything was black," said Madge. "Here is Mr. Dillwyn, come to take me sleigh-riding. Just think, Lois!--a sleigh ride in the Park!--O, I'm so glad I have got my hood done!" Lois slowly turned her head round. "Sleigh-riding?" she said. "Are you going sleigh-riding, and with Mr. Dillwyn?" "Yes indeed, why not?" said Madge, bustling about with great activity. "I'd rather go with him than with anybody else, I can tell you. He has got his sister's horses--Mrs. Burrage don't like sleighing--and Mr. Burrage begged he would take the horses out. They're gay, but he knows how to drive. O, won't it be magnificent?" Lois looked at her sister in silence, unwilling, yet not knowing what to object; while Madge wrapped herself in a warm cloak, and donned a silk hood lined with cherry colour, in which she was certainly something to look at. No plainer attire nor brighter beauty would be seen among the gay snow-revellers that afternoon. She flung a sparkling glance at her sister as she turned to go. "Don't be very long!" Lois said. "Just as long as he likes to make it!" Madge returned. "Do you think _I_ am going to ask him to turn about, before he is ready? Not I, I promise you. Good-bye, hermit!" Away she ran, and Lois turned again to her window, where all the white seemed suddenly to have become black. She will marry him!--she was saying to herself. And why should she not? she has made no promise. _I_ am bound--doubly; what is it to me, what they do? Yet if not right for me it is not right for Madge. _Is_ the Bible absolute about it? She thought it would perhaps serve to settle and stay her mind if she went to the Bible with the question and studied it fairly out. She drew up the table with the book, and prayed earnestly to be taught the truth, and to be kept contented with the right. Then she opened at the well-known words in 2 Corinthians, chap. vi. "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers"-- "Yoked together." That is, bound in a bond which obliges two to go one way and pull in one draught. Then of course they _must_ go one way; and which way, will depend upon which is strongest. But cannot a good woman use her influence to induce a man who is also good, only not Christian, to go the right way? Lois pondered this, wishing to believe it. Yet there stood the command. And she remembered there are two sides to influence; could not a good man, and a pleasant man, only not Christian, use his power to induce a Christian woman to go the wrong way? How little she would like to displease him! how willingly she would gratify him!--And then there stands the command. And, turning from it to a parallel passage in 1 Cor. vii. 39, she read again the directions for the marriage of a Christian widow; she is at liberty to be married to whom she will, "_only in the Lord_." There could be no question of what is the will of God in this matter. And in Deut. vii. 3, 4, she studied anew the reasons there given. "Neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods." Lois studied these passages with I cannot say how much aching of heart. Why did her heart ache? It was nothing to her, surely; she neither loved nor was going to love any man to whom the prohibition could apply. Why should she concern herself with the matter? Madge?-- Well, Madge must be the keeper of her own conscience; she would probably marry Mr. Dillwyn; and poor Lois saw sufficiently into the workings of her own heart to know that she thought her sister very happy in the prospect. But then, if the question of conscience could be so got over, _why_ was she troubled? She would not evade the inquiry; she forced herself to make it; and she writhed under the pressure and the pain it caused her. At last, thoroughly humbled and grieved and ashamed, she fled to a woman's refuge in tears, and a Christian's refuge in prayer; and from the bottom of her heart, though with some very hard struggles, gave up every lingering thought and wish that ran counter to the Bible command. Let Madge do what Madge thought right; she had warned her of the truth. Now her business was with herself and her own action; and Lois made clean work of it. I cannot say she was exactly a happy woman as she went down-stairs; but she felt strong and at peace. Doing the Lord's will, she could not be miserable; with the Lord's presence she could not be utterly alone; anyhow, she would trust him and do her duty, and leave all the rest. She went down-stairs at last, for she had spent the afternoon in her own room, and felt that she owed it to Mrs. Wishart to go down and keep her company. O, if Spring were but come! she thought as she descended the staircase,--and she could get away, and take hold of her work, and bring things into the old train! Spring was many weeks off yet, and she must do different and harder work first, she saw. She went down to the back drawing-room and laid herself upon the sofa. "Are you not well, Lois?" was the immediate question from Mrs. Wishart. "Yes, ma'am; only not just vigorous. How long they are gone! It is growing late." "The sleighing is tempting. It is not often we have such a chance. I suppose everybody is out. _You_ don't go into the air enough, Lois." "I took a walk this morning." "In the snow!--and came back tired. I saw it in your face. Such dreadful walking was enough to tire you. I don't think you half know how to take care of yourself." Lois let the charge pass undisputed, and lay still. The afternoon had waned and the sun gone down; the snow, however, made it still light outside. But that light faded too; and it was really evening, when sounds at the front door announced the return of the sleighing party. Presently Madge burst in, rosy and gay as snow and sleigh-bells could make anybody. "It's glorious!" she said. "O, we have been to the Park and all over. It's splendid! Everybody in the world is out, and we saw everybody, and some people we saw two or three times; and it's like nothing in all the world I ever saw before. The whole air is full of sleigh-bells; and the roads are so thick with sleighs that it is positively dangerous." "That must make it very pleasant!" said Lois languidly. "O, it does! There's the excitement, you know, and the skill of steering clear of people that you think are going to run over you. It's the greatest fun I ever saw in my life. And Mr. Dillwyn drives beautifully." "I dare say." "And the next piece of driving he does, is to drive you out." "I hardly think he will manage that." "Well, you'll see. Here he is. She says she hardly thinks you will, Mr. Dillwyn. Now for a trial of power!" Madge stood in the centre of the room, her hood off, her little plain cloak still round her; eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy with pleasure and frosty air, a very handsome and striking figure. Lois's eyes dwelt upon her, glad and sorry at once; but Lois had herself in hand now, and was as calm as the other was excited. Then presently came Mr. DilIwyn, and sat down beside her couch. "How do you do, this evening?" His manner, she noticed, was not at all like Madge's; it was quiet, sober, collected, gentle; sleighing seemed to have wrought no particular exhilaration on him. Therefore it disarmed Lois. She gave her answer in a similar tone. "Have you been out to-day?" "Yes--quite a long walk this morning." "Now I want you to let me give you a short drive." "O no, I think not." "Come!" said he. "I may not have another opportunity to show you what you will see to-day; and I want you to see it." He did not seem to use much urgency, and yet there was a certain insistance in his tone which Lois felt, and which had its effect upon her, as such tones are apt to do, even when one does not willingly submit to them. She objected that it was late. "O, the moon is up," cried Madge; "it won't be any darker than it is now." "It will be brighter," said Philip. "But your horses must have had enough." "Just enough," said Philip, laughing, "to make them go quietly. Miss Madge will bear witness they were beyond that at first. I want you to go with me. Come, Miss Lois! We must be home before Mrs. Wishart's tea. Miss Madge, give her your hood and cloak; that will save time." Why should she not say no? She found it difficult, against that something in his tone. He was more intent upon the affirmative than she upon the negative. And after all, why _should_ she say no? She had fought her fight and conquered; Mr. Dillwyn was nothing to her, more than another man; unless, indeed, he were to be Madge's husband, and then she would have to be on good terms with, him. And she had a secret fancy to have, for once, the pleasure of this drive with him. Why not, just to see how it tasted? I think it went with Lois at this moment as in the German story, where a little boy vaunted himself to his sister that he had resisted the temptation to buy some ripe cherries, and so had saved his pennies. His sister praised his prudence and firmness. "But now, dear Hercules," she went on, "now that you have done right and saved your pennies, now, my dear brother, you may reward yourself and buy your cherries!" Perhaps it was with some such unconscious recoil from judgment that Lois acted now. At any rate, she slowly rose from her sofa, and Madge, rejoicing, threw off her cloak and put it round her, and fastened its ties. Then Mr. Dillwyn himself took the hood and put it on her head, and tied the strings under her chin. The start this gave her almost made Lois repent of her decision; he was looking into her face, and his fingers were touching her cheek, and the pain of it was more than Lois had bargained for. No, she thought, she had better not gone; but it was too late now to alter things. She stood still, feeling that thrill of pain and pleasure where the one so makes the other keen, keeping quiet and not meeting his eyes; and then he put her hand upon his arm and led her down the wide, old-fashioned staircase. Something in the air of it all brought to Lois's remembrance that Sunday afternoon at Shampuashuh and the walk home in the rain; and it gave her a stricture of heart. She put the manner now to Madge's account, and thought within herself that if Madge's hood and cloak were beside him it probably did not matter who was in them; his fancy could do the rest. Somehow she did not want to go to drive as Madge's proxy. However, there was no helping that now. She was put into the sleigh, enveloped in the fur robes; Mr. Dillwyn took his place beside her, and they were off. CHAPTER XLVI. OFF AND ON. Certinaly Madge had not said too much, and the scene was like witchery. The sun was down, but the moon was up, near full, and giving a white illumination to the white world. The snow had fallen thick, and neither sun nor wind had as yet made any impression upon it; the covering of the road was thick and well beaten, and on every exposed level surface lay the white treasure piled up. Every twig and branch of the trees still held its burden; every roof was blanketed; there had been no time yet for smoke and soil to come upon the pure surfaces; and on all this fell the pale moon rays, casting pale shadows and making the world somehow look like something better than itself. The horses Mr. Dillwyn drove were fresh enough yet, and stepped off gaily, their bells clinking musically; and other bells passed them and sounded in the nearer and further distance. Moreover, under this illumination all less agreeable features of the landscape were covered up. It was a pure region of enchanted beauty to Lois's sense, through which they drove; and she felt as if a spell had come upon her too, and this bit of experience were no more real than the rest of it. It was exquisitely and intensely pleasant; a bit of life quite apart and by itself, and never to be repeated, therefore to be enjoyed all she could while she had it. Which thought was not enjoyment. Was she not foolish to have come? "Are you comfortable?" suddenly Mr. Dillwyn's voice came in upon these musings. "O, perfectly!" Lois answered, with an accentuation between delight and desperation. And then he was silent again; and she went on with her musings, just that word having given them a spur. How exquisite the scene was! how exquisite everything, in fact. All the uncomelinesses of a city suburb were veiled under the moonlight; nothing but beauty could be seen; here were points that caught the light, and there were shadows that simply served to set off the silvery whiteness of the moon and the snow; what it was that made those points of reflection, or what lay beneath those soft shadows, did not appear. The road was beaten smooth, the going was capital, the horses trotted swiftly and steadily, Lois was wrapped in soft furs, and the air which she was breathing was merely cold enough to exhilarate. It was perfection. In truth it was so perfect, and Lois enjoyed it so keenly, that she began to be vexed at herself for her enjoyment. Why should Mr. Dillwyn have got her out? all this luxury of sense and feeling was not good for her; did not belong to her; and why should she taste at all a delight which must be so fleeting? And what had possessed him to tie her hood strings for her, and to do it in that leisurely way, as if he liked it? And why did _she_ like it? Lois scolded and chid herself. If he were going to marry Madge ever so much, that gave him no right to take such a liberty; and she would not allow him such liberties; she would keep him at a distance. But was she not going to a distance herself? There would be no need. The moonlight was troubled, though by no cloud on the ethereal firmament; and Lois was not quite so conscious as she had been of the beauty around her. The silence lasted a good while; she wondered if her neighbour's thoughts were busy with the lady he had just set down, to such a degree that he forgot to attend to his new companion? Nothing could be more wide of the truth; but that is the way we judge and misjudge one another. She was almost hurt at his silence, before he spoke again. The fact is, that the general axiom that a man can always put in words anything of which his head and heart are both full, seems to have one exception. Mr. Dillwyn was a good talker, always, on matters he cared about, and matters he did not care about; and yet now, when he had secured, one would say, the most favourable circumstances for a hearing, and opportunity to speak as he liked, he did not know how to speak. By and by his hand came again round Lois to see that the fur robes were well tucked in about her. Something in the action made her impatient. "I am very well," she said. "You must be taken care of, you know," he said; to Lois's fancy he said it as if there were some one to whom he must be responsible for her. "I am not used to being taken care of," she said. "I have taken care of myself, generally." "Like it better?" "I don't know. I suppose really no woman can say she likes it better. But I am accustomed to it." "Don't you think I could take care of you?" "You _are_ taking capital care of me," said Lois, not knowing exactly how to understand him. "Just now it is your business; and I should say you were doing it well." "What would you say if I told you that I wanted to take care of you all your life?" He had let the horses come to a walk; the sleigh-bells only tinkled softly; no other bells were near. Which way they had gone Lois had not considered; but evidently it had not been towards the busy and noisy haunts of men. However, she did not think of this till a few minutes afterwards; she thought now that Mr. Dillwyn's words regarded Madge's sister, and her feeling of independence became rigid. "A kind wish,--but impracticable," she answered. "Why?" "I shall be too far off. That is one thing." "Where are you going to be?--Forgive me for asking!" "O yes. I shall be keeping school in New England somewhere, I suppose; first of all, at Esterbrooke." "But if I had the care of you--you would not be there?" "That is my place," said Lois shortly. "Do you mean it is the place you prefer?" "There is no question of preference. You know, one's work is what is given one; and the thing given me to do, at present, seems to be there. Of course I do prefer what my work is." Still the horses were smoothly walking. Mr. Dillwyri was silent a moment. "You did not understand what I said to you just now. It was earnest." "I did not think it was anything else," said Lois, beginning to wish herself at home. "I am sure you meant it, and I know you are very good; but--you cannot take care of me." "Give me your reasons," he said, restraining the horses, which would have set off upon a quicker pace again. "Why, Mr. Dillwyn, it is self-evident. You would not respect me if I allowed you to do it; and I should not respect myself. We New England folks, if we are nothing else, we are independent." "So?--" said Mr. Dillwyn, in a puzzled manner, but then a light broke upon him, and he half laughed.--"I never heard that the most rampant spirit of independence made a wife object to being dependent on her husband." "A wife?" said Lois, not knowing whether she heard aright. "Yes," said he. "How else? How could it be else? Lois, may I have you, to take care of the rest of my life, as my very own?" The short, smothered breath with which this was spoken was intelligible enough, and put Lois in the rarest confusion. "Me?--" was all she could ejaculate. "You, certainly. I never saw any other woman in my life to whom I wished to put the question. You are the whole world to me, as far as happiness is concerned." "I?--" said Lois again. "I thought--" "What?" She hesitated, and he urged the question. Lois was not enough mistress of herself to choose her words. "I thought--it was somebody else." "Did you?--Who did you think it was?" "O, don't ask me!" "But I think I must ask you. It concerns me to know how, and towards whom, my manner can have misled you. Who was it?" "It was not--your manner--exactly," said Lois, in terrible embarrassment. "I was mistaken." "How could you be mistaken?" "I never dreamed--the thought never entered my head--that--it was I." "I must have been in fault then," said he gently; "I did not want to wear my heart on my sleeve, and so perhaps I guarded myself too well. I did not wish to know anybody else's opinion of my suit till I had heard yours. What is yours, Lois?--what have you to say to me?" He checked the horses again, and sat with his face inclined towards her, waiting eagerly, Lois knew. And then, what a sharp pain shot through her! All that had gone before was nothing to this; and for a moment the girl's whole nature writhed under the torture. She knew her own mind now; she was fully conscious that the best gift of earth was within her grasp; her hands were stretched longingly towards it, her whole heart bounded towards it; to let it go was to fall into an abyss from which light and hope seemed banished; there was everything in all the world to bid her give the answer that was waited for; only duty bade her not give it. Loyalty to God said no, and her promise bound her tongue. For that minute that she was silent Lois wrestled with mortal pain. There are martyrs and martyrdoms now-a-days, that the world takes no account of; nevertheless they have bled to death for the cause, and have been true to their King at the cost of all they had in the world. Mr. Dillwyn was waiting, and the fight had to be short, though well she knew the pain would not be. She must speak. She did it huskily, and with a fierce effort. It seemed as if the words would not come out. "I have nothing to say, Mr. Dillwyn,--that you would like to hear," she added, remembering that her first utterance was rather indefinite. "You do not mean that?" he said hurriedly. "Indeed I do." "I know," he said, "you never say anything you do not mean. But _how_ do you mean it, Lois? Not to deny me? You do not mean _that?_" "Yes," she said. And it was like putting a knife through her own heart when she said it. O, if she were at home! O, if she had never come on this drive! O, if she had never left Esterbrooke and those sick-beds!--But here she was, and must stand the question; and Mr. Dillwyn had not done. "What reason do you give me?"--and his voice grated now with pain. "I gave none," said Lois faintly. "Don't let us talk about it! It is no use. Don't ask me anything more!" "One question I must. I must know it. Do you dislike me, Lois?" "Dislike? O no! how should I dislike you?" she answered. There was a little, very slight, vibration in her voice as she spoke, and her companion discerned it. When an instrument is very high strung, a quite soft touch will be felt and answered, and that touch swept all the strings of Mr. Dillwyn's soul with music. "If you do not dislike me, then," said he, "what is it? Do you, possibly _like_ me, Lois?" Lois could not prevent a little hesitation before she answered, and that, too, Philip well noted. "It makes no difference," she said desperately. "It isn't that. Don't let us talk any more about it! Mr. Dillwyn, the horses have been walking this great while, and we are a long way from home; won't you drive on?" He did drive on then, and for a while said not a word more. Lois was panting with eagerness to get home, and could not go fast enough; she would gladly have driven herself, only not quite such a fresh and gay pair of horses. They swept along towards a region that she could see from afar was thicker set with lights than the parts where they were. Before they reached it, however, Mr. Dillwyn drew rein again, and made the horses walk gently. "There is one question still I must ask," he said; "and to ask it, I must for a moment disobey your commands. Forgive me; but when the happiness of a whole life is at stake, a moment's pain must be borne--and even inflicted--to make sure one is not suffering needlessly a far greater evil. Miss Lois, you never do anything without a reason; tell me your reason for refusing me. You thought I liked some one else; it is not that; I never have liked any one else. Now, what is it?" "There is no use in talking," Lois murmured. "It is only pain." "Necessary pain," said he firmly. "It is right I should know, and it must be possible for you to tell me. Say that it is because you cannot like me well enough--and I shall understand that." But Lois could not say it; and the pause, which embarrassed her terribly, had naturally a different effect upon her companion. "It is _not_ that!" he cried. "Have you been led to believe something false about me, Lois?--Lois?" "No," she said, trembling; the pain, and the difficulty of speaking, and the struggle it cost, set her absolutely to trembling. "No, it is something _true_." She spoke faintly, but he listened well. "_True!_ What is it? It is not true. What do you mean, dear?" The several things which came with the intonations of this last question overset the remnant of Lois's composure. She burst into tears; and he was looking, and the moonlight was full in her face, and he could not but see it. "I cannot help it," she cried; "and you cannot help it. It is no use to talk about it. You know--O, you know--you are not a Christian!" It was almost a cry at last with which she said it; and the usually self-contained Lois hid her face away from him. Whether the horses walked or trotted for a little while she did not know; and I think it was only mechanical, the effort by which their driver kept them at a foot pace. He waited, however, till Lois dropped her hands again, and he thought she would attend to him. "May I ask," he then said, and his voice was curiously clear and composed,--"if that is your _only_ objection to me?" "It is enough!" said Lois smotheredly, and noticing at the same time that ring in his voice. "You think, one who is a Christian ought never to marry another who is not a Christian?" "No!" she said, in the same way, as if catching her breath. "It is very often done." She made no reply. This was a most cruel discussion, she thought. Would they never reach home? And the horses walking! Walking, and shaking their heads, with soft little peals of the bells, like creatures who had at last got quiet enough to like walking. "Is that all, Lois?" he asked again; and the tone of his voice irritated her. "There need not be anything more," she answered. "That is enough. It is a barrier for ever between us; you cannot overcome it--and I cannot. O, do make the horses go! we shall never get home! and don't talk any more." "I will let the horses go presently; but first I must talk a little more, because there is something that must be said. That _was_ a barrier, a while ago; but it is not now. There is no need for either of us to overcome it or try to overcome it, for it does not exist. Lois, do you hear me? It does not exist." "I do not understand," she said, in a dazed kind of way, turning towards him. "What does not exist?" "That barrier--or any barrier--between you and me." "Yes, it does. It _is_ a barrier. I promised my dear grandmother--and if I had not promised her, it would be just the same, for I have promised to obey God; and he forbids it." "Forbids what?" "Forbids me, a Christian, to have anything to do with you, who are not a Christian. I mean, in that way." "But, Lois--I am a Christian too." "You?" she said, turning towards him. "Yes." "What sort of a one?" Philip could not help laughing at the naïve question, which, however, he perfectly understood. "Not an old one," he said; "and not a good one; and yet, Lois, truly an honest one. As you mean the word. One whose King Christ is, as he is yours; and who trusts in him with the whole heart, as you do." "You a Christian!" exclaimed Lois now, in the greatest astonishment. "When did it happen?" He laughed again. "A fair question. Well, it came about last summer. You recollect our talk one Sunday in the rain?" "O yes!"-- "That set me to thinking; and the more I saw of you,--yes, and of Mrs. Armadale,--and the more I heard of you from Mrs. Barclay, the more the conviction forced itself upon my mind, that I was living, and had always lived, a fool's life. That was a conclusion easily reached; but how to become wise was another matter. I resolved to give myself to the study till I had found the answer; and that I might do it uninterruptedly, I betook myself to the wilds of Canada, with not much baggage beside my gun and my Bible. I hunted and fished; but I studied more than I did either. I took time for it too. I was longing to see you; but I resolved this subject should be disposed of first. And I gave myself to it, until it was all clear to me. And then I made open profession of my belief, and took service as one of Christ's declared servants. That was in Montreal." "In Montreal!" "Yes." "Why did you never say anything about it, then?" "I am not accustomed to talking on the subject, you know. But, really, I had a reason. I did not want to seem to propitiate your favour by any such means; I wished to try my chances with you on my own merits; and that was also a reason why I made my profession in Montreal. I wanted to do it without delay, it is true; I also wanted to do it quietly. I mean everybody shall know; but I wished you to be the first." There followed a silence. Things rushed into and over Lois's mind with such a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. All her positions were knocked away; all her assumptions were found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; her fears and her hopes were alike come to nought. That is, _bien entendu_, her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter new ones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. Like little green heads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fair blossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves. Ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now Lois hardly knew where they were or what they were. Seeing her utterly silent and moveless, Mr. Dillwyn did probably the wisest thing he could do, and drove on. For some time the horses trotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches that wilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer and nearer. When it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drew in his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked. "Lois, I think it is fair I should have another answer to my question now." "What question?" she asked hurriedly. "You know, I was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for the rest of your natural life--or of mine. What do you say to it?" Lois said nothing. She could not find words. Words seemed to tumble over one another in her mind,--or thoughts did. "What answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely. "You know, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois stammeringly, "I never thought,--I never knew before,--I never had any notion, that--that--that you thought so."-- "Thought _so?_--about what?" "About me." "I have thought so about you for a great while." Silence again. The horses, being by this time pretty well exercised, needed no restraining, and walked for their own pleasure. Everything with Lois seemed to be in a whirl. "And now it becomes necessary to know what you think about me," Mr. Dillwyn went on, after that pause. "I am very glad--" Lois said tremulously. "Of what?" "That you are a Christian." "Yes, but," said he, half laughing, "that is not the immediate matter in hand. What do you think of me in my proposed character as having the ownership and the care of you?" "I have never thought of you so," Lois managed to get out. The words were rather faint, heard, however, as Mr. Dillwyn's hand came just then adjusting and tucking in her fur robes, and his face was thereby near hers. "And now you _do_ think of me so?--What do you say to me?" She could not say anything. Never in her life had Lois been at a loss and wrecked in all self-management before. "You know, it is necessary to say something, that I may know where I stand. I must either stay or go. Will you send me away? or keep me 'for good,' as the children say?" The tone was not without a touch of grave anxiety now, and impatient earnestness, which Lois heard well enough and would have answered; but it seemed as if her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. Mr. Dillwyn waited now for her to speak, keeping the horses at a walk, and bending down a little to hear what she would say. One sleigh passed them, then another. It became intolerable to Lois. "I do not want to send you away," she managed finally to say, trembling. The words, however, were clear and slow-spoken, and Mr. Dillwyn asked no more then. He drove on, and attended to his driving, even went fast; and Lois hardly knew how houses and rocks and vehicles flew past them, till the reins were drawn at Mrs. Wishart's door. Philip whistled; a groom presently appeared from the house and took the horses, and he lifted Lois out. As they were going up the steps he asked softly, "Is that _all_ you are going to say to me?" "Isn't it enough for to-night?" Lois returned. "I see you think so," he said, half laughing. "I don't; but, however--Are you going to be alone to-morrow morning, or will you take another sleigh ride with me?" "Mrs. Wishart and Madge are going to Mme. Cisco's _matinée_." "At what o'clock?" "They will leave here at half-past ten." "Then I will be here before eleven." The door opened, and with a grip of her hand he turned away. CHAPTER XLVII. PLANS. Lois went along the hall in that condition of the nerves in which the feet seem to walk without stepping on anything. She queried what time it could be; was the evening half gone? or had they possibly not done tea yet? Then the parlour door opened. "Lois!--is that you? Come along; you are just in time; we are at tea. Hurry, now!" Lois went to her room, wishing that she could any way escape going to the table; she felt as if her friend and her sister would read the news in her face immediately, and hear it in her voice as soon as she spoke. There was no help for it; she hastened down, and presently perceived to her wonderment that her friends were absolutely without suspicion. She kept as quiet as possible, and found, happily, that she was very hungry. Mrs. Wishart and Madge were busy in talk. "You remember Mr. Caruthers, Lois?" said the former;--"Tom Caruthers, who used to be here so often?" "Certainly." "Did you hear he had made a great match?" "I heard he was going to be married. I heard that a great while ago." "Yes, he has made a very great match. It has been delayed by the death of her mother; they had to wait. He was married a few months ago, in Florence. They had a splendid wedding." "What makes what you call a 'great match'?" Madge asked. "Money,--and family." "I understand money," Madge went on; "but what do you mean by 'family,' Mrs. Wishart?" "My dear, if you lived in the world, you would know. It means name, and position, and standing. I suppose at Shampuashuh you are all alike--one is as good as another." "Indeed," said Madge, "you are much mistaken, Mrs. Wishart. We think one is much better than another." "Do you? Ah well,--then you know what I mean, my dear. I suppose the world is really very much alike in all places; it is only the names of things that vary." "In Shampuashuh," Madge went on, "we mean by a good family, a houseful of honest and religious people." "Yes, Madge," said Lois, looking up, "we mean a little more than that. We mean a family that has been honest and religious, and educated too, for a long while--for generations. We mean as much as that, when we speak of a good family." "That's different," said Mrs. Wishart shortly. "Different from what you mean?" "Different from what is meant here, when we use the term." "You _don't_ mean anything honest and religious?" said Madge. "O, honest! My dear, everybody is honest, or supposed to be; but we do not mean religious." "Not religious, and only supposed to be honest!" echoed Madge. "Yes," said Mrs. Wishart. "It isn't that. It has nothing to do with that. When people have been in society, and held high positions for generation after generation, it is a good family. The individuals need not be all good." "Oh--!" said Madge. "No. I know families among the very best in the State, that have been wicked enough; but though they have been wicked, that did not hinder their being gentlemen." "Oh--!" said Madge again. "I begin to comprehend." "There is too much made of money now-a-days," Mrs. Wishart went on serenely; "and there is no denying that money buys position. _I_ do not call a good family one that was not a good family a hundred years ago; but everybody is not so particular. Not here. They are more particular in Philadelphia. In New York, any nobody who has money can push himself forward." "What sort of family is Mr. Dillwyn's?" "O, good, of course. Not wealthy, till lately. They have been poor, ever since I knew the family; until the sister married Chauncey Burrage, and Philip came into his property." "The Caruthers are rich, aren't they?" "Yes." "And now the young one has made a great match? Is she handsome?" "I never heard so. But she is rolling in money." "What else is she?" inquired Madge dryly. "She is a Dulcimer." "That tells me nothing," said Madge. "By the way you speak it, the word seems to have a good deal of meaning for you." "Certainly," said Mrs. Wishart. "She is one of the Philadelphia Dulcimers. It is an old family, and they have always been wealthy." "How happy the gentleman must be!" "I hope so," said Mrs. Wishart gravely. "_You_ used to know Tom quite well, Lois. What did you think of him?" "I liked him," said Lois. "Very pleasant and amiable, and always gentlemanly. But I did not think he had much character." Mrs. Wishart was satisfied; for Lois's tone was as disengaged as anything could possibly be. Lois could not bring herself to say anything to Madge that night about the turn in her fortunes. Her own thoughts were in too much agitation, and only by slow degrees resolving themselves into settled conclusions. Or rather, for the conclusions were not doubtful, settling into such quiet that she could look at conclusions. And Lois began to be afraid to do even that, and tried to turn her eyes away, and thought of the hour of half-past ten next morning with trembling and heart-beating. It came with tremendous swiftness, too. However, she excused herself from going to the _matinée_, though with difficulty. Mrs. Wishart was sure she ought to go; and Madge tried persuasion and raillery. Lois watched her get ready, and at last contentedly saw the two drive off. That was good. She wanted no discussion with them before she had seen Mr. Dillwyn again; and now the coast was clear. But then Lois retreated to her own room up-stairs to wait; she could not stay in the drawing-room, to be found there. She would have so much time for preparation as his ring at the door and his name being brought up-stairs would give her. Preparation for what? When the summons came, Lois went down feeling that she had not a bit of preparation. Philip was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting for her; and the apparition that greeted him was so unexpected that he stood still, feasting his eyes with it. He had always seen Lois calm, collected, moving and speaking with frank independence, although with perfect modesty. Now?--how was it? Eyes cast down, colour coming and going; a look and manner, not of shyness, for she came straight to him, but of the most lovely maidenly consciousness; of all things, that which a lover would most wish to see. Yet she came straight to him, and as he met her and held out his hand, she put hers in it. "What are you going to say to me this morning, Lois?" he said softly; for the pure dignity of the girl was a thing to fill him with reverence as well as with delight, and her hand seemed to him something sacred. Her colour stirred again, but the lowered eyelids were lifted up, and the eyes met his with a most blessed smile in them. "I am very happy, Mr. Dillwyn," she said. Everybody knows how words fail upon occasion; and on this occasion the silence lasted some considerable time. And then Philip put Lois into one of the big easy-chairs, and went down on one knee at her feet, holding her hand. Lois tried to collect her spirits to make remonstrance. "O, Mr. Dillwyn, do not stay there!" she begged. "Why not? It becomes me." "I do not think it becomes you at all," said Lois, laughing a little nervously,--"and I am sure it does not become me." "Mistaken on both points! It becomes me well, and I think it does not become you ill," said he, kissing the hand he held. And then, bending forward to carry his kiss from the hand to the cheek,--"O my darling, how long I have waited for this!" "Long?" said Lois, in surprise. How pretty the incredulity was on her innocent face. "Very long!--while you thought I was liking somebody else. There has never been any change in me, Lois. I have been patiently and impatiently waiting for you this great while. You will not think it unreasonable, if that fact makes me intolerant of any more waiting, will you?" "Don't keep that position!" said Lois earnestly. "It is the position I mean to keep all the rest of my life!" But that set Lois to laughing, a little nervously no doubt, yet so merrily that Philip could not but join in. "Do I not owe everything to you?" he went on presently, with tender seriousness. "You first set me upon thinking. Do you recollect your earliest talk to me here in this room once, a good while ago, about being _satisfied?_" "Yes," said Lois, suddenly opening her eyes. "That was the beginning. You said it to me more with your looks than with your words; for I saw that, somehow, you were in the secret, and had yourself what you offered to me. _That_ I could not forget. I had never seen anybody 'satisfied' before." "You know what it means now?" she said softly. "To-day?-- I do!" "No, no; I do not mean to-day. You know what I mean!" she said, with beautiful blushes. "I know. Yes, and I have it, Lois. But you have a great deal to teach me yet." "O no!" she said most unaffectedly. "It is you who will have to teach me." "What?" "Everything." "How soon may I begin?" "How soon?" "Yes. You do not think Mrs. Wishart's house is the best place, or her company the best assistance for that, do you?" "Ah, please get up!" said Lois. But he laughed at her. "You make me so ashamed!" "You do not look it in the least. Shall I tell you my plans?" "Plans!" said Lois. "Or will you tell me your plans?" "Ah, you are laughing at me! What do you mean?" "You were confiding to me your plans of a little while ago; Esterbrooke, and school, and all the rest of it. My darling!--that's all nowhere." "But,"--said Lois timidly. "Well?" "_That_ is all gone, of course. But--" "You will let me say what you shall do?" "I suppose you will." "Your hand is in all my plans, from henceforth, to turn them and twist them what way you like. But now let me tell you my present plans. We will be married, as soon as you can accustom your self to the idea. Hush!--wait. You shall have time to think about it. Then, as early as spring winds will let us, we will cross to England." "England?" cried Lois. "Wait, and hear me out. There we will look about us a while and get such things as you may want for travelling, which one can get better in England than anywhere else. Then we will go over the Channel and see Paris, and perhaps supplement purchases there. So work our way--" "Always making purchases?" said Lois, laughing, though she caught her breath too, and her colour was growing high. "Certainly, making purchases. So work our way along, and get to Switzerland early in June--say by the end of the first week." "Switzerland!" "Don't you want to see Switzerland?" "But it is not the question, what I might like to see." "With me it is." "As for that, I have an untirable appetite for seeing things. But--but," and her voice lowered, "I can be quite happy enough on this side." "Not if I can make you happier on the other." "But that depends. I should not be happy unless I was quite sure it was right, and the best thing to do; and it looks to me like a piece of self-indulgence. We have so much already." The gentle manner of this scruple and frank admission touched Mr. Dillwyn exceedingly. "I think it is right," he said. "Do you remember my telling you once about my old house at home?" "Yes, a little." "I think I never told you much; but now you will care to hear. It is a good way from this place, in Foster county, and not very far from a busy little manufacturing town; but it stands alone in the country, in the midst of fields and woods that I used to love very much when I was a boy. The place never came into my possession till about seven or eight years ago; and for much longer than that it has been neglected and left without any sort of care. But the house is large and old-fashioned, and can be made very pretty; and the grounds, as I think, leave nothing to be desired, in their natural capabilities. However, all is in disorder, and needs a good deal of work done up on it; which must be done before you take possession. This work will require some months. Where can we be better, meanwhile, than in Switzerland?" "Can the work be done without you?" "Yes." He waited a bit. The new things at work in Lois's mind made the new expression of manner and feature a most delicious study to him. She had a little difficulty in speaking, and he was still and watched her. "I am afraid to talk about it," she said at length, "Why?" "I should like it so much!"-- "Therefore you doubt?" "Yes. I am afraid of listening just to my own pleasure." "You shall not," said he, laughing. "Listen to mine. I want to see your eyes open at the Jung Frau, and Mont Blanc." "My eyes open easily at anything," said Lois, yielding to the laugh;--"they are such ignorant eyes." "Very wise eyes, on the contrary! for they know a thing when they see it." "But they have seen so little," said Lois, finding it impossible to get back to a serious demeanour. "That sole defect in your character, I propose to cure." "Ah, do not praise me!" "Why not? I used to rejoice in the remembrance that you were not an angel but human. Do you know the old lines?-- 'A creature _not_ too bright and good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.' Only 'wiles' you never descend to; 'blame' is not to be thought of; if you forbid praise, what is left to me but the rest of it?" And truly, what with laughter and some other emotions, tears were not far from Lois's eyes; and how could the kisses be wanting? "I never heard you talk so before!" she managed to say. "I have only begun." "Please come back to order, and sobriety." "Sobriety is not in order, as your want of it shows." "Then come back to Switzerland." "Ah!--I want you to go up the AEggischhorn, and to stand on the Görner Grät, and to cross a pass or two; and I want you to see the flowers." "Are there so many?" "More than on a western prairie in spring. Most people travel in Switzerland later in the season, and so miss the flowers. You must not miss them." "What flowers are they?" "A very great many kinds. I remember the gentians, and the forget-me-nots; but the profusion is wonderful, and exceedingly rich. They grow just at the edge of the snow, some of them. Then we will linger a while at Zermatt and Chamounix, and a mountain _pension_ here and there, and so slowly work our way over into Italy. It will be too late for Rome; but we will go, if you like it, to Venice; and then, as the heats grow greater, get back into the Tyrol." "O, Mrs. Barclay had beautiful views from the Tyrol; a few, but very beautiful." "How do you like my programme?" "You have not mentioned glaciers." "Are you' interested in glaciers?" "_Very_ much." "You shall see as much of them as you can see safely from terra firma." "Are they so dangerous?" "Sometimes." "But you have crossed them, have you not?" "Times enough to make me scruple about your doing it." "I am very sure-footed." He kissed her hand, and inquired again what she thought of his programme. "There is no fault to be found with the programme. But--" "If I add to it the crossing of a glacier?" "No, no," said Lois, laughing; "do you think I am so insatiable? But--" "Would you like it all, my darling?" "Like it? Don't speak of liking," she said, with a quick breath of excitement. "But--" "Well? But--what?" "We are not going to live to ourselves?" She said it a little anxiously and eagerly, almost pleadingly. "I do not mean it," he answered her, with a smile. "But as to this journey my mind is entirely clear. It will take but a few months. And while we are wandering over the mountains, you and I will take our Bibles and study them and our work together. We can study where we stop to rest and where we stop to eat; I know by experience what good times and places those are for other reading; and they cannot be so good for any as for this." "Oh! how good!" said Lois, giving a little delighted and grateful pressure to the hand in which her own still lay. "You agree to my plans, then?" "I agree to--part. What is that?"--for a slight noise was heard in the hall.--"O Philip, get up!--get up!--there is somebody coming!" Mr. Dillwyn rose now, being bidden on this wise, and stood confronting the doorway, in which presently appeared his sister, Mrs. Burrage. He stood quiet and calm to meet her; while Lois, hidden by the back of the great easy-chair, had a moment to collect herself. He shielded her as much as he could. A swift review of the situation made him resolve for the present to "play dark." He could not trust his sister, that if the truth of the case were suddenly made known to her, she would not by her speech, or manner, or by her silence maybe, do something that would hurt Lois. He would not risk it. Give her time, and she would fit herself to her circumstances gracefully enough, he knew; and Lois need never be told what had been her sister-in-law's first view of them. So he stood, with an unconcerned face, watching Mrs. Burrage come down the room. And she, it may be said, came slowly, watching him. CHAPTER XLVIII. ANNOUNCEMENTS. I have never described Mr. Dillwyn; and if I try to do it now, I am aware that words will give to nobody else the image of him. He was not a beauty, like Tom Caruthers; some people declared him not handsome at all, yet they were in a minority. Certainly his features were not according to classical rule, and criticism might find something to say to every one of them; if I except the shape and air of the face and head, the set of the latter, and the rich hair; which, very dark in colour, massed itself thick and high on the top of the head, and clung in close thick locks at the sides. The head sat nobly upon the shoulders, and correspondent therewith was the frank and manly expression of the face. I think irregular features sometimes make a better whole than regular ones. Philip's eyes were not remarkable, unless for their honest and spirited outlook; his nose was neither Roman nor Grecian, and his mouth was rather large; however, it was somewhat concealed by the long soft moustache, which he wore after the fashion of some Continentals (_N. B_., _not_ like the French emperor), carefully dressed and with points turning up; and the mouth itself was both manly and pleasant. Altogether, the people who denied Mr. Dillwyn the praise of beauty, never questioned that he was very fine-looking. His sister was excessively proud of him, and, naturally thought that nothing less than the best of everything--more especially of womankind--was good enough for him. She was thinking this now, as she came down the room, and looking jealously to see signs of what she dreaded, an entanglement that would preclude for ever his having the best. Do not let us judge her hardly. What sister is not critical of her brother's choice of a wife? If, indeed, she be willing that he should have a wife at all. Mrs. Burrage watched for signs, but saw nothing. Philip stood there, calmly smiling at her, not at all flustered by her appearance. Lois saw his coolness too, and envied it; feeling that as a man, and as a man of the world, he had greatly the advantage of her. She was nervous, and felt flushed. However, there is a power of will in some women which can do a great deal, and Lois was determined that Mr. Dillwyn should not be ashamed of her. By the time it was needful for her to rise she did rise, and faced her visitor with a very quiet and perfectly composed manner. Only, if anything, it was a trifle _too_ quiet; but her manner was other wise quite faultless. "Philip!--" said Mrs. Burrage, advancing--"Good morning--Miss Lothrop. Philip, what are you doing here?" "I believe you asked me that question once on a former occasion. Then, I think, I had been making toast. Now, I have been telling Miss Lothrop my plans for the summer, since she was so good as to listen." "Plans?" repeated Mrs. Burrage. "What plans?" She looked doubtfully from one to the other of the faces before her. "Does he tell you his plans, Miss Lothrop?" "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Burrage?" said Lois. "I am always interested when anybody speaks of Switzerland." "Switzerland!" cried the lady, sinking into a chair, and her eyes going to her brother again. "You are not talking of _Switzerland_ for next summer?" "Where can one be better in summer?" "But you have been there ever so many times!" "By which I know how good it will be to go again." "I thought you would spend the summer with me!" "Where?" he asked, with a smile. "Philip, I wish you would dress your hair like other people." "It defies dressing, sister," he said, passing his hand over the thick mass. "No, no, I mean your moustache. When you smile, it gives you a demoniac expression, which drives me out of all patience. Miss Lothrop, would he not look a great deal better if he would cut off those Hungarian twists, and wear his upper lip like a Christian?" This was a trial! Lois gave one glance at the moustache in question, a glance compounded of mingled horror and amusement, and flushed all over. Philip saw the glance and commanded his features only by a strong exertion of will, remaining, however, to all seeming as impassive as a judge. "You don't think so?" said Mrs. Burrage. "Philip, why are you not at that picture sale this minute, with me?" "Why are you not there, let me ask, this minute without me?" "Because I wanted you to tell me if I should buy in that Murillo." "I can tell you as well here as there. What do you want to buy it for?" "What a question! Why, they say it is a genuine Murillo, and no doubt about it; and I have just one place on the wall in my second drawing-room, where something is wanting; there is one place not filled up, and it looks badly." "And the Murillo is to fill up the vacant space?" "Yes. If you say it is worth it." "Worth what?" "The money. Five hundred. But I dare say they would take four, and perhaps three. It is a real Murillo, they say. Everybody says." "Jessie, I think it would be extravagance." "Extravagance! Five hundred dollars for a Murillo! Why, everybody says it is no price at all." "Not for the Murillo; but for a wall panel, I think it is. What do you say, Miss Lothrop, to panelling a room at five hundred dollars the panel?" "Miss Lothrop's experience in panels would hardly qualify her to answer you," Mrs. Burrage said, with a polite covert sneer. "Miss Lothrop has experience in some other things," Philip returned immoveably. But the appeal put Lois in great embarrassment. "What is the picture?" she asked, as the best way out of it. "It's a St. Sebastian," Mrs. Burrage answered shortly. "Do you know the story?" asked Philip. "He was an officer in the household of the Roman emperor, Diocletian; a Christian; and discovered to be a Christian by his bold and faithful daring in the cause of truth. Diocletian ordered him to be bound to a tree and shot to death with arrows, and that the inscription over his head should state that there was no fault found in him but only that he was a Christian. This picture my sister wants to buy, shows him stripped and bound to the tree, and the executioner's work going on. Arrows are piercing him in various places; and the saint's face is raised to heaven with the look upon it of struggling pain and triumphing faith together. You can see that the struggle is sharp, and that only strength which is not his own enables him to hold out; but you see that he will hold out, and the martyr's palm of victory is even already waving before him." Lois's eyes eagerly looked into those of the speaker while he went on; then they fell silently. Mrs. Burrage grew impatient. "You tell it with a certain _goût_," she said. "It's a horrid story!" "O, it's a beautiful story!" said Lois, suddenly looking up. "If you like horrors," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "But I believe you are one of that kind yourself, are you not?" "Liking horrors?" said Lois, in astonishment. "No, no, of course! not that. But I mean, you are one of that saint's spiritual relations. Are you not? You would rather be shot than live easy?" Philip bit his lip; but Lois answered with the most delicious simplicity,-- "If living easy implied living unfaithful, I hope I would rather be shot." Her eyes looked, as she spoke, straight and quietly into those of her visitor. "And I hope I would," added Philip. "_You?_" said his sister, turning sharp upon him. "Everybody knows you would!" "But everybody does not know yet that I am a fellow-servant of that Sebastian of long ago; and that to me now, faithful and unfaithful mean the same that they meant to him. Not faithfulness to man, but faithfulness to God--or unfaithfulness." "Philip!--" "And as faithfulness is a word of large comprehension, it takes in also the use of money," Mr. Dillwyn went on smiling; "and so, Jessie, I think, you see, with my new views of things, that five hundred dollars is too much for a panel." "Or for a picture, I suppose!" said Mrs. Burrage, with dry concentrated expression. "Depends. Decidedly too much for a picture not meant to be looked at?" "Why shouldn't it be looked at?" "People will not look much at what they cannot understand." "Why shouldn't they understand it?" "It is a representation of giving up all for Christ, and of faithfulness unto death. What do the crowds who fill your second drawing-room know about such experience?" Mrs. Burrage had put the foregoing questions dryly and shortly, examining her brother while he spoke, with intent, searching eyes. She had risen once as if to go, and now sat down again. Lois thought she even turned pale. "Philip!--I never heard you talk so before. What do you mean?" "Merely to let you know that I am a Christian. It is time." "You were always a Christian!" "In name. Now it is reality." "You don't mean that you--_you!_--have become one of those fanatics?" "What fanatics?" "Those people who give up everything for religion, and are insane upon the subject." "You could not have described it better, than in the first half of your speech. I have given up everything for religion. That is, I have given myself and all I have to Christ and his service; and whatever I do henceforth, I do only in that character and in that interest. But as to sanity,"--he smiled again,--"I think I was never sane until now." Mrs. Burrage had risen for the second time, and her brother was now standing opposite to her; and if she had been proud of him a little while before, it was Lois's turn now. The calm, clear frankness and nobleness of his face and bearing made her heart fairly swell with its gladness and admiration; but it filled the other woman's heart with a different feeling. "And this is you, Philip Dillwyn!" she said bitterly. "And I know you; what you have said you will stand to. Such a man as you! lost to the world!" "Why lost to the world, Mrs. Burrage?" said Lois gently. She had risen too. The other lady faced her. "Without more knowledge of what the world is, I could hardly explain to you," she said, with cool rudeness; the sort of insolence that a fine lady can use upon occasion when it suits her. Philip's face flushed, but he would not make the rudeness more palpable by seeming to notice it. "I hope it is the other way," he said. "I have been an idle man all my life hitherto, and have done nothing except for myself. Nobody could be of less use to the world." "And what are you going to do now?" "I cannot tell. I shall find out. I am going to study the question." "And is Miss Lothrop your teacher?" The civil sneer was too apparent again, but it did not call up a flush this time. Philip was too angry. It was Lois that answered, and pleasantly,-- "She does not even wish to be that." "Haven't you taught him already?" asked the lady, with prompt inquisition. "Yes," said Philip. Lois did colour now; she could not deny the fact, nor even declare that it had been an unintentional fact; but her colour was very pretty, and so was the sort of deprecating way in which she looked at her future sister-in-law. Not disarmed, Mrs. Burrage went on. "It is a dangerous office to take, my dear, for we women never can keep it. We may think we stand on an eminence of wisdom one day; and the next we find we have to come down to a very lowly place, and sit at somebody else's feet, and receive our orders. I find it rather hard sometimes. Well, Philip,--will you go on with the lesson I suppose I have interrupted? or will you have the complaisance to go with me to see about the Murillo?" "I will certainly stay." "Rather hard upon me, after promising me last night you would go." "I made no such promise." "Indeed you did, begging your pardon. Last night, when you came home with the horses, I told you of the sale, and asked you if you would go and see that I did not get cheated." "I have no recollection of it." "And you said you would with pleasure." "_That_ is no longer possible, Jessie. And the sale would be over before we could get to it," he added, looking at his watch. "Shall I leave you here, then?" said the lady, with a mingling of disagreeable feelings which found indescribable expression. "If Miss Lothrop will let me be left. You forget, it depends upon her permission." "Miss Lothrop," said the lady, offering her hand to Lois with formal politeness, "I do not ask you the question, for my brother all his life has never been refused anything he chose to demand. Pardon me my want of attention; he is responsible for it, having upset all my ideas with his strange announcements. Good-bye!" Lois curtseyed silently. In all this dialogue, the contrast had been striking between the two ladies; for the advantage of manner had been on the side, not of the experienced woman of the world, but of the younger and simpler and country-bred little Shampuashuh woman. It comes to this; that the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians gives one the very soul and essence of what in the world is called good breeding; the kernel and thing itself; while what is for the most part known in society is the empty shell, simulating and counterfeiting it only. Therefore he in whose heart that thirteenth chapter is a living truth, will never be ill-bred; and if he possesses besides a sensitive and refined nature, and is free of self-consciousness, and has some common sense to boot, he has all the make-up of the veriest high-breeding. Nothing could seem more unruffled, because nothing could be more unruffled, than Lois during this whole interview; she was even a little sorry for Mrs. Burrage, knowing that the lady would be very sorry herself afterwards for what she had done; and Lois meant to bury it in perfect oblivion. So her demeanour was free, simple, dignified, most graceful; and Philip was penetrated with delight and shame at once. He went with his sister to put her in her carriage, which was done with scarce any words on either part; and then returned to the room where he had left Lois. She was still standing beside her chair, having in truth her thoughts too busy to remember to sit down. Philip's action was to come straight to her and fold his arms round her. They were arms of caressing and protection at once; Lois felt both the caressing and the protecting clasp, as something her life had never known before; and a thrill went through her of happiness that was almost mingled with awe. "My darling!"--said Philip--"will you hold me responsible? Will you charge it all upon me?--and let me make it good as best I can?" "O Philip, there is nothing to charge!" said Lois, lifting her flushed face, "fair as the moon," to meet his anxious eyes. "Do not think of it again. It is perfectly natural, from her point of view. You know, you are very much Somebody; and I--am Nobody." The remainder of the interview may be left unreported. It lasted till the two ladies returned from the _matinée_. Mrs. Wishart immediately retained Mr. Dillwyn for luncheon, and the two girls went up-stairs together. "How long has that man been here?" was Madge's disrespectful inquiry. "I don't know." "What did he come for?" "I suppose--to see me." "To see _you!_ Did he come to take you sleigh-riding again?" "He said nothing about sleigh-riding." "The snow is all slush down in the city. What did he want to see you for, then?" said Madge, turning round upon her sister, while at the same time she was endeavouring to extricate her head from her bonnet, which was caught upon a pin. "He had something to say to me," Lois answered, trembling with an odd sort of excitement. "What?--Lois, not _that?_" cried Madge, stopping with her bonnet only half off her head. But Lois nodded; and Madge dropped herself into the nearest chair, making no further effort as regarded the bonnet. "Lois!--What did you say to him?" "What could I say to him?" "Why, two or three things, _I_ should think. If it was I, I should think so." "There can be but one answer to such a question. It must be yes or no." "I am sure that's two to choose from. Have you gone and said yes to that man?" "Don't you like him?" said Lois, with a furtive smile, glancing up at her sister now from under lowered eyelids. "Like him! I never saw the man yet, that I liked as well as my liberty." "Liberty!" "Yes. Have you forgotten already what that means? O Lois! have you said yes to that man? Why, I am always afraid of him, every time I see him." "_Afraid_ of him?" "Yes. I get over it after he has been in the room a while; but the next time I see him it comes back. O Lois! are you going to let him have you?" "Madge, you are talking most dreadful nonsense. You never were afraid of anybody in your life; and of him least of all." "Fact, though," said Madge, beginning at her bonnet again. "It's the way his head is set on his shoulders, I suppose. If I had known what was happening, while I was listening to Mme. Cisco's screeching!"-- "You couldn't have helped it." "And now, now, actually you belong to somebody else! Lois, when are you going to be married?" "I don't know." "Not for a great while? Not _soon_, at any rate?" "I don't know. Mr. Dillwyn wishes--" "And are you going to do everything he wishes?" "As far as I can," said Lois, with again a rosy smile and glance. "There's the call to luncheon!" said Madge. "People must eat, if they're ever so happy or ever so unhappy. It is one of the disgusting things about human nature. I just wish he wasn't going to be here. Well--come along!" Madge went ahead till she reached the drawing-room door; there she suddenly paused, waved herself to one side, and let Lois go in before her. Lois was promptly wrapped in Mrs. Wishart's arms, and had to endure a most warm and heartfelt embracing and congratulating. The lady was delighted. Meanwhile Madge found herself shaking hands with Philip. "You know all about it?" he said, looking hard at her, and holding her hand fast. "If you mean what Lois has told me--" "Are not you going to wish me joy?" "There is no occasion--for anybody who has got Lois," said Madge. And then she choked, pulled her hand away, and broke down. And when Lois got free from Mrs. Wishart, she saw Madge sitting with her head in her hands, and Mr. Dillwyn bending over her. Lois came swiftly behind and put both arms softly around her sister. "It's no use!" said Madge, sobbing and yet defiant. "He has got you, and I haven't got you any longer. Let me alone--I am not going to be a fool, but to be asked to wish him joy is too much." And she broke away and ran off. Lois could have followed her with all her heart; but she had herself habitually under better control than Madge, and knew with fine instinct what was due to others. Her eyes glistened; nevertheless her bearing was quiet and undisturbed; and a second time to-day Mr. Dillwyn was charmed with the grace of her manner. I must add that Madge presently made her appearance again, and was soon as gay as usual; her lucubrations even going so far before the end of luncheon as to wonder _where_ Lois would hold her wedding. Will she fetch all the folks down here? thought Madge. Or will everybody go to Shampuashuh? With the decision, however, the reader need not be troubled. CHAPTER XLIX. ON THE PASS. Only one incident more need be told. It is the last point in my story. The intermediate days and months must be passed over, and we skip the interval to the summer and June. It is now the middle of June. Mr. Dillwyn's programme had been successfully carried out; and, after an easy and most festive journey from England, through France, he and Lois had come by gentle stages to Switzerland. A festive journey, yes; but the expression regards the mental progress rather than the apparent. Mr. Dillwyn, being an old traveller, took things with the calm habit of use and wont; and Lois, new as all was to her, made no more fussy demonstration than he did. All the more delicious to him, and satisfactory, were the sparkles in her eyes and the flushes on her cheeks, which constantly witnessed to her pure delight or interest in something. All the more happily he felt the grasp of her hand sometimes when she did not speak; or listened to the low accents of rapture when she saw something that deserved them; or to her merry soft laugh at something that touched her sense of fun. For he found Lois had a great sense of fun. She was altogether of the most buoyant, happy, and enjoying nature possible. No one could be a better traveller. She ignored discomforts (truly there had not been much in that line), and she laughed at disappointments; and travellers must meet disappointments now and then. So Mr. Dillwyn had found the journey giving him all he had promised himself; and to Lois it gave--well Lois's dreams had never promised her the quarter. So it had come to be the middle of June, and they were in Switzerland. And this day, the sixteenth, found them in a little wayside inn near the top of a pass, snowed up. So far they had come, the last mile or two through a heavy storm; and then the snow clouds had descended so low and so thick, and gave forth their treasures of snow-flakes so confusedly and incessantly, that going on was not to be thought of. They were sheltered in the little inn; and that is nearly all you could say of it, for the accommodations were of the smallest and simplest. Travellers were not apt to stop at that little hostelry for more than a passing refreshment; and even so, it was too early in the season for many travellers to be expected. So there were Philip and his wife now, making the best of things. Mr. Dillwyn was coaxing the little fire to burn, which had been hastily made on their arrival; but Lois sat at one of the windows looking out, and every now and then proclaiming her enjoyment by the tone in which some innocent remark came from her lips. "It is raining now, Philip." "What do you see in the rain?" "Nothing whatever, at this minute; but a little while ago there was a kind of drawing aside of the thick curtain of falling snow, and I had a view of some terribly grand rocks, and one glimpse of a most wonderful distance." "Vague distance?" said Philip, laughing. "That sounds like looking off into space." "Well, it was. Like chaos, and order struggling out of its awful beginnings." "Don't unpractically catch cold, while you are studying natural developement." "I am perfectly warm. I think it is great fun to be kept here over night. Such a nice little place as it is, and such a nice little hostess. Do you notice how neat everything is? O Philip!--here is somebody else coming!" "Coming to the inn?" "Yes. O, I'm afraid so. Here's one of these original little carriages crawling along, and it has stopped, and the people are getting out. Poor storm-stayed people, like ourselves." "They will come to a fire, which we didn't," said Philip, leaving his post now and placing himself at the back of Lois's chair, where he too could see what was going on in front of the house. A queer little vehicle had certainly stopped there, and somebody very much muffled had got out, and was now helping a second person to alight, which second person must be a woman; and she was followed by another woman, who alighted with less difficulty and less attention, though she had two or three things to carry. "I pity women who travel in the Alps with their maids!" said Mr. Dillwyn. "Philip, that first one, the gentleman, had a little bit--just a little bit--the air of your friend, Mr. Caruthers. He was so muffled up, one could not tell what he was like; but somehow he reminded me of Mr. Caruthers." "I thought Tom was _your_ friend?" "Friend? No. He was an acquain'tance; he was never my friend, I think." "Then his name raises no tender associations in your mind?" "Why, no!" said Lois, with a gay little laugh. "No, indeed. But I liked him very well at one time; and I--_think_--he liked me." "Poor Tom!" "Why do you say that?" Lois asked merrily. "He is not poor; he has married a Dulcimer. I never can hear her name without thinking of Nebuchadnezzar's image! He has forgotten me long ago." "I see you have forgotten him," said Dillwyn, bending down till his face was very near Lois's. "How should I not? But I did like him at one time, quite well. I suppose I was flattered by his attentions, which I think were rather marked. And you know, at that time I did not know you." Lois's voice fell a little; the last sentence being given with a delicate, sweet reserve, which spoke much more than effusion. Philip's answer was mute. "Besides," said Lois, "he is a sort of man that I never could have liked beyond a certain point. He is a weak character; do you know it, Philip?" "I know it. I observe, that is the last fault women will forgive in a man." "Why should they?" said Lois. "What have you, where you have not strength? It is impossible to love where you cannot respect. Or if you love, it is a poor contemptible sort of love." Philip laughed; and just then the door opened, and the hostess of the inn appeared on the threshhold, with other figures looming dimly behind her. She came in apologizing. More storm-bound travellers had arrived--there was no other room with a fire ready--would monsieur and madame be so gracious and allow the strangers to come in and get warm and dry by their fire? Almost before she had finished her speech the two men had sprung towards each other, and "Tom!"--"Philip DilIwyn!"--had been cried in different tones of surprised greeting. "Where did you come from?" said Tom, shaking his friend's hand. "What a chance! Here is my wife. Arabella, this is Mr. Dillwyn, whose name you have heard often enough. At the top of this pass!--" The lady thus addressed came in behind Tom, throwing off her wrappings, and throwing each, or dropping it as it was taken off, into the hands of her attendant who followed her. She appeared now to be a slim person, of medium height, dressed very handsomely, with an insignificant face, and a quantity of light hair disposed in a mysterious manner to look like a wig. That is, it looked like nothing natural, and yet could not be resolved by the curious eye into bands or braids or any defined form of fashionable art or artifice. The face looked fretted, and returned Mr. Dillwyn's salutation discontentedly. Tom's eye meanwhile had wandered, with an unmistakeable air of apprehension, towards the fourth member of the party; and Lois came forward now, giving him a frank greeting, and holding out her hand. Tom bowed very low over it, without saying one word; and Philip noted that his eye shunned Lois's face, and that his own face was all shadowed when he raised it. Mr. Dillwyn put himself in between. "May I present my wife, Mrs. Caruthers?" Mrs. Caruthers gave Lois a look, swift and dissatisfied, and turned to the fire, shivering. "Have we got to stay here?" she asked querulously. "We couldn't go on, you know," said Tom. "We may be glad of any sort of a shelter. I am afraid we are interfering with your comfort, Philip; but really, we couldn't help it. The storm's awful outside. Mrs. Caruthers was sure we should be overtaken by an avalanche; and then she was certain there must be a crevasse somewhere. I wonder if one can get anything to eat in this place?" "Make yourself easy; they have promised us dinner, and you shall share with us. What the dinner will be, I cannot say; but we shall not starve; and you see what a fire I have coaxed up for you. Take this chair, Mrs. Caruthers." The lady sat down and hovered over the fire; and Tom restlessly bustled in and out. Mr. DilIwyn tended the fire, and Lois kept a little in the background. Till, after an uncomfortable interval, the hostess came in, bringing the very simple fare, which was all she had to set before them. Brown bread, and cheese, and coffee, and a common sort of red wine; with a bit of cold salted meat, the precise antecedents of which it was not so easy to divine. The lady by the fire looked on disdainfully, and Tom hastened to supplement things from their own stores. Cold game, white bread, and better wine were produced from somewhere, with hard-boiled eggs and even some fruit. Mrs. Caruthers sat by the fire and looked on; while Tom brought these articles, one after another, and Lois arranged the table. Philip watched her covertly; admired her lithe figure in its neat mountain dress, which he thought became her charmingly; admired the quiet, delicate tact of her whole manner and bearing; the grace with which she acted and spoke, as well as the pretty deftness of her ministrations about the table. She was taking the part of hostess, and doing it with simple dignity; and he was very sorry for Tom. Tom, he observed, would not see her when he could help it. But they had to all gather round the table together and face each other generally. "This is improper luxury for the mountains," Dillwyn said. "Mrs. Caruthers thinks it best to be always provided for occasions. These small houses, you know, they can't give you any but small fare." "Small fare is good for you!" "Good for _you_," said Tom,--"all right; but my--Arabella cannot eat things if they are _too_ small. That cheese, now!--" "It is quite passable." "Where are you going, Philip?" "Bound for the AEggischhorn, in the first place." "You are never going up?" "Why not?" Lois asked, with her bright smile. Tom glanced at her from under his brows, and grew as dark as a thundercloud. _She_ was ministering to Tom's wife in the prettiest way; not assuming anything, and yet acting in a certain sort as mistress of ceremonies. And Mrs. Caruthers was coming out of her apathy every now and then, and looking at her in a curious attentive way. I dare say it struck Tom hard. For he could not but see that to all her natural sweetness Lois had added now a full measure of the ease and grace which come from the habit of society, and which Lois herself had once admired in the ladies of his family. "Ay, even _they_ wouldn't say she was nobody now!" he said to himself bitterly. And Philip, he saw, was so accustomed to this fact, that he took it as a matter of course. "Where are you going after the AEggischhorn?" he went on, to say something. "We mean to work our way, by degrees, to Zermatt." "_We_ are going to Zermatt," Mrs. Caruthers put in blandly. "We might travel in company." "Can you walk?" asked Philip, smiling. "Walk!" "Yes. We do it on foot." "What for? Pray, pardon me! But are you serious?" "I am in earnest, if that is what you mean. We do not look upon it in a serious light. It's rather a jollification." "It is far the pleasantest way, Mrs. Caruthers," Lois added. "But do you travel without any baggage?" "Not quite," said Lois demurely. "We generally send that on ahead, except what will go in small satchels slung over the shoulder." "And take what you can find at the little inns?" "O yes; and fare very well." "I like to be comfortable!" sighed the other lady. "Try that wine, and see how much better it is." "Thank you, no; I prefer the coffee." "No use to ask _her_ to take wine," growled Tom. "I know she won't. She never would. She has principles. Offer it to Mr. Dillwyn." "You do me the honour to suppose me without principles," said Philip dryly. "I don't suppose you hold _her_ principles," said Tom, indicating Lois rather awkwardly by the pronoun rather than in any more definite way. "You never used." "Quite true; I never used. But I do it now." "Do you mean that you have given up drinking wine?" "I have given it up?" said Philip, smiling at Tom's air, which was almost of consternation. "Because she don't like it?" "I hope I would give up a greater thing than that, if she did not like it," said Philip gravely. "This seems to me not a great thing. But the reason you suppose is not my reason." "If the reason isn't a secret, I wish you'd mention it; Mrs. Caruthers will be asking me in private, by and by; and I do not like her to ask me questions I cannot answer." "My reason is,--I think it does more harm than good." "Wine?" "Wine, and its congeners." "Take a cup of coffee, Mr. Caruthers," said Lois; "and confess it will do instead of the other thing." Tom accepted the coffee; I don't think he could have rejected anything she held out to him; but he remarked grumly to Philip, as he took it,-- "It is easy to see where you got your principles!" "Less easy than you think," Philip answered. "I got them from no living man or woman, though I grant you, Lois showed me the way to them. I got them from the Bible, old friend." Tom glared at the speaker. "Have you given up your cigars too?" Mr. Dillwyn laughed out, and Lois said somewhat exultantly, "Yes, Mr. Caruthers." "I am sure I wish you would too!" said Tom's wife deploringly to her husband. "I think if anything's horrid, it's the after smell of tobacco." "But the _first_ taste of it is all the comfort a fellow gets in this world," said Tom. "No fellow ought to say that," his friend returned. "The Bible!" Tom repeated, as if it were a hard pill to swallow. "Philip Dillwyn quoting _that_ old authority!" "Perhaps I ought to go a little further, and say, Tom, that my quoting it is not a matter of form. I have taken service in the Christian army, since I saw you the last time. Now tell me how you and Mrs. Caruthers come to be at the top of this pass in a snow-storm on the sixteenth of June?" "Fate!" said Tom. "We did not expect to have a snow-storm, Mr. Dillwyn," Mrs. Caruthers added. "But you might," said Philip. "There have been snow-storms everywhere in Switzerland this year." "Well," said Tom, "we did not come for pleasure, anyhow. Never should dream of it, until a month later. But Mrs. Caruthers got word that a special friend of hers would be at Zermatt by a certain day, and begged to meet her; and stay was uncertain; and so we took what was said to be the shortest way from where the letter found us. And here we are." "How is the coffee, Mr. Caruthers?" Lois asked pleasantly. Tom looked into the depths of his coffee cup, as if it were an abstraction, and then answered, that it was the best coffee he had ever had in Switzerland; and upon that he turned determinately to Mr. Dillwyn and began to talk of other things, unconnected with Switzerland or the present time. Lois was fain to entertain Tom's wife. The two women had little in common; nevertheless Mrs. Caruthers gradually warmed under the influence that shone upon her; thawed out, and began even to enjoy herself. Tom saw it all, without once turning his face that way; and he was fool enough to fancy that he was the only one. But Philip saw it too, as it were without looking; and delighted himself all the while in the gracious sweetness, and the tender tact, and the simple dignity of unconsciousness, with which Lois attended to everybody, ministered to everybody, and finally smoothed down even poor Mrs. Caruthers' ruffled plumes under her sympathizing and kindly touch. "How soon will you be at Zermatt?" the latter asked. "I wish we could travel together! When do you expect to get there?" "O, I do not know. We are going first, you know, to the AEggischhorn. We go where we like, and stay as long as we like; and we never know beforehand how it will be." "But so early!--" "Mr. Dillwyn wanted me to see the flowers. And the snow views are grand too; I am very glad not to miss them. Just before you came, I had one. The clouds swept apart for a moment, and gave me a wonderful sight of a gorge, the wildest possible, and tremendous rocks, half revealed, and a chaos of cloud and storm." "Do you like that?" "I like it all," said Lois, smiling. And the other woman looked, with a fascinated, uncomprehending air, at the beauty of that smile. "But why do you walk?" "O, that's half the fun," cried Lois. "We gain so a whole world of things that other people miss. And the walking itself is delightful." "I wonder if I could walk?" said Mrs. Caruthers enviously. "How far can you go in a day? You must make very slow progress?" "Not very. Now I am getting in training, we can do twenty or thirty miles a day with ease." "Twenty or thirty miles!" Mrs. Caruthers as nearly screamed as politeness would let her do. "We do it easily, beginning the day early." "How early? What do you call early?" "About four or five o'clock." Mrs. Caruthers looked now as if she were staring at a prodigy. "Start at four o'clock! Where do you get breakfast? Don't you have breakfast? Will the people give you breakfast so early? Why, they would have to be up by two." Tom was listening now. He could not help it. "O, we have breakfast," Lois said. "We carry it with us, and we stop at some nice place and take rest on the rocks, or on a soft carpet of moss, when we have walked an hour or two. Mr. Dillwyn carries our breakfast in a little knapsack." "Is it _nice?_" enquired the lady, with such an expression of doubt and scruple that the risible nerves of the others could not stand it, and there was a general burst of laughter. "Come and try once," said Lois, "and you will see." "If you do not like such fare," Philip went on, "you can almost always stop at a house and get breakfast." "I could not eat dry food," said the lady; "and you do not drink wine. What _do_ you drink? Water?" "Sometimes. Generally we manage to get milk. It is fresh and excellent." "And without cups and saucers?" said the astonished lady. Lois's "ripple of laughter" sounded again softly. "Not quite without cups; I am afraid we really do without saucers. We have an unlimited tablecloth, you know, of lichen and moss." "And you really enjoy it?" But here Lois shook her head. "There are no words to tell how much." Mrs. Caruthers sighed. If she had spoken out her thoughts, it was too plain to Lois, she would have said, "I do not enjoy anything." "How long are you thinking to stay on this side of the water?" Tom asked his friend now. "Several months yet, I hope. I want to push on into Tyrol. We are not in a hurry. The old house at home is getting put into order, and till it is ready for habitation we can be nowhere better than here." "The old house? _your_ house, do you mean? the old house at Battersby?" "Yes." "You are not going _there?_ for the winter at least?" "Yes, we propose that. Why?" "It is I that should ask 'why.' What on earth should you go to live _there_ for?" "It is a nice country, a very good house, and a place I am fond of, and I think Lois will like." "But out of the world!" "Only out of your world," his friend returned, with a smile. "Why should you go out of our world? it is _the_ world." "For what good properties?" "And it has always been your world," Tom went on, disregarding this question. "I told you, I am changed." "But does becoming a Christian _change_ a man, Mr. Dillwyn?" Mrs. Caruthers asked. "So the Bible says." "I never saw much difference. I thought we were all Christians." "If you were to live a while in the house with that lady," said Tom darkly, "you'd find your mistake. What in all the world do you expect to do up there at Battersby?" he went on, turning to his friend. "Live," said Philip. "In your world you only drag along existence. And we expect to work, which you never do. There is no real living without working, man. Try it, Tom." "Cannot you work, as you call it, in town?" "We want more free play, and more time, than town life allows one." "Besides, the country is so much pleasanter," Lois added. "But such a neighbourhood! you don't know the neighbourhood--but you _do_, Philip. You have no society, and Battersby is nothing but a manufacturing place--" "Battersby is three and a half miles off; too far for its noise or its smoke to reach us; and we can get society, as much as we want, and _what_ we want; and in such a place there is always a great deal that might be done." The talk went on for some time; Mrs. Caruthers seeming amazed and mystified, Tom dissatisfied and critical. At last, being informed that their own quarters were ready, the later comers withdrew, after agreeing that they would all sup together. "Tom," said Mrs. Caruthers presently, "whom did Mr. Dillwyn marry?" "Whom did he marry?" "Yes. Who was she before she married?" "I always heard she was nobody," Tom answered, with something between a grunt and a groan. "Nobody! But that's nonsense. I haven't seen a woman with more style in a great while." "Style!" echoed Tom, and his word would have had a sharp addition if he had not been speaking to his wife; but Tom was before all things a gentleman. As it was, his tone would have done honour to a grisly bear somewhat out of temper. "Yes," repeated Mrs. Caruthers. "You may not know it, Tom, being a man; but _I_ know what I am saying; and I tell you Mrs. Dillwyn has very distinguished manners. I hope we may see a good deal of them." Meanwhile Lois was standing still where they had left her, in front of the fire; looking down meditatively into it. Her face was grave, and her abstraction for some minutes deep. I suppose her New England reserve was struggling with her individual frankness of nature, for she said no word, and Mr. Dillwyn, who was watching her, also stood silent. At last frankness, or affection, got the better of reserve; and, with a slow, gentle motion she turned to him, laying one hand on his shoulder, and sinking her face upon his breast. "Lois! what is it?" he asked, folding his arms about her. "Philip, it smites me!" "What, my darling?" he said, almost startled. And then she lifted up her face and looked at him. "To know myself so happy, and to see them so unhappy. Philip, they are not happy,--neither one of them!" "I am afraid it is true. And we can do nothing to help them." "No, I see that too." Lois said it with a sigh, and was silent again. Philip did not choose to push the subject further, uncertain how far her perceptions went, and not wishing to give them any assistance. Lois stood silent and pondering, still within his arms, and he waited and watched her. At last she began again. "We cannot do _them_ any good. But I feel as if I should like to spend my life in making people happy." "How many people?" said her husband fondly, with a kiss or two which explained his meaning. Lois laughed out. "Philip, _I_ do not make you happy." "You come very near it." "But I mean-- Your happiness has something better to rest on. I should like to spend my life bringing happiness to the people who know nothing about being happy." "Do it, sweetheart!" said he, straining her a little closer. "And let me help." "Let you help!--when you would have to do almost the whole. But, to be sure, money is not all; and money alone will not do it, in most cases. Philip, I will tell you where I should like to begin." "Where? I will begin there also." "With Mrs. Barclay." "Mrs. Barclay!" There came a sudden light into Philip's eyes. "Do you know, she is not a happy woman?" "I know it." "And she seems very much alone in the world." "She is alone in the world." "And she has been so good to us! She has done a great deal for Madge and me." "She has done as much for me." "I don't know about that. I do not see how she could. In a way, I owe her almost everything. Philip, you would never have married the woman I was three years ago." "Don't take your oath upon that," he said lightly. "But you would not, and you ought not." "There is a counterpart to that. I am sure you would not have married the man I was three years ago." At that Lois laid down her face again for a moment on his breast. "I had a pretty hard quarter of an hour in a sleigh with you once!" she said. Philip's answer was again wordless. "But about Mrs. Barclay?" said Lois, recovering herself. "Are you one of the few women who can keep to the point?" said he, laughing. "What can we do for her?" "What would you like to do for her?" "Oh-- Make her happy!" "And to that end--?" Lois lifted her face and looked into Mr. Dillwyn's as if she would search out something there. The frank nobleness which belonged to it was encouraging, and yet she did not speak. "Shall we ask her to make her home with us?" "O Philip!" said Lois, with her face all illuminated,--"would you like it?" "I owe her much more than you do. And, love, I like what you like." "Would she come?" "If she could resist you and me together, she would be harder than I think her." "I love her very much," said Lois thoughtfully, "and I think she loves me. And if she will come--I am almost sure we _can_ make her happy." "We will try, darling." "And these other people--we need not meet them at Zermatt, need we?" "We will find it not convenient." Neither at Zermatt nor anywhere else in Switzerland did the friends again join company. Afterwards, when both parties had returned to their own country, it was impossible but that encounters should now and then take place. But whenever and wherever they happened, Tom made them as short as his wife would let him. And as long as he lives, he will never see Mrs. Philip Dillwyn without a clouding of his face and a very evident discomposure of his gay and not specially profound nature. It has tenacity somewhere, and has received at least one thing which it will never lose. THE END PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH Typographical errors silently corrected: Chapter 5: =but you see the month= replaced by =but you see, the month= Chapter 8: =a Father unto you= replaced by =a father unto you= Chapter 10: =want to know did you= replaced by =want to know, did you= Chapter 11: =you see it if off= replaced by =you see, it is off= Chapter 18: =vier augen= replaced by =vier Augen= Chapter 20: =will come of it!'= replaced by =will come of it!= Chapter 21: =bon goût= replaced by =bon goût= Chapter 21: =children!= replaced by =children!"= Chapter 22: =Aubigne= replaced by =Aubigné= Chapter 30: =heavy eyelids."= replaced by =heavy eyelids.= Chapter 34: =compliment, said= replaced by =compliment," said= Chapter 35: =chapter of Matthew.= replaced by =chapter of Matthew."= Chapter 39: =come hear and rest= replaced by =comes here and rest= Chapter 42: =mankind is man,'" my dear; "and= replaced by =mankind is man,' my dear; and= Chapter 44: =your hare'= replaced by =your hare.'= Chapter 47: =not become me.= replaced by =not become me."= Chapter 47: =might like to see.= replaced by =might like to see."= Chapter 48: =certain gout= replaced by =certain goût= Chapter 48: =use of money,= replaced by =use of money,"= Chapter 48: =and so, Jessie= replaced by ="and so, Jessie=