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THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 OF A BACK YABD 
 
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 THE PILGRIM PRESS ' 
 BOSTON. NEW YORK- CHICAGO, 
 
SS2 A 
 
 Copyright 1916 
 Br WALTER A. DYER 
 
 >, 
 
 OCT 30 1916 
 
 THE PILGRIM PRESS 
 BOSTON 
 
 CU446151 
 
A cknow ledgment 
 
 Most of the chapters in this book have 
 appeared previously in magazines: " The 
 Back-Yard Brotherhood" and "On Rescuing 
 Patriarchs" in THE DELINEATOR; " Re- 
 quiescat in Pace" in OUR DUMB ANI- 
 MALS; "Seclusion versus Display" and 
 "Nature near Home" in COUNTRY LIFE 
 IN AMERICA; "The Coming" "February 
 Mendicants," and " The Song Sparrow and 
 the Rye" in THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL; 
 and most of the others in THE CRAFTSMAN. 
 To the publishers and editors of these maga- 
 zines acknowledgment is gratefully rendered. 
 
Dedication 
 
 To those who love a small rectangle of God's 
 earth that is a part of home 
 
 To those who know the joy of helping on the 
 life of things that grow and bear fruit 
 
 To those in whose hearts there is a special 
 shrine set apart for flowers 
 
 To all the wide Brotherhood of the Back 
 Yard 
 
 This slender volume is lovingly dedicated 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 page 
 
 I 
 
 The Back- Yard Brotherhood 
 
 3 
 
 II 
 
 
 9 
 
 III 
 
 On Rescuing Patriarchs 
 
 15 
 
 IV 
 
 Subduing an Ash Heap 
 
 23 
 
 V 
 
 The First Corn 
 
 31 
 
 VI 
 
 
 39 
 
 VII 
 
 Good Beans .... 
 
 51 
 
 VIII 
 
 Morning Chapel . 
 
 61 
 
 IX 
 
 Seclusion versus Display . 
 
 69 
 
 X 
 
 Nature near Home 
 
 75 
 
 XI 
 
 
 81 
 
 XII 
 
 A Flower Lover's Creed 
 
 87 
 
 XIII 
 
 Requiescat in Pace 
 
 95 
 
 XIV 
 
 Cleaning Up 
 
 105 
 
 XV 
 
 
 113 
 
 XVI 
 
 The Democracy of Snow Shovel- 
 
 
 
 
 119 
 
 XVII 
 
 February Mendicants . 
 
 125 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The Song Sparrow and the Rye 
 
 i 133 
 
 XIX 
 
 The Passing of Winter 
 
 139 
 
 XX 
 
 Ave atque Vale 
 
 145 
 
 XXI 
 
 The Departure 
 
 151 
 
THE BACK-YARD 
 BROTHERHOOD 
 
J^&: 
 
 'K 
 
 v^HERE are just four kinds of 
 people in this world: people 
 who have no back yards at all, 
 people who own back yards by 
 proxy, people who possess back 
 yards unwillingly, and people 
 who live in their back yards. 
 
 Among the first class may 
 be mentioned Eskimos, wild 
 y men of Borneo, convicted crim- 
 inals, and New York flat- 
 dwellers. 
 
 The second class includes 
 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 boarders and the very rich. The for- 
 mer gaze out upon the landlady's 
 back yard, and the latter upon the 
 gardener's back yard. 
 
 The third class consists largely of 
 bridge players, business men, and 
 other folk to whom the back yard is 
 terra incognita or an irksome appen- 
 dage. In the fourth class belong you 
 and I, and the German woman the 
 other side of our back hedge, who 
 raises Brussels sprouts and soup 
 herbs, and who calls my wife her 
 "flower friend" — we and many others. 
 We are the Brotherhood of the Back 
 Yard, and these are the articles of our 
 profession : 
 
 To turn aside as often as we may 
 from the dusty street, and leave it to 
 the people who have no back yards, 
 or who do not understand or love 
 back yards. 
 
 4 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 To spend as many hours as we may 
 in this secluded and delectable spot. 
 
 To plant and cultivate growing 
 things with our own hands — trees, 
 vines, shrubs, vegetables, roses, and 
 all the gay crowd of old-fashioned 
 flowers. 
 
 To open here our hearts to such of 
 the brotherhood as are tried and true. 
 
 To invite to the communion canine 
 and feline friends, birds who reward 
 our hospitality with songs at morn 
 and eventide, old people whose hearts 
 have grown mellow, and children who 
 have not yet forgotten the joy of 
 plucking flowers. 
 
 ^R ^R ^P ^P ^F 
 
 Life, as it appears to me, is a busy 
 street and a calm back yard, and most 
 of us spend too much time in the 
 street. There is the buying and the 
 selling, the money-getting and the 
 worry, the labor that makes the heart 
 
 5 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 grow weary or callous, the spending 
 and the display, the tumult and the 
 glitter, the sin and the sordidness, and 
 all the falseness of external things. 
 
 But for most of us, if we have not 
 lived too long upon the street, there 
 is a little back yard of the soul, that 
 calls out for our care and our com- 
 panionship. There, if we will, we 
 may spend hours of genuine satisfac- 
 tion. If we till the soil aright, there 
 will spring up love and kindness and 
 the warmth of human fellowship. 
 And when the day's labor is done, and 
 the little harvest of fruit or flowers 
 is gathered, let the evening find us 
 there. 
 
THE COMING 
 
^HE day we arrived' our back 
 wpL yard was a forlorn sight enough. 
 It was October, and the leaves 
 'fjOjflitfp and grass were brown and dis- 
 l/flg couraged looking. Our good 
 Irish Nellie, who had come all 
 the way out from the city with 
 us, had never seen a real Amer- 
 ican back yard before, and 
 her soul expanded; she began 
 throwing out crates and boxes 
 and papers and other rubbish 
 in reckless abandon. She had 
 
 P- 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 never had such a large place to 
 throw things into before. Later we 
 explained to her, and picking up 
 was simple enough, but on this first 
 day Nellie's activities had not added 
 to the attractiveness of the back yard. 
 
 Such vegetation as there was 
 seemed not very inspiring — an over- 
 grown and brittle old pear tree, vine- 
 choked lilac bushes, a couple of rank 
 ailanthus trees, all manner of weeds 
 and brambles, and out in the middle 
 of the alleged lawn a large, funereal, 
 concrete urn, in which pansies, per- 
 haps, had grown. 
 
 I began to reflect on the general 
 carelessness of the human race in 
 these latter days. When I was a boy 
 back yards did not look like this. 
 People seemed to care more for the 
 growing things. There was not a 
 yard along our street that had not its 
 fruit trees, its grape-vines, its currant 
 
 10 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 bushes, and its garden. I know of a 
 number of people who have lately- 
 built homes in the suburbs, and I 
 know not one who has planted a fruit 
 tree or a grape-vine. Perhaps it is 
 because they are always considering 
 the possibility of moving on in a year 
 or two; if so, it is a sad commentary 
 on our stability as a people and the 
 depth of our love for home. 
 
 But the Lady of the House joined 
 me with shining eyes. After all, it 
 was our back yard, and we had never 
 had a back yard before. It was the 
 outdoor room of our new home. It 
 was full of possibilities, and it was 
 ours. It gave us a feeling of pro- 
 prietorship and importance quite new 
 to us. 
 
 I began to see a vision of waving 
 corn tassels and purple grapes, of 
 tall dahlias and low forget-me-nots, 
 of a peach tree and a velvet lawn — 
 
 11 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 and the concrete vase was removed to 
 the cellar. I conceived a new pur- 
 pose in life, and that is always worth 
 while. 
 
 "Next year," said I, "this back 
 yard will be a different looking place, 
 I promise you." 
 
 Next year it was! 
 
 12 
 
ON RESCUING PATRIARCHS 
 
\ 
 
 HEN we first made the ac- 
 quaintance of our back yard 
 the outlook was disheartening 
 enough. It was unmistakably a 
 neglected back yard — weeds, 
 weeds, and more weeds, rub- 
 bish and litter, and a forlorn 
 stretch of uneven sod that de- 
 fied the ministrations of a lawn- 
 mower and succumbed only re- 
 luctantly to the onslaught of 
 hoe and rake. 
 
 It was like adopting a child 
 15 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 from the slums, whose heredity was 
 doubtful and whose present condition 
 was obviously degraded. As to the 
 heredity of our back yard, we later 
 found a large portion of it to be the 
 child of an ash-heap. But that is 
 another story. 
 
 My first duties were those of gen- 
 eral cleaning up, and that was work 
 enough. It was astonishing how 
 many undesirable things had grown 
 up that needed to be cut down and 
 burned, and what a litter of dull- 
 brown leaves one unlovely old pear 
 tree could make. 
 
 The yard's chief evidence of a past 
 gentility lay in a row of tall lilac 
 bushes along the fence, and I soon 
 discovered that here my first great 
 battle was to be fought — my Auster- 
 litz or my Waterloo. 
 
 Four or five of these lilacs in the 
 middle of the noble old row were 
 
 16 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 overgrown with a dense mass of 
 gnarled honeysuckle — overgrown, un- 
 dergrown, choked almost to death, 
 and in places quite hidden. 
 
 Now honeysuckle is a beautiful 
 thing in its place, and if you are given 
 to moralizing you will find a text in 
 that. 
 
 They told me that these lilacs were 
 doomed; that no man could possibly 
 disentangle that mass of honeysuckle 
 and root out the persistent vine ; that 
 lilacs and all must be cut down and 
 the earth plowed up. I insisted that 
 it could be done; whereat, being an 
 acknowledged novice, I received the 
 superior smile. 
 
 Well, I have done it! All winter 
 it took me and some part of spring, 
 working at odd hours when the 
 weather permitted. Every strand 
 was cut, painfully unwound with blis- 
 tered hands, and pulled down from 
 
 17 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 the tops of the shrubs, and every root 
 was grubbed up or hacked to death 
 beneath the surface of the earth. 
 
 And when spring was fully awake 
 and every shrub bloomed — albeit 
 some weakly — the pride of victory 
 warmed my heart. I think I would 
 rather have conquered that honey- 
 suckle than have made a thousand 
 dollars by foreclosing a mortgage. 
 Yes — there is no doubt about it — I 
 am quite sure I would. 
 
 But that isn't the moral of the tale. 
 What has filled me with wonder and 
 admiration is the vigor and hopeful- 
 ness of these old lilacs. When I 
 pulled out the honeysuckle I discov- 
 ered shoots springing up from the 
 bent and groaning stock, and reach- 
 ing up sturdily toward the light 
 through the mass of stifling growth. 
 
 Bowed down by oppressive influ- 
 ences, smothered by circumstances 
 
 18 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 over which they had no control, poor, 
 deprived of human assistance, with 
 no apparent hope for better days, 
 how tenaciously these old Spartans 
 clung to life; with what faith they 
 reached upward toward the sun ; with 
 what devotion they struggled to ful- 
 fill their destiny. 
 
 Noble lilacs, you are honored 
 friends of mine today! I hurt you 
 cruelly in my bungling efforts to help, 
 but you opposed me not, neither com- 
 plained, but rewarded me in due sea- 
 son with the fragrant gift that it is 
 your mission to bestow on man. 
 
 Never more shall you suffer from 
 neglect and lack of appreciation and 
 friendship, but shall spend your lat- 
 ter days in peace and fruition, the 
 honorable patriarchs of our back yard. 
 
 19 
 
SUBDUING AN ASH HEAP 
 
Y garden is like a wayward son. 
 The very troubles I have had in 
 bringing it up have made me 
 fonder of it than of greater 
 successes more easily won. At 
 least I like to think so, though 
 there are times — 
 
 "First have your soil in 
 fine, rich condition." That is 
 the proper way for a treatise 
 on gardening to begin. Then 
 follow the interesting details 
 of planting. It sounds quite 
 23 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 simple. But just suppose your soil 
 refuses to get into fine, rich condi- 
 tion; what then? Perhaps the hest 
 way is to go out and buy several loads 
 of good top-soil before you plant a 
 seed, but that isn't the way I did. I 
 have been raising flowers and vege- 
 tables with considerable satisfaction 
 for three years, and the soil isn't in 
 fine, rich condition yet. 
 
 When we first came into possession 
 of our back yard, the rear portion of 
 it was grown up to weeds and bram- 
 bles. I saw not the slightest chance 
 of making it a part of the lawn. 
 
 "The only thing we can do with it," 
 said I, in my ignorance, "is to spade 
 it up and make it into a vegetable 
 garden." 
 
 That is what we did. In fact, most 
 of the waste places of the yard have 
 been used for flowers or vegetables 
 because they wouldn't support grass. 
 
 24 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 Which is unorthodox and foolhardy, 
 but I cannot say that I regret the 
 net result. 
 
 In the early spring I went out and 
 thrust a fork into the ground tenta- 
 tively in two or three places. Then 
 I sallied forth and engaged Mr. 
 Jones, a dusky pillar of the A. M. E. 
 Church, to do the spading. He did 
 half of it, and then sent his son 
 Leander over to finish the job. They 
 were underpaid, I'm sure. 
 
 It developed that the foundations 
 of my garden were prosaic coal ashes. 
 Some gravel and a little soil, but 
 mostly coal ashes. It dawned upon 
 me then that former tenants had util- 
 ized this portion of the yard for their 
 ash-heap, and it must have been a pro- 
 digiously extensive one, both in area 
 and in depth. On nearly the whole 
 of the plot there are ashes and cin- 
 ders, and though I have spaded 
 
 25 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 deeper each year, I still bring to light 
 odd mementoes of a past generation 
 in the form of straps, buckles, rusty 
 hinges, shoes, broken china, and the 
 like. 
 
 My faith then was greater than my 
 garden wisdom, and I turned under 
 a load of manure and planted seeds. 
 The result was not a prize garden, 
 but, all things considered, it was ex- 
 traordinary. Like a phoenix from the 
 ashes sprang a garden of corn and 
 peas and beans, and we ate thereof 
 and were glad. 
 
 Long ago I read a story by Frank 
 R. Stockton, called "My Terminal 
 Moraine.' ' As I remember it, the 
 hero discovered that ages before a 
 glacier had ended in his back yard, 
 and he developed the theory that there 
 must be gold somewhere in the gravel 
 of the moraine. He sank a shaft, but 
 found no gold. He sank another and 
 
 26 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 another; also he sank his fortune in 
 the enterprise. But no gold ap- 
 peared. Deeper and deeper he went 
 until, just as bankruptcy was about 
 to force him to abandon the attempt, 
 he discovered not gold, but ice ! Great 
 quantities of the original glacier re- 
 mained unmelted deep in the earth. 
 He accordingly went into the ice- 
 mining business and made a fortune. 
 
 I have not made a fortune out of 
 my terminal moraine, but in the 
 course of my gardening I have gath- 
 ered up four scuttlefuls of perfectly 
 good coal, and that's something, at the 
 present prices. 
 
 I shall never have a prize vegetable 
 garden in my back yard. I know 
 that, now. But each year I clean out 
 a little more rubbish, add a little more 
 fertility, and build up a little more 
 soil, and the task is not without its 
 compensations. Last fall I sowed 
 
 27 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 rye to turn under in the spring, and 
 that will help. 
 
 Anyway, I am gardening for 
 health and pleasure, not for profit; 
 and I venture to say that I get more 
 fun out of my gardening than my 
 rich neighbor gets out of his, for he 
 hires a man to have all his fun for 
 him, just as the lazy Oriental keeps 
 slaves to do his turkey-trotting for 
 him. And my garden isn't half bad, 
 if I do say it. 
 
 Now there is a perfectly able- 
 bodied moral in this — with a number 
 of useful applications to human life. 
 But it is so obvious that I will simply 
 offer you a head of my best anthra- 
 cite-grown lettuce and let you do 
 your own philosophizing on the way 
 home. 
 
 28 
 
THE FIRST CORN 
 
The First Corn 
 
 UST as every mother deems 
 her own babe a marvel, call- 
 ing your attention insistently 
 to his fists, his grimaces, his 
 tooth, and all the commonplace 
 evidences of ordinary develop- 
 ment, so we watched with joy 
 and wonder the growth of our 
 first garden, and felt surprised 
 and hurt that the outer world 
 should not clamor for admit- 
 tance. It was a simple, ama- 
 teurish garden, with dahlias at 
 31 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 one end and a wealth of dwarf nastur- 
 tiums along the front. Within were 
 newly set strawberry plants, string 
 beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and Golden 
 Bantam corn. The soil was poor, but 
 by dint of much cultivating and care 
 we made the garden a reasonable suc- 
 cess, and Dame Nature helped us. 
 
 I think it was the appearance of 
 the young corn-blades that brought 
 us the greatest joy. Down in the 
 stony, ashy earth we had placed the 
 seed, six in a hill, and patted them 
 down with a hoe. Every morning 
 before breakfast we went out to see 
 what had happened in the night. 
 And one night was the wonder 
 wrought. I saw them first — little, 
 light green spears thrusting through 
 the brown earth, where dry kernels 
 had been planted, and I knew that 
 Hiawatha had wrestled with Mon- 
 damin in the night. Then, with the 
 
 32 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 early and the latter rains, came the 
 blade, then the ear, then the full corn 
 in the ear. And still the workaday 
 world went on about us as though 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 That is the way it is with all the 
 wonders of our back yard; of them 
 the world neither knows nor cares. 
 And yet I know that there are other 
 back yards — hundreds, thousands of 
 them — all over our land, where some- 
 one is watching the annual miracle. 
 Not all the people in the world are 
 out on the street, where shop windows 
 flaunt their vulgar display. Some 
 there are still among the flowers, help- 
 ing things to grow, and incidentally 
 ministering to the welfare of their 
 own souls. 
 
 It is easy enough to become ac- 
 quainted with faces on the street, but 
 if you would know real folks, if you 
 would make real friends, find your 
 
 33 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 way into the little back yards wher^ 
 the corn is growing and the souls of 
 men and women are not hidden be- 
 hind masks of artificiality or buried 
 beneath the complexities of life. 
 Quiet, simple souls, some of them, 
 that would be unobserved on the 
 street; souls that are still childlike 
 enough to marvel at the sprouting of 
 the corn; souls that linger under the 
 apple trees because they are weary 
 of the glare of the pavements; souls 
 that rejoice in humble garden suc- 
 cesses, because, perhaps, they have 
 failed in the marts of trade ; souls that 
 have learned to find peace and con- 
 tentment hiding among the weeds. 
 
 I should like to pass into such back 
 yards and meet such souls. I am sure 
 I would like them better than the men 
 and women in the street. For now 
 that I have a back yard of my own, 
 where corn sprouts, where tomatoes 
 
 34 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 swell and redden, where morning- 
 glories bloom and fade, I think I 
 could understand better those other 
 souls whose joys are like unto these. 
 But I have my own yard to care 
 for yet a little while. My garden is 
 too poor a one to be left while I go 
 gadding. I must needs hoe my corn, 
 and stake my tomatoes, and trim my 
 hedge, and shave my lawn. Perhaps 
 when it is all done, and there is noth- 
 ing more to be attempted, then I shall 
 have nothing to do but go preaching 
 in all the back yards of our town and 
 showing my neighbors how to culti- 
 vate their gardens and their souls. 
 Until then I can only shout a greet- 
 ing over the fence and wish luck and 
 joy to all the brotherhood of back 
 yard gardeners. 
 
 35 
 
ROSES 
 
AM not a rose expert; I am 
 not even an experienced grower 
 of roses. But I can safely claim 
 to be a rose lover. 
 
 I have a vivid mental picture 
 of a back yard of long ago in 
 which there was a huge bush 
 of velvet Jacqueminot roses, 
 higher than my head, and a still 
 bigger Paul Neyron. I know 
 this is not the approved way 
 to grow roses; they should be 
 cut back for the sake of larger 
 
 39 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 and later blooms, but they were emi- 
 nently satisfactory to us. In those 
 days the Gen. Jack was to me the 
 rose par excellence; I could fancy 
 nothing finer. In between these two 
 were a large white rose and a pink 
 tea, whose names I have forgotten, 
 and in other parts of the yard were 
 three old-fashioned, dull-red, single 
 roses. 
 
 Since then I have always wanted 
 roses, and the first spring after we 
 acquired a back yard of our own, we 
 set out a few choice varieties — Frau 
 Karl Druschki, Killarney, Etoile de 
 France, La France, Soleil d'Or, 
 American Beauty, Caroline Testout, 
 and Viscount Folkstone. It is only 
 a little rose bed, and has not done al- 
 together well. Caroline Testout died 
 the first winter, and some of the 
 others have had a hard struggle; but 
 they have given us pleasure, and with 
 
 40 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 more fertilizing and a little lime and 
 continued care and cultivation, I 
 think we shall succeed. 
 
 I still love the Jack, but have come 
 to believe that the Killarney, with its 
 heavenly pink blossoms and perfect 
 buds, is the finest rose grown, though 
 the sturdy white Karl Druschki 
 presses it hard. The Soleil d'Or is a 
 sort of interloper, being an Austrian 
 briar that must not be pruned, but 
 its clusters of golden flowers add 
 piquancy to the garden. 
 
 Now if this were all I had to tell 
 about roses there would be small gain 
 in writing of them; but it has been 
 my privilege to observe day by day a 
 much larger rose garden and to make 
 notes of those varieties that pleased 
 me most. These notes I am preserv- 
 ing against the day when I shall have 
 a larger back yard and greater op- 
 portunities for rose growing. Mean- 
 
 41 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 time it has occurred to me that they 
 might be of service to other amateur 
 gardeners who would be planting 
 roses. 
 
 I claim nothing for this list except 
 that it records a rose lover's personal 
 preferences, whereas the catalogue 
 lists seem to claim superior excellence 
 for every variety in them. I have 
 arranged them according to color, 
 which the catalogues seldom do, and, 
 as is customary, I have let the letters 
 H. P. stand for hardy perpetual, and 
 H. T. for hybrid tea. Here, then, is 
 my list: 
 
 Dark Red 
 
 Etoile de France (H.T.). Free 
 blooming, deep crimson, very hardy. 
 Perhaps the best known of the dark 
 reds. 
 
 Prince C. de Rohan, or Camille de 
 42 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 Rohan (H.P.). Similar to Etoile 
 de France in color. 
 
 Jubilee (H.P.). Very dark and 
 velvety. Blooms hold their color well 
 when old. 
 
 Medium Red 
 
 General Jacqueminot (H.P.). 
 The old, unsurpassed favorite. Very 
 desirable. 
 
 Ulrich Brunner (H.P.). Brilliant 
 cherry red. Very fragrant. 
 
 Captain Hayward (H.P.). Simi- 
 lar to Ulrich Brunner. 
 
 John Keynes (H.P.). A free 
 bloomer. 
 
 Light Red 
 
 Captain Christy (H.P.). Not 
 common. 
 Hugh Dickson (H.P.). A new 
 
 rose of high quality. 
 
 43 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 Deep Pink 
 
 Lady Ashtown (H.T.). Some- 
 times a lighter pink, shading to 
 salmon. 
 
 Medium Pink 
 
 La France (H.T.). A perfect 
 pink. Perhaps the most popular rose 
 in cultivation. Also red and white 
 varieties. 
 
 Killarney ( H.T. ) . A perfect bud, 
 opening to a semi-double bloom. 
 Also a white form. 
 
 My Maryland (H.T.). Another 
 beauty, with long, graceful buds. 
 
 Mme. Caroline Testout (H.T.). 
 Similar to La France. 
 
 Mme. Gabriel Luizet (H.P.). 
 Large, full blooms. 
 
 Mrs. John Laing (H.P.). Fra- 
 grant, free flowering. Fairly deep 
 pink. Very sturdy. 
 
 44 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 Souvenir du President Carnot 
 (H.T.). Turns rather light. 
 
 Light Pink 
 
 Clio (H.P.). Large blooms. 
 Mrs. R. G. Sharman Crawford 
 (H.P.). Similar. 
 
 i 
 
 White 
 
 Frau Karl Druschki (H.P.). 
 One of the grandest, sturdiest roses 
 grown. 
 
 Baroness Rothschild (H.P.). 
 Turns pinkish. 
 
 Mabel Morrison (H.P.). Turns 
 pinkish. 
 
 Coppery and Salmon Shades 
 
 Mme. Abel Chatenay (H.T.). 
 Pink flushed with orange. 
 
 Prince of Bulgaria, or Prince de 
 Bulgarie (H.T.). A new rose of 
 fine quality. 
 
 45 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 Mrs. Aaron Ward (H.T.) . Long 
 stems. Color varies. 
 
 Mme. Ravary (H.T.). Beautiful 
 orange tint. Not always a strong 
 grower. 
 
 Yellow 
 
 Lady Hillingden (H.T.). Rare. 
 
 Alfred Colorub (H.P.). More 
 often red. 
 
 Gloire Lyonnaise (H.P.). Very 
 pale lemon yellow. 
 
 Soleil d'Or (Austrian briar) . Per- 
 haps the finest of the yellows except 
 the climbers. 
 
 For Large Bushes 
 
 Paul Neyron (H.P.). Pink. 
 Very hardy. Flowers are as large 
 as a peony. 
 
 Conrad F. Meyer. A rugosa hy- 
 brid. Yellowish pink. Very fra- 
 grant and hardy. 
 
 46 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 There are literally hundreds of 
 others, and I know I have omitted 
 somebody's favorite, but I can rec- 
 ommend this list for anyone to begin 
 on who has a back yard and wants 
 roses in it. 
 
 47 
 
GOOD BEANS 
 
• if ' 
 
 /__j# Mood bea 
 
 ^^^ = — 
 
 y*^ 
 
 T was the Fourth of July and 
 we were eating our first string- 
 less beans of the season. 
 "My!" exclaimed the Lady 
 
 f A of the House, "these beans are 
 
 good!" 
 
 I was inexpressibly shocked. 
 It was as though Eve had 
 glanced appreciatively about 
 Eden and said, "This is a nice 
 little garden, Adam. Try one 
 of these early apples." But I 
 51 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 perceive that my state of mind needs 
 explanation. 
 
 It was this way. I had been spend- 
 ing my holiday in the back yard in 
 preference to the crowded excursion 
 train or the vulgar bathing beach. In 
 the forenoon the sun poured down 
 such an insistent heat that the lettuce 
 leaves curled up limply and the grape- 
 vine tendrils drooped. The silk was 
 beginning to show on the corn where 
 the ears were forming. The corn 
 evidently liked the hot, dry weather, 
 but I didn't. As I straightened up 
 after working between the rows I 
 fancied I felt a slight dizziness and I 
 hastily sought a shady spot. 
 
 As I stood there, hatless, leaning 
 on my hoe, and enviously watching a 
 sparrow disporting himself near my 
 lawn sprinkler, it suddenly came over 
 me what an extraordinary bit of crea- 
 tion this back yard of mine is. 
 
 52 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 There are lots of things I don't 
 know about it, but I know enough to 
 marvel at. In the beginning it was 
 Chaos and black Night, like every- 
 thing else. Then came the cooling 
 and wrinkling of the earth's crust, 
 and volcanic upheavals; and when 
 this ages-long tumult had subsided, 
 and the dry land and the sea were set 
 in their proper places, my back yard 
 was some fathoms below the surface 
 of the deep. 
 
 One would have thought that its 
 fate was sealed, and that it could 
 never hope for a higher destiny than 
 that of an oyster-bed. But the great 
 Craftsman had a nobler mission for it. 
 Perhaps he had a divine vision of my 
 lawn and garden and locust tree. 
 
 Anyhow, one geologic day a great 
 ice river, miles and miles wide, came 
 creeping down from the frozen North. 
 Over hill and valley it crept in its 
 
 53 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 ponderous, irresistible flow, across 
 Green Mountains and Berkshires, 
 shearing off mountain tops as it came, 
 and grinding them into pebbles and 
 sand. 
 
 But the weather turned warm 
 again, and the huge glacier met a 
 torrid wave from the south. The bat- 
 tle with wind and sun was fought at 
 the edge of the sea, and gradually the 
 ice army was forced to retreat, leav- 
 ing behind it the wreckage of war — 
 huge granite boulders from Vermont, 
 pieces of flint from Canada. And at 
 the scene of the first great battle it 
 left a heap of sand and gravel so great 
 that when it melted it spread out into 
 the sea. Little water courses formed 
 and the sand pile was flattened and 
 drained. Then the tides cut a channel 
 through behind the last bulwark of 
 low hills, and left Long Island and 
 my back yard a dry desert of sand. 
 
 54 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 Meanwhile, all over the world, trees 
 and flowers and all manner of plants 
 had been learning how to grow and be 
 beautiful, and birds and winds and 
 hairy animals scattered their seeds 
 far and wide. Sand- favoring grasses 
 took root, and in due time Long Is- 
 land became a waving prairie. Then 
 came the various soil-making proc- 
 esses of growth and decay, and in a 
 jiffy followed red man and white, and 
 our village, and the little white house 
 Wherein I dwell. 
 
 How complete it all seems to me 
 now, as though the final consumma- 
 tion had been wrought for me and the 
 Lady of the House, that we might 
 have a small spot of green for our 
 souls to grow in. Soil, seed, and sun- 
 shine, all for us. Doubtless it seems 
 the same to the lowly and beneficent 
 toad that spends his days beneath the 
 tomato vines. But I could not help 
 
 55 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 wondering, as I stood there in the 
 pleasant shade, if this were not also a 
 mere transition stage on the way to 
 something far more beautiful ages 
 hence. 
 
 And so, as I say, I was shocked 
 when the Lady of the House lightly 
 remarked, "These beans are good!" 
 
 "Madam," said I, after an impres- 
 sive pause, "the Lord made these 
 beans." 
 
 But Madam had been canning peas 
 and was not in my frame of mind. 
 
 "If it hadn't been for the man who 
 perfected this strain of seed," she re- 
 torted, "and if you hadn't fertilized 
 that garden for three years, and if 
 you hadn't planted the seed at the 
 right time and the right depth, and if 
 you hadn't kept out the weeds, and 
 cultivated during the drought, I 
 guess they would be a sorry mess." 
 
 Madam was right. It is inspiring 
 56 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 to realize that we have some part in 
 creation, after all. To this extent, at 
 least, the Doctrine of Free Will 
 holds. I can leave my back yard to 
 the rag-weed and burdocks, or I can 
 make it to blossom as the rose. So I 
 trust I am not irreverent or unduly 
 prideful if I declare, "The Lord and 
 I, we grew these beans." 
 
 57 
 
MORNING CHAPEL 
 

 Morning Chapel 
 
 AM not one df those garden 
 enthusiasts who arise at beauty- 
 sleep time and go out to work 
 feverishly with trowel and hoe 
 for an hour or two before break- 
 fast. For one thing, waking 
 up is a long and solemn rite 
 with me, not to be hurried 
 through thoughtlessly. If I 
 get down by the time the coffee 
 percolator is bubbling I feel 
 quite sufficiently virtuous. And 
 though I pride myself on being 
 61 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 a conscientious gardener, I take my 
 garden pleasures calmly and at such 
 times as circumstances grant me leis- 
 ure. I do not hotly pursue joy in my 
 garden: I jog along comfortably 
 with it. 
 
 But if by some lucky chance I beat 
 the coffee percolator by five or ten 
 minutes, I do enjoy a tour of the back 
 yard while the dew is on the grass — 
 a brief but unhurried tour of critical 
 observation not unmixed with a sort 
 of morning adoration. It seems to 
 start the day right, somehow. 
 
 In college days we were most of us 
 opposed to compulsory worship on 
 general principles; and yet I know 
 that if a poll had been taken of the 
 undergraduates, there would have 
 been an overwhelming majority in 
 favor of morning chapel. It was a 
 traditional exercise that we would 
 not have wanted to abolish if we could. 
 
 62 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 Not that we felt the need so much 
 of a daily religious service; morning 
 chapel was rather a social observance. 
 It got us together as a college ; the ties 
 were knit closer; the day was started 
 as it should be in such a community. 
 
 And so now I like to foregather 
 with my tomatoes and my beans, my 
 Shirley poppies and my roses, before 
 they and I actually buckle down to 
 the day's work that is appointed to us. 
 
 Already the shadows are shorten- 
 ing and the sun is pouring his vitaliz- 
 ing beams upon all the growing 
 things. The robins that seem to have 
 a nest high up in our ridiculous old 
 pear tree are singing joyfully because 
 the weather is what it is, and a kindly 
 mortal has spread before them a feast 
 of worms. 
 
 There are prayers said in this morn- 
 ing chapel. Here is a row of seed- 
 lings praying for water; there is a 
 
 63 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 groaning dahlia praying for a stake. 
 But for the most part there is a hymn 
 or two of praise and then a gay com- 
 mingling in social intercourse; and if 
 there is a mild undercurrent of wor- 
 shipful intent, that is all the religion 
 I and the garden seem to require. 
 
 Our back yard is small ; the garden 
 is lilliputian. And yet within its 
 modest boundaries I can always find 
 more joyful surprises in my short 
 perambulation than a day in the whirl- 
 ing city can offer me. Never a morn- 
 ing, between frost and frost, that does 
 not present some new attraction un- 
 suspected or only hoped for the day 
 before. The buds have broken on the 
 grape-vine; or a yellow crocus is in 
 bloom ; or the first tender green of the 
 lettuce shows in a delicate line on the 
 brown soil; or our first rose has ap- 
 peared; or there are tiny pods on the 
 pea-vines; or the corn is in tassel; or 
 
 64 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 a tomato glows rich red ; or — but the 
 the list is endless. 
 
 Oh, it is worth while to plant and 
 tend and garner! I cannot under- 
 stand the man or woman with a back 
 yard who is blind to these morning 
 surprises, and deaf to the call of his 
 bit of the soil. I cannot understand 
 the heart that will deliberately close 
 its doors to these free and God-given 
 
 joys. 
 
 I am one of those fortunate ones 
 who can go to work afoot, and after 
 breakfast I can prolong my morning 
 chapel, in a manner, by glimpses into 
 other yards along the pleasant way to 
 the shop. I like to fancy that Dr. 
 Ludlow is rejoicing over the full- 
 blown beauty of his symmetrical 
 cherry tree, or that Mrs. Saunders 
 has gazed with astonished delight 
 that morning upon her first pink 
 peonies. I wave a mental salutation 
 
 65 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 as I pass, and feel that we understand 
 each other. 
 
 And then in June there is the 
 square white house with the super- 
 gorgeous array of blue corn-flowers 
 and pink roses behind it. I mean to 
 get acquainted and enter that back 
 yard some day. I feel that it would 
 be worth while. I know that it would 
 put our humble rose bed to shame, 
 though I am still haunted by the con- 
 viction that our Killarneys are just a 
 shade the finest roses ever grown in 
 the open. 
 
 God bless you, brother backyards- 
 men ! May your lettuce never fail to 
 head nor your hollyhocks to bloom. 
 And at your morning worship know 
 that I am with you in spirit, and that 
 our common text is "Consider the 
 lilies." 
 
 66 
 
SECLUSION VERSUS DISPLAY 
 
, <^f~ir~^pifip^ 
 
 versus Lfrsplau. 
 
 ENEATH the big maples in 
 front of the house a lawn has 
 but little chance; at least I 
 haven't been able to do much 
 with mine. Nevertheless, I 
 mow it and dress it, and scratch 
 grass seed into the thin spots, 
 and take twice as much care of 
 it as I do of the lawn back of 
 the house. 
 
 I wonder why this is. Can 
 it be that, in spite of all my 
 boasted independence of spirit, 
 69 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 I do care for what the neighbors 
 think? That I prize the fancied ap- 
 proval of the chance passer-by? 
 
 For some such reason, I suppose, 
 I have planted a mock orange at one 
 side of the steps and a pink weigela at 
 the other, and a privet hedge along 
 the sidewalk; purple and white cro- 
 cuses in the grass in front of the 
 piazza at one side, yellow and white 
 crocuses at the other side, white 
 snowdrops and blue scillse under the 
 old syringas by the fence, and a row 
 of daffodils and narcissi down the 
 side of the house, visible from the 
 street. 
 
 For the same reason, I suppose, I 
 am inordinately proud of my lilacs in 
 May, the whole noble row of which 
 may be seen and admired and smelled 
 from the road. 
 
 I fancy this desire for display is 
 very human, and I doubt if it is very 
 
 70 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 wrong. There is a marked tendency 
 among garden critics to deplore the 
 instinct that expresses itself in front- 
 yard tulip or geranium beds and in 
 flaming rows of cannas, scarlet sage, 
 and coleus before the house. There 
 is now in flourishing existence a gar- 
 dening cult that would hide all horti- 
 cultural activities behind a screen and 
 even confine the garden within high 
 walls or hedges. Privacy and a se- 
 cluded home life are its watch-words. 
 
 Doubtless some such propaganda 
 is needed in a country where the ac- 
 quiring of fortune so often out- 
 strips the growth of culture and good 
 taste; but it is equally possible that 
 the pendulum may be swinging too 
 far in that direction. I certainly do 
 not wish the world to come crowding 
 into my back yard, nor do I wish it to 
 think me a miser with my crocus gold. 
 
 There is a serious sociological 
 71 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 principle at the bottom of all this. 
 Shall Americans tend to become se- 
 clusive Little Islanders, or shall the 
 community be deemed greater than 
 the home? 
 
 Gardening confined entirely to the 
 back yard or the enclosure takes no 
 account of neighborhood improve- 
 ment or the pleasure of the passer-by. 
 It should be possible to maintain pri- 
 vacy and homelike garden content 
 without depriving the community of 
 the benefit of attractive door yards 
 and pleasant streets. It should be 
 possible for the gardener to arrange 
 his vines and shrubs and flowers in 
 such a way that both ends may be 
 attained, and he can at once "live in 
 his house by the side of the road and 
 be a friend to man." 
 
 72 
 
NATURE NEAR HOME 
 
OST of us are a bit far-sighted 
 when it comes to the enjoy- 
 ment of nature. We fix our 
 gaze on the distant wonder, 
 overlooking the little miracle 
 beneath our feet. We seek 
 wild life in Canada or the 
 Rockies, under the delusion that 
 our own farms and gardens 
 and back yards are thoroughly 
 tame. We envy the oppor- 
 tunities of the professional nat- 
 uralist or sportsman, neglect- 
 75 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 ing the adventure of an early-morn- 
 ing tour of the corn field or the hardy- 
 border. 
 
 The great northern diver is a bird 
 no more fascinating to observe than 
 our every-day, humorous crow; the 
 scarlet tanager of the nearby woods 
 road is every whit as brilliant as the 
 flamingo; a starling has more char- 
 acter than a stork; the squirrels of 
 Boston Common are as impudent and 
 as graceful as those of Pike's Peak. 
 
 To see and to comprehend the lit- 
 tle dramas of nature that are enacted 
 just outside our windows requires a 
 mind and senses more keenly alive 
 and more accurately adjusted than to 
 appreciate the majesty of the caribou 
 migration or the duel of elks in the 
 Yellowstone. 
 
 In spring there is the coming of 
 bluebird and robin, the building of 
 nests and the rearing of young; in 
 
 76 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 mid-summer the pageant of blossom 
 and fruit passes before our hyperme- 
 tropic eyes, and our friend the toad 
 sits beneath his lettuce leaf and per- 
 forms his marvels unobserved; in the 
 fall nature makes feverish haste to 
 be beautiful before youth is gone, and 
 if we will but glance up from the 
 morning paper now and then we may 
 be lucky enough to see the flying 
 wedge of the south-bound geese; in 
 winter comes the brave chickadee in 
 search of food, and in the morning we 
 may find the lacy track of the deer- 
 mouse across the new-fallen snow. 
 
 Sometimes, when Nature knocks at 
 our doors, it is not to call us to dis- 
 tant hunting grounds, but that she 
 may come and lodge with us. 
 
 Thus it is in our back yard. There 
 is plenty of natural history here for 
 home-loving folks with open eyes. 
 The wonder of growing things — of 
 
 77 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 bursting seed and opening flower — 
 fills every nook and corner. The 
 sparrow builds her improvident nest 
 just above our heads. The toad ap- 
 pears like a jinnee out of a bottle and 
 performs conjuring tricks with his 
 tongue. On a June morning there is 
 a marvelous cecropia on the door 
 screen, and always there is the mys- 
 tery of the spider's web to contem- 
 plate. Nature avoids not our humble 
 corner of the earth in the working of 
 her miracles. 
 
 78 
 
THE RAIN 
 
HE Lady of the House does 
 not like thunder-storms, high 
 winds, or rainy days, and we 
 seem to have a good many of 
 all three in spite of our annual 
 drought. I don't mind those 
 things so much, myself, though 
 I hate to see branches blown 
 from the trees, and I am not 
 free from the depressing effects 
 of a long rainy spell. 
 
 But there is a kind of rainy 
 day that I like. It comes after 
 81 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 a dry spell, when we have had plenty 
 of sunshine and the garden is parched 
 with thirst. 
 
 The sun went down in a golden 
 haze, and in the morning we awoke to 
 hear the steady rattle of the rain on 
 the piazza roof. Out in the back yard 
 the garden is drinking eagerly, and 
 already the corn has taken on new 
 life; it seems to have grown an inch. 
 The grass and the lilac leaves are 
 washed a clean, glistening green ; the 
 dahlia buds nod heavily in the drip- 
 ping from the ailanthus tree above 
 them. One of my tomato vines lies 
 prostrate, perhaps from a too copious 
 imbibing of the life-giving fluid. 
 
 Then I turn to the front of the 
 house, for there is the impression I 
 like to receive. A lone pedestrian 
 hurries up the street, his umbrella 
 held at an angle against the slanting 
 spears of rain. Across the street and 
 
 82 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 a little way down a covered grocer's 
 wagon stops and a man in rubber 
 coat and boots jumps out and dashes 
 around the house with a basket. The 
 horse stands and nods exactly as the 
 dahlia buds do. 
 
 The rain comes down so steadily 
 as to produce the effect of a fog, half 
 blotting out the landscape and chang- 
 ing the aspect of familiar objects. 
 All the sharp angles are softened a 
 little, and the motion of the rain gives 
 the scene a look of unrealitv as 
 though it were a moving picture. All 
 the colors are changed. There is no 
 blue overhead, only a dull, slaty gray 
 that casts its tone over all the land- 
 scape. Green, red, white, yellow, all 
 are grayed as with the broad wash of 
 an artist's brush. Only the brown of 
 the tree trunks appears to stand out 
 darker and more vividly. Our street 
 seems turned into a Japanese print. 
 
 83 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 The grocer's man comes hurrying 
 out and leaps into his wagon. The 
 horse starts off at a smart trot and 
 the street is deserted. I peer through 
 the rain at the houses opposite, but 
 detect no sign of life in the windows. 
 It is as though the world were asleep, 
 awaiting the coming of the Prince to 
 kiss it awake again. 
 
 I alone of all the village seem to be 
 alive and stirring. I am shut into a 
 little world all my own. I experience 
 all the joy of solitude and none of its 
 pain. The witchery of the rain makes 
 me as lonely as a mountain in the 
 clouds and I surrender to the en- 
 chantment. 
 
 84 
 
A FLOWER LOVER'S CREED 
 
ho? 
 
 Y friend the horticulturist hum- 
 bles me continually. He is 
 gracious enough when I go to 
 him for advice, but when, in the 
 enthusiasm of some new dis- 
 covery, I undertake to impart 
 information, he cools my ardor 
 with an indulgent smile. 
 
 He knows too much, this hor- 
 ticulturist. He knows so much 
 that I sometimes wonder if he 
 has any room left for pure 
 appreciation of flowers. For 
 87 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 when I stand in my own little back 
 yard, and gaze fondly on my sprawl- 
 ing nasturtiums and my hoydenish 
 morning-glories, I know in my heart 
 that it is a matter of love rather than 
 of knowledge. I become a rank Phil- 
 istine, and don't care a jot whether I 
 am conforming to the rules of gar- 
 dening or not. 
 
 Who laid down these rules, any- 
 way? Was it not some garden lover 
 who codified his experiences and be- 
 liefs? And must I be bound by his 
 code? Let's have a little free think- 
 ing in this garden business, say I. 
 
 When it comes to a choice of flow- 
 ers, it is, I firmly believe, all a matter 
 of taste. I will not scorn the nastur- 
 tium or the morning-glory because 
 they are common and easy to grow. 
 Rather, I love them the better on that 
 account. 
 
 And so I have made a creed of my 
 88 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 own, and I submit that my creed is as 
 good as any other man's. Like all 
 creeds, it is arbitrary and dogmatic, 
 but it is mine own, and I care not 
 whether anyone else may choose to 
 adopt it or not, so that I be left un- 
 disturbed in my garden beliefs. 
 
 ate 4l& 4& ^If- ^fc» 
 
 I believe in roses, because they are 
 the most perfect flowers that grow. 
 
 I believe in the crocus, the snow- 
 drop, and the bluebell, because they 
 are brave and usher in the garden 
 vear. 
 
 I believe in some of the tulips — 
 gesneriana and picotee — but not the 
 gaudy Dutch sorts that grow in round 
 beds in parks. 
 
 I believe in phlox when it is pure 
 pink or white, but not the magentas. 
 By the same token I believe in 
 foxgloves. 
 
 I believe in lily-of-the-valley, be- 
 89 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 cause it is fragrant, and hardy, and 
 loves the shade. 
 
 I believe in corn-flowers — some- 
 times. 
 
 I believe in the perennial larkspur, 
 because of the richness of its blue, but 
 the annual larkspur is but a weak 
 imitator. 
 
 I believe in the race of campanulas, 
 because of their exquisite form and 
 waxy texture. 
 
 I believe in the iris, though I have 
 none, for it is a wonderful work of 
 God. 
 
 I believe in the homely golden- 
 glow, because it blooms so sunnily in 
 the fence corner. 
 
 I believe in hollyhocks, because 
 nothing looks so well against an old 
 white house. 
 
 I believe in hardy chrysanthemums, 
 because they defy the autumn frosts. 
 
 90 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 I believe in dahlias, because I can 
 pick them with a clear conscience. 
 
 I believe in China asters, because 
 I love their colors. ( I only wish they 
 would grow on Long Island as they 
 do down Boston way.) 
 
 I believe in morning glories, be- 
 cause they aspire to Heaven. 
 
 I believe in the California poppy, 
 because it covers with green and gold 
 the bare spots in my perennial bed. 
 
 I believe in the lowly nasturtium, 
 because it gives and asks not, from 
 June to November. 
 
 I believe in the sweet pea, because 
 it is delicate in tint and in fragrance. 
 
 I believe in pansies, because chil- 
 dren love their little faces. 
 
 I believe in the Shirley poppy, be- 
 cause of its fragile grace. 
 
 I believe in the cosmos, because it is 
 the flower of Indian Summer. 
 
 I believe in the lilac, weigela, and 
 
 91 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 syringa, because they love old door- 
 yards. 
 
 I believe in flowers to the depth of 
 my being, because they exist for 
 beauty, and are perfect, complete 
 things. They are generous and in- 
 nocent and I can help them to grow. 
 If there are no flowers in Heaven, 
 I fear Eternity will find me casting 
 a backward glance of regret at my 
 little earthly paradise. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 [My mother, after she had read 
 this creed, said, somewhat plaintively, 
 "There are heliotrope and mignon- 
 ette ; don't you believe in those?" I do ; 
 and I believe also in a potted gera- 
 nium in a window, for that usually 
 means the loving care of somebody's 
 mother — and I believe in mothers.] 
 
 92 
 
REQUIESCAT IN PACE 
 
Requiescat in Pace 
 
 HERE are two little graves 
 in our back yard, just beyond 
 the ash-bin, beneath a young 
 ailanthus tree. Side by side 
 sleep two whom we loved, albeit 
 they loved not one another. 
 
 Nutty, the cat, we brought 
 from our former domicile in 
 an old cloth satchel with slits 
 cut in it for air, and he came 
 not willingly. He was a hand- 
 some cat, affectionate, and ex- 
 tremely talkative. Also he was 
 95 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 of the night-prowling variety, but 
 this is not the place to speak of 
 his sins. He was a part of our family 
 and we loved him. 
 
 There are good folk who detest 
 cats, and it must be admitted that 
 cats are selfish creatures. They are 
 chiefly physical; their joys are those 
 of the flesh ; their spiritual nature has 
 not been developed to the canine 
 standard. But I, for one, find it hard 
 to resist the charm of the cat's soft, 
 sleek grace. There is something flat- 
 tering in the way pussy selects your 
 lap from a roomful, curls up and 
 snuggles with an excess of comfort 
 and, purring, falls asleep. 
 
 With all his selfishness, Nutty was 
 faithful to his home. He was grate- 
 ful for bed and board. He delighted 
 our eyes with his playful antics in the 
 yard. He made us feel that our com- 
 pany was acceptable. He was part 
 
 96 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 and parcel of our household. He 
 never hurt our feelings nor spoke evil 
 of us behind our backs. There are 
 humans in our town of whom I could 
 not say as much. 
 
 In the late fall came Dusty Rhodes 
 in a crate — an Airedale terrier puppy 
 with a quizzical face and awkward 
 legs. Nutty took to the kitchen, 
 Where dogs were not allowed, and 
 thenceforth showed plainly that his 
 nose was out of joint. 
 
 Dusty, I regret to say, was a way- 
 ward child. Strict obedience he never 
 learned, though not because of stu- 
 pidity. He took to shaking hands 
 and begging quite readily. 
 
 But Dusty was a dog, a real dog. 
 We had never owned a dog before 
 because we had never owned a back 
 yard before. One needs a back yard 
 for a dog; a farm is better still. 
 
 Dusty was indeed a real dog — with 
 97 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 all a dog's attachment to mankind. 
 It is wonderful, when you come to 
 think of it, that one of the lower ani- 
 mals should have so developed as to 
 love man better than his own kind. 
 
 Transcendental philosophy attrib- 
 utes man's higher virtues to a soul 
 apart from his brain, and rests con- 
 tent. But how about a dog's higher 
 virtues, many of which he possesses 
 in a degree to make his master 
 ashamed? Love, forgiveness, moral 
 courage, loyalty, faithfulness — are 
 these not of the soul? Wiser men 
 than I have been unable to answer. 
 As for myself I am able only to 
 marvel. 
 
 Dusty Rhodes was often a sore 
 trial to us, both in sickness and in 
 health, but in the few short months 
 he was with us he surely found his 
 way to our hearts. And when the 
 
 98 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 distemper seized him, and we saw him 
 suffer and waste away, with that look 
 of pleading inquiry in his eyes, all 
 was forgiven. In pain he died one 
 night, and we buried him out in the 
 back yard next day. It was not easy 
 to drop the damp gravel on that poor 
 shaggy little head, and we knew that 
 we had lost something worth while. 
 I wonder where the love and devo- 
 tion went to when he breathed his 
 last. It is a mystery. 
 
 Every hour thereafter we came 
 upon reminders. Here was the little 
 ball, here his collar, here his old shoe, 
 here, alas, the little white whip. His 
 place by the easy-chair knew him no 
 more, neither the rug by the dining- 
 room door, where he was wont to lie, 
 more or less patiently, just out of 
 bounds, till his turn should come. 
 
 Then came Nutty, the heartless 
 99 
 
theThumble annals 
 
 wretch, back to his own, cheerfully 
 making himself at home in his old 
 haunts. But the Reaper gathered 
 him, too. One night he crawled off 
 in evident bodily distress, and in the 
 morning we found his stiffened form 
 under the blackberry vines. 
 
 There lie their bones, side by side, 
 in two little graves in our back yard. 
 No marble shaft bears their names. 
 No elegy was composed on the de- 
 ceased. The world of men passes by 
 our house and knows not of our hum- 
 ble tragedy. But we remember; we 
 shall not forget. Always, while we 
 live here, those bones shall lie undis- 
 turbed. Always there will be green 
 and flowering growing things all 
 about. And when evening comes and 
 the street is still, I can linger there 
 and fancy I feel against my leg the 
 soft, repeated rubbing of a little cat, 
 and within my hand the moist muzzle 
 
 100 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 of a little dog. Better loves and 
 memories like these in a quiet back 
 yard than all the world beside and 
 hatred therewith. 
 
 101 
 
CLEANING UP 
 
OU can tell a good gardener 
 from a poor one by the num- 
 ber of weeds visible in his gar- 
 den, but I know a subtler way 
 of judging. I apply my test in 
 November. In the spring an 
 army of gardeners marked out 
 their rows and sowed their seed 
 with enthusiasm. Then came the 
 first crop of weeds, and a few 
 weak brothers and sisters fell 
 from the ranks after gathering 
 a handful of spindly radishes. 
 105 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 Then came more weeds, and a 
 further defection. 
 
 In July came an early drought. 
 The peas dried up, the lettuce wilted, 
 and even the corn looked sickly. The 
 salvation of the garden was water for 
 the lettuce and faithful cultivation 
 for the corn, and only the Old Guard 
 stood by through the heat and burden 
 of the day. 
 
 By fall only a remnant made any 
 pretense at gardening. Beans and 
 corn had been gathered ; the tomatoes 
 took care of themselves. Only the 
 faithful kept up the fight for the love 
 of it; only a tried and true Gideon's 
 Band remained. 
 
 But it is after the first killing 
 frosts that the true test comes. The 
 corn-stalks stand brown and with- 
 ered; the last ungathered tomato 
 hangs shriveled upon its stem. The 
 garden is a scene of desolation — a 
 
 106 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 battle-field whence all have fled save 
 the fallen. The dainty beauty of 
 spring and the fulness of summer 
 have departed. It is no place for the 
 dilettante gardener ; most of the back 
 yards on our street are deserted. 
 
 But over in Neighbor Burt's yard 
 I see a lonely figure poking around 
 among the debris. (It was Neighbor 
 Burt's Golden Bantam corn that beat 
 us all. ) Now he is standing amid the 
 desolation like a widow in a grave- 
 yard. His loved ones are dead. 
 
 But Neighbor Burt is no faint 
 heart. He is not mourning; listen, he 
 is whistling. He is pulling up his 
 dead plants and vines and piling them 
 neatly for the burning. Soon an aro- 
 matic odor will be borne to me; 
 Neighbor Burt will be burning sweet 
 incense to Ceres. And I know that 
 he will find something to do until the 
 snow covers his garden — and then he 
 
 107 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 will begin looking for next spring's 
 seed catalogues to arrive and will be- 
 gin planning what varieties of dahlia 
 bulbs he will buy. 
 
 By these tokens I know that Neigh- 
 bor Burt and I are two members of 
 the Brotherhood of Year-Round 
 Gardeners. 
 
 To me there is a vast deal of satis- 
 faction in cleaning up. I crave order- 
 liness as some folks crave excitement. 
 And there is the satisfaction, too, that 
 comes only from a work that is well 
 done, completed, finished. 
 
 I believe that half our restlessness 
 and discontent is due to our inability 
 to finish things. Life is a ceaseless 
 round ; duties overlap and crowd each 
 other. It is hard to get the break- 
 fast dishes out of the way and the 
 beds made before it is time to start 
 dinner, and the average housewife 
 is eternally oppressed with the haunt- 
 
 108 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 ing realization of a hundred unfin- 
 ished tasks. We men folks come 
 home from the office or the shop with 
 our minds full of things we have 
 dropped in the middle, and some of 
 us never finish them until some one 
 folds our hands across our breast and 
 says, "It is all over." 
 
 But the man or woman who works 
 out-of-doors with things that grow 
 and bear fruit may taste a little of 
 the heavenly joy of things accom- 
 plished. For God, who is wiser than 
 our other employers, has appointed 
 the seasons, and has ordained that 
 each year shall come to an end, 
 whether we will or no. 
 
 The fruit ripens and is gathered; 
 the leaves fall and the sap runs back 
 into the roots. No overweening am- 
 bition, no feverish desire for more 
 time, more time, can stop it. Soon 
 comes winter to seal the earth in 
 
 109 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 compulsory rest. But before it comes 
 Neighbor Burt and I go forth into 
 our gardens and clean up, and we 
 alone of all the people on our block 
 know the joy the craftsman feels 
 when he puts the last fond touches 
 on his work and sees that it is good. 
 
 110 
 
WINTER 
 

 "Winter 
 
 J 
 
 ECEMBER in our back yard 
 is a cruel destroyer of illusions. 
 The green draperies, with which 
 nature clothed it, have worn 
 out and blown away. All is 
 bare and brown. Every rut and 
 hollow shows in the lawn; the 
 old pear-tree lifts crooked and 
 decrepit branches like fingers 
 knotted with pain; every place 
 in the fence that needs repair 
 obtrudes itself upon my guilty 
 gaze; the green screen of the 
 113 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 clematis has disappeared, disclosing 
 the harsh outlines of a vulgar ash- 
 bin. The garden has lost every little 
 coquetry of leaf and flower, and has 
 surrendered unconditionally to the 
 drab unloveliness of middle age. The 
 grace of growing things has departed 
 and left the ugliness of decay. 
 
 Then comes the snow, winter's 
 white Sister of Charity, to clothe the 
 naked and to cover the face of the 
 dead. 
 
 What a wonderful transformation 
 our back yard undergoes during the 
 first real snow-storm. All the little 
 hollows and inequalities are filled, and 
 a white lawn lies smoother than any 
 greensward. Every harsh and awk- 
 ward angle in fence and ash-bin and 
 wood-pile is made smooth and round. 
 English starlings, those whistling 
 little brothers of the blackbird, come 
 to the veiled garden in search of 
 
 114 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 seeds. Even the gnarled old pear- 
 tree takes on a sort of venerable 
 beauty, such as soft, white hair gives 
 to an old man. Bustling Boreas has 
 left behind him a gentle peace. 
 
 I hope old age is going to be like 
 that. If youth is feverish and fretful, 
 and if middle age is a disillusionment 
 and a bore (some say it is, though I 
 don't believe it) , there should come a 
 time at length when the struggle is 
 over and peace settles down upon the 
 soul. 
 
 Down under the snow my bulbs are 
 sleeping; the rose-bushes in their win- 
 ter coverings are dreaming of June. 
 Already I am beginning to look for- 
 ward to my crocuses and bluebells 
 and snowdrops, and the first green 
 leaflets on the lilacs. I hope old age 
 will not be deprived of a like vision 
 of springtime, with blossoms and 
 green fields — somewhere. 
 
 115 
 
THE DEMOCRACY OF SNOW 
 SHOVELING 
 
w»i ■' •' -mm 
 
 J' 
 
 The Democracy of SnowShovelling 
 
 WONDER what it is about 
 shoveling snow that exerts such 
 ^kjhc. a democratizing influence on 
 IftjT mankind. Perhaps it is be- 
 j(X > cause only snow shovelers are 
 \i0 abroad, and they are all prole- 
 \cSy\ tarians. At any rate, there is 
 something about the occupa- 
 tion that puts snobbishness to 
 flight and seems to open men's 
 hearts in a cheery good-fellow- 
 ship. For there is a fraternity 
 of shovelers which gathers in 
 119 
 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 joyous conclave along our street 
 when the snow ceases to fall and it is 
 time to clean the walks. 
 
 The gas lamp in front of the house 
 has just been lighted, and in its yel- 
 low glow I can see that only a few 
 feathery flakes are falling. I don my 
 sweater and gloves and arctics and 
 old hat, take my shovel, and sally 
 forth. The man next door is ahead 
 of me, making a sort of rhythmic 
 music on the flags. 
 
 "Quite a storm," he calls across the 
 white lawn. 
 
 As I finish the piazza and begin on 
 the path to the front walk, our grocer 
 passes. 
 
 "Good exercise," he cries, and hur- 
 ries on to his own. 
 
 A taxicab labors past, and Mr. 
 Smith waves a friendly greeting from 
 the window. 
 
 As I reach the sidewalk a Negro 
 120 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 passes, bearing shovels and looking 
 for a job. 
 
 "Some fall o' snow, boss," he ejac- 
 ulates, and hastens on, chuckling at 
 nothing at all. 
 
 Two boys, trudging along with 
 sleds, suddenly break into the road 
 in a dash after a coal wagon, whose 
 driver grins on them indulgently. 
 
 There is something about the end 
 of a snow-storm, I think, that is stim- 
 ulating. There is a quality in the 
 clear, crisp air that elevates the 
 spirits, tempting one to shout aloud 
 and to laugh. And I am inclined to 
 believe that its invigorating effects 
 are felt to the full only by the man 
 who steps forth with his shovel, call- 
 ing greetings to his neighbors and 
 bending his back to honest toil that 
 sends the blood dancing through his 
 veins and, for the moment at least, 
 
 121 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 drives the blues and envies and mean- 
 nesses out of his heart and makes 
 him just one with all the other snow 
 shovelers of the universe. 
 
 122 
 
FEBRUARY MENDICANTS 
 
ONG Island has its share of 
 winter birds. Every farm 
 seems to have its flock of crows. 
 In the oak woods there are 
 chickadees and j uncos, and 
 doubtless nuthatches and tree- 
 sparrows and pine finches, 
 though I have never observed 
 them. But in our back yard 
 we have only two species of 
 bird visitors in winter — the 
 English sparrows and the star- 
 lings. 
 
 125 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 I hesitate to try to attract the 
 chickadees and nuthatches with pans 
 of tepid water and a free-lunch 
 counter of suet and peanuts. I am 
 afraid I would succeed only in at- 
 tracting hundreds of sparrows, of 
 which Madam thinks we already have 
 enough. I must admit that they have 
 an abominable habit of building nests 
 in niches at the tops of the piazza 
 posts, and scattering dirty straw, 
 feathers, egg-shells, and even an oc- 
 casional unfledged and deceased mem- 
 ber of the family, about the piazza 
 floor. 
 
 But we do throw out bits of toast 
 and stale bread on the snow after 
 breakfast, and for lack of more aris- 
 tocratic visitors we welcome the spar- 
 rows. One cannot watch them and be 
 entirely oblivious to their saucy 
 grace. 
 
 The starlings may have been in 
 126 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 league with the sparrows in Britain, 
 before they came to Long Island a 
 dozen years ago. At any rate, the 
 two tribes seem to be able to live ami- 
 cably in our town, though each would 
 seem to be naturally of an aggressive 
 and troublesome disposition. Most 
 of our starlings apparently live in 
 the spire of the Catholic church up the 
 street; where the hordes of sparrows 
 come from I cannot imagine. 
 
 When we throw out the crumbs the 
 sparrows appear first. In fact, they 
 have come to expect this daily feast, 
 and early take up strategic positions 
 on the ailanthus tree, the fence, and 
 the crimson blackberry canes. They 
 pounce upon the morsels greedily, the 
 bolder ones first. Here and there a 
 mimic duel is fought over an espe- 
 cially delectable crust; the more pru- 
 dent spirits seize one big piece and fly 
 
 127 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 off with it over the back hedge and 
 out of sight. 
 
 The starlings come after the spar- 
 rows have sat down to meat, while 
 there are still viands on the table. 
 Big, fat fellows, they might easily 
 drive off their smaller cousins, but for 
 some reason they do not. 
 
 People hereabouts are beginning to 
 complain about the starling. They 
 say he bids fair to become as much 
 of a nuisance as the English sparrow. 
 I suppose that is so, and that a half 
 dozen full-grown birds would make 
 an excellent pot-pie. But I cannot 
 feel otherwise than friendly toward 
 my valiant little visitor. In Febru- 
 ary, when all the songsters have 
 flown, and every other feathered 
 friend except the sparrow has 
 deserted our back yard, then comes 
 John Starling, short-tailed, big- 
 billed, plump, and happy, and sits 
 
 128 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 and preens his feathers on the clem- 
 atis trellis within full view of the 
 kitchen window. He's a handsome 
 vagabond, in his doublet and hose of 
 glossy black velvet, and I like him. 
 
 I regret to say that even the star- 
 ling finds it too cold to sing in mid- 
 winter, though he and the other mem- 
 bers of his lodge up in the steeple are 
 voluble enough in their chirruping 
 debates and discussions. I wish we 
 might hear all winter that cheery., 
 clear whistle with which he seems to 
 amuse himself in the autumn and the 
 spring. 
 
 Ah well, they are brave little crea- 
 tures, our birds. How they must suf- 
 fer during some of our gales and 
 snow-storms! But there they are 
 again, next morning, as pert and 
 chipper as ever, looking for alms with 
 impudent, bright eyes. 
 
 Friendly little sparrows, you have 
 
 129 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 been faithful to us all through the 
 winter, and we will not question your 
 motives too searchingly. And in the 
 spring, when the gaily dressed lords 
 and ladies and opera singers of bird- 
 dom arrive, we will not forget you. 
 We are plain folk ourselves, and in 
 our back yard we are no respecters of 
 persons. 
 
 130 
 
THE SONG SPARROW AND 
 THE RYE 
 

 
 The Song Sparrov^ and iheRye 
 
 V 
 
 "1HE last song we hear in the fall 
 |* and the first in the spring is that 
 of the song-sparrow. The robin 
 is our happiest chorister, and 
 the meadow-lark and oriole 
 the most gladly welcomed, but 
 the song-sparrow is the most 
 faithful. 
 
 On a cold, raw morning in 
 early March I heard him — long 
 before the lilac buds had begun 
 to swell or the grass to offer 
 the least hint of green. The 
 133 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 snow had hardly disappeared from 
 the corners of the yard, and the land 
 presented the towsled, unlovely ap- 
 pearance of a prematurely awakened 
 earth. 
 
 But the song-sparrow knew that 
 April was on the way. In his South- 
 ern home (he could not have gone 
 far) some soft breeze had told him 
 that winter was over and ended, and 
 with no fuss or tarrying he came 
 winging straight back to us, a di- 
 minutive embodiment of faith. 
 
 What a brave song of optimism it 
 was! Perched on a limb of the leaf- 
 less pear-tree he sang like an angel, 
 fairly convincing us that the weather 
 was growing warmer. The liquid 
 melody rolled out like the loosened 
 waters of a woodland brook. He sang 
 and carolled of the leaves and the 
 apple blossoms that he already saw 
 
 134 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 in his prophetic vision. His voice 
 vibrated with the rapture of the seer. 
 
 Brave little warbler! You teach 
 us all a lesson. If we had a little of 
 your buoyant faith, good times would 
 always be upon us. 
 
 In a less audible manner, the rye I 
 planted in the garden as a cover crop 
 is announcing the spring every bit 
 as confidently. Indeed, it has always 
 been spring with the rye under the 
 snow. Even the parsley succumbed 
 to the frosts at Christmas, and the 
 leaves fell at length from the honey- 
 suckle vine, but the rye remained 
 green and lush till the snow covered 
 it. 
 
 Then, when the early thaws came, 
 and the windy Month of Mud, the rye 
 unfolded its blades in the first warm 
 sunbeams as though it had only 
 nodded in its chair, and it will have 
 
 135 
 
THElHUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 mm 
 
 grown another inch before the cro- 
 cuses are in flower. 
 
 The sturdy courage of the song- 
 sparrow and the rye lends the bright 
 touch of hope to our sodden March. 
 
 136 
 
THE PASSING OF WINTER 
 
ARCH is a winter month with 
 us, cold, raw, chilly, and often 
 snowy, but it succumbs at length 
 to April's smiles. 
 
 Then something begins to 
 breathe a little in our back yard ; 
 Nature is stirring in her sleep. 
 There is a prescient hush over 
 the land, a hint of expectancy 
 in the south wind. 
 
 The rye is already awake 
 and growing; the lilac buds 
 are swelling; the path to the 
 
 139 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 back door is drying out; the song- 
 sparrow is back; there is warmth in 
 the sunshine now, and one little patch 
 of snow lingers in the corner of the 
 yard, like a lady's handkerchief in a 
 deserted ballroom, as Blackmore puts 
 it in "Lorna Doone." 
 
 "For, lo, the winter is past, the rain 
 is over and gone; the flowers appear 
 on the earth ; the time of the singing 
 of birds is come, and the voice of the 
 turtle is heard in our land." 
 
 The Lady of the House wearies of 
 the cold weather sooner than I do, but 
 there is one thing I do become heart- 
 ily tired of, and that is the sight of 
 ailanthus trees in their winter naked- 
 ness. Mostf trees are beautiful in 
 winter, particularly oak and birch and 
 beech, with their dainty arabesques 
 of branch and twig against the sky; 
 but not so the ailanthus. It sheds 
 all its twigs in the fall, and stands 
 
 140 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 bare and utterly lacking in grace. 
 At this moment I do not think of an 
 uglier thing in nature than a leafless 
 ailanthus — and the younger it is, the 
 uglier. There are certain crooked- 
 nesses about the old trees that may 
 pass for design, but the young ones 
 stick bald, knobby spikes into the air 
 with utter shamelessness. 
 
 I am glad when green buds appear 
 on the ailanthus trees, for I know 
 that their spring clothing will soon 
 be put on, and they will be at least 
 decent if not beautiful. And I know 
 I shall relent toward them later, as 
 I always do, for the shade they 
 furnish in burning July. 
 
 All of the signs of spring appear 
 in their appointed order, and one 
 morning, out on the front lawn, I 
 detect bits of lavender and gold peep- 
 ing through green jackets, and a day 
 
 141 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 or two later come the first jolly 
 flowers of the year! 
 
 Oh, the crocus is a brave young lass, 
 
 Dressed in a yellow bonnet; 
 She smiles on all the folks that pass. 
 
 (The crocus is a brave young lass.) 
 She pokes her head up through the grass, 
 
 While yet the frost is on it. — 
 The crocus is a brave young lass, 
 
 Dressed in a yellow bonnet. 
 
 142 
 
AVE ATQUE VALE 
 
.LAS, it is a world of change. 
 Dusty and Nutty have de- 
 parted to the Happy Hunting 
 Grounds, and Sandy, the irre- 
 pressible terrier, reigns in their 
 stead. Warm-hearted Irish 
 Nellie went away to be married, 
 and there were tears on both 
 sides. Now we have begun 
 talking of going up to the farm 
 to live. 
 
 We have been longing for 
 it, the wife and I. There is 
 145 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 a broader outlook there, mountains, 
 woods, and fertile acres that are our 
 own. There is the growing orchard, 
 a fairy-land in May, and there is 
 mountain laurel among our pines. 
 There will be bigger opportunities 
 for us there than in this restricted 
 space. 
 
 Ah, but it will sadden us to leave. 
 We shall miss the pretty white house 
 with its six Doric pillars in front. 
 We shall miss the back yard where 
 we wrestled with Apollyon, subdued 
 the burdocks, and raised corn and 
 roses. I shall never eat of the fruit 
 of my vine; my roses will bloom for 
 those who come after. Sic vita. I 
 only pray that they may fall into 
 loving hands. 
 
 Shall we be here to see another 
 budding of the lilacs, another sowing 
 of the seed? I know not. I only 
 know that the time is coming when 
 
 146 
 
OFp BACK YARD 
 
 we must say farewell, little home. 
 Mayhap some of the love that has 
 dwelt here will cling 'round thee still, 
 to gladden other hearts in years to 
 come. 
 
 147 
 
THE DEPARTURE 
 
HE sun has just come out after 
 two days of gloomy weather. 
 Last week we got four loads 
 of well-cured hay safely in the 
 barn, and to-morrow, weather 
 permitting, the mowing-ma- 
 chine will be clattering again. 
 
 I am sitting in the open win- 
 dow of my new workroom 
 (Madam abominates the word 
 study), and my eyes wander 
 out over our terraced lawn, 
 past an old apple-tree whose 
 
 151 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 fruit is just beginning to show a 
 touch of color, across the brook and 
 its bit of swamp where blue-flag 
 lately bloomed, to a strip of our cul- 
 tivated young orchard, the sandy 
 road, and the trees and hills beyond. 
 A robin hops along the clipped grass 
 and a chipping sparrow is singing 
 somewhere near. Madam, I think, is 
 making butter. 
 
 It is good to be here on the farm; 
 it is an old dream realized at last. 
 But back in the minds of both of us 
 a keen regret still lingers — the love 
 of a white house on a shady village 
 street, with a little, wayward back 
 yard behind it, that lately we called 
 home. 
 
 Perhaps not all people are as senti- 
 mental as we are. Perhaps not every- 
 one will understand when I say that 
 we cannot speak of that dear spot 
 without a moistening of the eye and 
 
 152 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 a tightening of the throat. It was 
 only a rented place, but our lives took 
 root there, and when we left it the 
 roots proved to be as tenacious as 
 those of an old burdock. A good 
 deal of the devotion of two lives had 
 gone into making it as beautiful and 
 as homelike as we could. 
 
 I have just been reading over these 
 humble annals, set down at inter- 
 vals during the past four or five years, 
 and they have brought it all vividly 
 back to me, with all of the sorrow of 
 parting. 
 
 I did not know that we would come 
 to care so much. I did not know that 
 we had made so many friends to re- 
 gret our departure. I did not know 
 how much it all meant to me — the 
 familiar scenes of our village — the 
 cheery "good-morning" at the street 
 corner — the rooms wherein we 
 worked and worried, lived and 
 
 153 
 
THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
 
 dreamed, and tasted the joys of con- 
 tentment — the back yard that was 
 our own little corner of God's out- 
 of-doors. 
 
 We do not like to think of those 
 last days of confusion. It was like 
 hurrying through a funeral ceremony 
 to be about new business. But we 
 shall never forget the day the train 
 carried us away from it all, with even 
 our little dog Sandy left behind. And 
 I know that we shall forever remain 
 loyal to the home that was. 
 
 I have called them humble annals, 
 and as I read them over I wonder if 
 they are worth printing at all. There 
 is nothing here of high adventure, I 
 know, nothing of great accomplish- 
 ment, nothing that tells of feverish 
 passion or stirring action. But most 
 of us lead humble, quiet lives, after 
 all, and most of us, I believe, have 
 felt the depth of that emotion which 
 
 154 
 
OF A BACK YARD 
 
 centers in the home. It is, indeed, 
 one of the big, human things we have 
 to be thankful for. 
 
 And so, without apology or justi- 
 fication, I close this little book, know- 
 ing that there will be some whose 
 hearts will answer in a language that 
 we both can understand. 
 
 THE END 
 
 155 
 

 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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