which bore mute testimony to the love of the owner, for never
have shrubs and flowers reached such perfection. Lilacs and snow¬
balls, mock oranges, crepe myrtles, white and yellow jessamines,
calycanthus bushes, winter honeysuckle—all blooming in profusion.
Roses, a perfect riot of roses—tea roses, moss roses, Giant of Bat¬
tle, York and Lancaster, Seven Sisters—roses everywhere, clamber¬
ing over fences, up the old pear tree, anywhere, everywhere! Lhe
hyacinths and daffodils, snowdrops and tulips, white and purple
violets peeping through the snow. The tiny “‘lady iris,” with its
faint elusive odor, which mammy said “nobody but ‘ristocrats
could smell." Summer-houses, covered with roses and carpeted
with periwinkle, were on either side of the moss-grown brick walk
leading to the gate, while magnolia trees, with their wax-like
flowers, were a delight to the eye.
A large evergreen, called the "Iree of Heaven,” grew on one
side of the porch near the greenhouse, its branches hanging grace¬
fully down. On the other side was a most beautiful double-flower¬
ing crab-apple tree. I have seen old-time “hack drivers’’ point this
out to tourists on their sight-seeing expeditions.
Much of the beauty and charm of this garden was still there
. when, in later years, my father was called to the rectorship of St.
John’s Church, and this house was used as a rectory, and as the
shadows lengthened around the old home, the laughter of children
and the song of birds were once more heard in the evening air.