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Peek PoroMaAc AND: KAPPAÁAPANNOOK tm —= — Now the formal entrance is on the river, and looking through the spacious hall, an open door gives a glimpse of such beauty that you must hasten through to see the fulfillment of the promise. A flagged terrace with two sentinel box clumps, Just where the steps go down, is shaded by the spreading branches of an ancient tree. Sweet scents of flowers, the drowsy humming of bees, and the swift dart of a bluebird from the wistaria vine, truly, one could dream dreams and see visions in such a spot. No wonder that the famous ghost of Chatham walks here sometimes at night, when all the world is sleeping. Beyond the terrace, the trim box-bordered walks reveal a startling mass of bloom, where delphinium, lemon day lilies, and hollyhocks vie with others in a riot of color, their brightness enhanced by the background of dark evergreen. Here and there a bit of white wall or a little white gate shows through, leading off to mysterious places—perhaps to the dairy, perhaps to the smokehouse, perhaps to the servants’ quarters. Quaint rose trees line the paths, many of white iris, daffodils, violets, and all of the early flowers bring each year their promise of eternal spring. Though with the passing of the years, Chatham has stood a silent witness to the history of our country, it still stands so serenely that its life seems to have just begun. Through the loving care of its present owners, its youth is renewed, and today one sees the brightness of its tomorrow in the glory of its yesterdays. ASHTON FITZHUGH WILSON. [205 ]
