grass in the corner beds. One of the servants, "Uncle Stephen,
an autocratic white-haired old negro butler, announced as an un¬
disputed fact that Easter eggs boiled with a kettle full of pink
hyacinths would absorb the lovely colour of the latter. ‘The chil¬
dren of that day were only too ready to believe him and gathered
masses of the fragrant blossoms for the purpose. When the eggs
remained hopelessly white ‘Uncle Stephen” was not in the least
embarrassed, but turned upon the old fat cook “Aunt Esther’’ and
accused her bitterly of conjuring them.
The lower half of the garden was divided into rectangular
beds, and most of the small fruits, damsons, plums, currants, and
gooseberries, bordered them, while Indian peaches, wax-heart
cherries, Siberian crab-apples and golden-yellow pears were planted
in the long beds nearer the eastern fence.
On the slope of the hill, and covering the space of two beds,
variety was given by a circle of cedar trees with low-growing
branches, that completely surrounded a large, octagonal summer¬
house. The old variety of sweet pea—a hardy vine bearing clusters
of magenta-colored blossoms, struggled to keep a place with the
climbing roses tangled in the lattice. Sidney Lanier’s lines always
seemed to express the feeling given by entering this covert sweet¬
scented with cedar and violets:
“QC, braided dusk of the trees and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did shine;
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine.”
For five generations the children of The Meadows have played
in the old garden. In summer, hiding in the thick shrubbery,
pulling the flowers with a lavish hand and eating the fruit, ripe
and unripe. In winter, when the shrubs were half-buried by snow
and all paths obliterated, they have felt the spell of the garden
even more, perhaps. The exquisite stillness, the flash of a red¬
bird and the scurry of a little molly-cottontail seeking shelter, are
apt to sink deep into a child’s memory.