PERENNIALS 



straggle along the roadside, tall trees tower 

 above their roofs, and gardens surround 

 them, where great bushes of Box and clumps 

 of grandmother's flowers are grown. Time 

 has left the hamlet untouched. No noise, no 

 hurry, no bustle disturb the atmosphere. 

 Life goes gently there and peace seems to 

 brood over it with folded wings. 



Back from the street, surrounded by a 

 shady lawn, is the tiny church with raftered 

 ceiling where our family has worshipped for 

 generations; a church where twenty people 

 are a fair congregation; where each has 

 from childhood known the older people, and 

 seen the young men and women brought as 

 babies to be christened; and where for many 

 years the rector has been a dear old man 

 with snowy hair, beloved by all, who also 

 give him from their hearts the affectionate 

 title "Father." He knows the hopes and 

 fears, trials and joys of all his flock and 

 makes their joys and sorrows his. The ser- 

 vice over, the congregation waits to take his 

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