The Wreck of an Ancient Garden 



the spring and summer months sped by, 

 we were constantly surprised and charmed 

 to find, in unexpected places, some shrub 

 or flower that clung to its old haunts, and, 

 half-hidden from the eye, bloomed away 

 its sweet life heedless of observers. 



Along an uneven old wall that had sup- MU* Bcttft 

 ported the terrace of the house, I had a 

 bed dug, into which I transplanted such 

 bulbs and roots as would consent to be 

 torn from their original homes. This bed 

 I call Miss Betsy's Garden, for I am quite 

 sure that in old times that gentle soul 

 must have watched and tended her favo- 

 rites by this same sunny wall. There is 

 one prim little Columbine which wears a 

 minutely fluted lavender cap that I associ- 

 ate with her, and always call by her name. 

 The flowers that come up in Miss Betsy's 

 Garden are all simple and homely, but to 

 me their quaint familiar faces are more 

 appealing than the far showier and splen- 

 did blooms of to-day. 



They must have family records of inter- Som*kigk> 

 est, these ladylike old blossoms. Those 

 yellow Daffodils, with their long green 

 ribbons, have nestled up against that wall 



