IN A RIOTOUS GARDEN 



)T belongs to my neighbors, the 

 wise women. There are two 

 of them each tall and gaunt, 

 with more than a suspicion of 

 gray beard on her chin. One 

 looks at you through keen blue eyes, from 

 out a face all tanned and wrinkled. The 

 other is flat-nosed, thick-lipped, with shiny 

 black skin, running smooth as satin up to 

 her crown of white wool. Nominally, they 

 are mistress and maid. Really, they are 

 friends, comrades occasionally enemies. 



This, the garden, is their pride. To keep 

 and to dress it, at once a duty and a joy. 

 It lies faintly aslope, to southward of the 

 square log -house that has trumpet -vine 

 climbing either big rock chimney, to wave 

 scarlet arms in every wind that blows. A 

 hop-vine clambers one side the rough porch. 

 Wild purple wistaria runs rampant over the 

 rough hood shading the back door. You 

 go out from it to a narrow path, beaten 



