THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



heads of the phlox, a hummingbird, flashing 

 green, hovers about some belated blossom- 

 heads of the scarlet bee-balm, and then, as if 

 to point the stillness, alights on an apple twig, 

 looking, when at rest, so very small! Only 

 the cicada, as he rustles clumsily about with 

 his paper wings against the flaking bark and 

 yellowing leaves of an old apple tree, seems 

 unmindful of the spell of silence that holds 

 the place. 



And the garden is mine now mine be 

 cause I have found it, and every one else, as I 

 like to believe, has forgotten it. Next it is a 

 grove of big old trees. Would they not have 

 been cut down years ago if any one had re 

 membered them? And on the other side is a 

 meadow whose thick grass, waist-high, ought 

 to have been mowed last June and gathered 

 into some dusky, fragrant barn. But it is for 

 gotten, like the garden, and will go leisurely 

 to seed out there in the sun; the autumn 

 winds will sweep it and the winter snow will 

 mat down its dried tangle. 



Forgotten and as I lie in the long grass, 

 drowsy with the scent of the hedge and the 

 phlox, I seem only a memory myself. If I 



