182 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



beauty for our rubbish. Society returns 

 us what we give it. 



Pretending to reflect upon these 

 things, but, in reality, watching the blue- 

 jays, who are pecking at the purple ber 

 ries of the woodbine on the south gable, 

 I approach the house. Polly is picking 

 up chestnuts on the sward, regardless of 

 the high wind, which rattles them about 

 her head and upon the glass roof of her 

 winter-garden. The garden, I see, is 

 filled with thrifty plants, which will 

 make it always summer there. The cal- 

 las about the fountain will be in flower 

 by Christmas : the plant appears to 

 keep that holiday in her secret heart all 

 summer. I close the outer windows as 

 we go along, and congratulate myself 

 that we are ready for winter. For the 

 winter-garden I have no responsibility : 

 Polly has entire charge of it. I am 

 only required to keep it heated, and not 



