118 A Little Maryland Garden 
pear tree, with blackened limbs and scanty 
foliage, was covered by a trumpet creeper, 
which ran up it from the ground to its highest 
boughs, flinging around it long sprays of 
graceful greenery. When I saw it the vine 
was in full bloom, and over the dark foliage 
of the old pear were thrown wreaths of fiery 
scarlet, and drooping sprays of flowers 
hung pendent from its gnarled branches. 
It was the most effective use I ever saw made 
of the trumpet vine, and I can never forget 
the picture it made of youth and age, of vivid, 
burning life and dark decay. 
Now that June is passing away, my garden 
has gone through its season of rosy flush. 
The roses, foxgloves, and sweet-williams 
carried it through every blushing tone, 
from palest pink to dark red. Now comes 
the season when all colours will be poured 
out together, scarlet and orange, the lemon 
and cherry-red of hollyhocks, the white of 
daisies and phlox, deep blue of campanulas, 
the strange mauves and purples of Japan 
iris, and copper red of hemerocallis, and 
