126 AIY FARM. 



streets of Paris. It was a dwarfish specimen, and 

 the nodding blossoms (only a pair of them) gave a 

 modest dip over the edge of the red crock, as if they 

 felt themselves in a country of strangers. But it 

 was the true daisy for all this, and I greeted it with 

 a welcoming franc of purchase money, and carried it 

 to my rooms, and established it upon my balcony, 

 where, while the flower lasted, I made a new Pic- 

 ciola of it. And as I watered it, and watched its 

 green buttons of buds unfolding the white leaflets, 

 wide visions of rough New England grasslands 

 came pouring with the sunshine into the Paris win 

 dow, and with them, the drowsy song of locusts, 

 the gushing melody of Bob-o -Lincolns, until the 

 drum-beat at the opposite Caserne drowned it, and 

 broke the dream. 



These living and growing souvenirs of far-away 

 places, carry a wealth of interest and of suggestion 

 about them, which no merely inanimate object can 

 do. I have flowers fairly pressed, not having wholly 

 lost their color, which I plucked from the walls of 

 Rome, and others from a house-court of the buried 

 Pompeii ; but they are as dead as the guide books 

 that describe the places. 



It is different wholly with a little potted Ivy 

 which a friend has sent from the walls of Kenil- 

 worth. It clambers over a rustic frame within the 



