170 THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



The bit of marshy ground has been for weeks a lake of 

 iris, its curving brink foamed with meadow rue and 

 Osmundas that have all the dignity of palms. 



Now all the pasture edge is set with wild roses and 

 wax-white blueberry flowers. Sundrops are grouped 

 here and there, with yellow thistles ; the native sweet- 

 brier arches over gray boulders that are tumbled to- 

 gether like the relic of some old dwelling ; and the purple 

 red calopogon of the orchid tribe adds a new colour to 

 the tapestry, the cross-stitch filling being all of field 

 daisies. Truly this old farm is a well-nigh perfect wild 

 garden, the strawberries dyeing the undergrass red, 

 and the hedges bound together with grape-vines. It 

 does not need rescuing, but letting alone, to be the de- 

 light of every one who wishes to enjoy. 



On being approached as to his future plans, Amos 

 Opie merely sets his lips, brings his finger-tips together, 

 and says, "I'm open to offers, but I'm not bound to 

 set a price or hurry my decisions." 



Meanwhile I am living in a double tremor, of delight 

 at the present and fear lest some one may snap up the 

 place and give us what the comic paper called a Queen 

 Mary Anne cottage and a stiff lawn surrrounded by a 

 gas-pipe fence to gaze upon. O for a pair of neigh- 

 bours who would join us in comfortable vagabondage, 



