OUR MOUNTAIN GARDEN 



ently motionless in the air before me, and 

 sip honey from the flowers in my hand, I 

 marvel that any woman can endure to see 

 it dead, transfixed and distorted on her 

 hat. I know of no prettier picture than 

 these atoms of life and motion fluttering 

 about the tall spikes of blue larkspur, 

 planted for their pleasure. Or the gentle, 

 tender goldfinches, always in pairs, cling- 

 ing to the long, swaying stems of ripened 

 grasses, daintily pecking off the tiny seeds 

 and conversing together, the while, in soft, 

 cooing tones. On Sunday mornings in 

 August, at about church time, they gener- 

 ally come around the house and sing deli- 

 ciously for an hour or so. How they 

 know that it is August, or Sunday, I can- 

 not say, but they do know it, and that 

 is their time for giving their best perform- 

 ances. After seeing these exquisite little 

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