170 A MOUNTAIN-SIDE RAMBLE. 



How ironical the words sounded, as I re- 

 peated them to myself ! If things would 

 only stay new, or if it were men's houses 

 only that grew old ! 



The people who lived here had little oc- 

 casion to hang their walls with pictures. 

 When they wanted something to look at, 

 they had but to go to the window and gaze 

 upon the upper slopes of Mount Lafayette 

 and Mount Cannon, rising in beauty be- 

 yond the intervening forest. But every 

 New England woman must have a bit of 

 flower garden, no matter what her sur- 

 roundings ; and even here I was glad to 

 notice, just in front of the door, a clump of 

 cinnamon rose-bushes, all uncared for, of 

 course, but flourishing as in a kind of im- 

 mortal youth (this old-fashioned rose must 

 be one of Time's favorites), and just now 

 bright with blossoms. For sentiment's sake 

 I plucked one, thinking of the hands that 

 did the same years ago, and ere this, in all 

 likelihood, were under the sod ; thinking, 

 too, of other hands, long, long vanished, 

 and of a white rose-bush that used to stand 

 beside another door. 



On both sides of the house were apple- 



