AT WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE 19 



revolved the homely, cheerful, whole-hearted life 

 of the farm. What chance for loneliness was 

 there ? 



After the shower had passed I climbed the 

 gentle slope of the hill back of the house, trav- 

 ersing the old garden where grow the plants 

 that came over with pioneers from England, 

 hollyhocks and sweet william, old-time poppies, 

 marjoram and London pride, dear to every house- 

 wife's heart in the good old days when to wrest 

 a farm from the forest and build a home on it 

 was still an ambition for which a free-born New 

 Englander need feel no shame. The witchery 

 of the hour had not been for the hearth-side 

 alone. The sooth of the rain had been for the 

 hearts of these also, and the joy of their answering 

 delight made all the fresh air sweet and kindly so 

 far as the gentle winds blew. The perfume of an 

 old-time garden after rain is made up of gracious 

 memories. Wherever chance has taken their 

 seeds or care has transported their roots a thou- 

 sand generations of sweet-hearted, home-keeping 

 mothers have tended these plants and loved their 

 flowers and the very leaves and stalks on which 



