BLOOMFIELD 



O go to the garden at Bloomfield, you leave the 

 main road five miles west of the University of 

 Virginia, cross the crest of a hill and descend into 

 the chill, damp atmosphere of a little hollow, which 

 always seems to have a cool climate of its own, no 

 matter how hot the day elsewhere. Then the lane, 

 whose red clay banks are hung with honeysuckle vines, leads up 

 a steep incline, and you find yourself at the gates of Bloom- 

 field. The lawn, shaded by elm and gingko trees, slopes from the 

 big brick house on the summit down to the gates, where the road 

 separates, forming a huge circle up to the door. 



The garden cannot be seen from the front, although you may 

 go into it through a small gate in the hedge; but the proper 

 entrance, and the one most used, is from the door at the east end 

 of the house. Descending the steps, one first emerges from a mass 

 of box-bushes and spiraea grown to the height of trees. These are 

 probably the oldest plants in the garden, unless the veteran oak, 

 which towers above the tiny masonry of the bird's bath, is more 

 ancient, and next, I am sure, is the gnarled old seckel pear tree in 

 a far corner, still bountifully bearing its reddish-gold fruit in the 

 fall. However, there are a number of shrubs, quantities of figs, 

 and some roses still living which were also residents of the orig- 

 inal garden, planned and planted nearly a century ago by Paul 

 Goodloe, a native of Louisiana, who built the house. 



When the box-trees are passed, there spreads before one a 

 level plateau, enclosed on three sides by a high hedge, at the foot 

 of which is a wide, well-kept border of flowers. In the center 

 of the plateau stands a summer-house, built of stone by the present 

 owner, with tiled floor, vine-covered, and cool even in the noon- 

 day sun. 



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