CHAPTER XX 



A MOONLIGHT GARDEN 



" How sweetly smells the Honeysuckle 

 In the hush'd night, as if the world were one 

 Of utter peace and love and gentleness." 



— Walter Savage Landor 



ARDENS fanciful of name, a 

 Saint's Garden, a Friendship 

 Garden, have been planted and 

 cherished. I plant a garden 

 like none other ; not an every- 

 day garden, nor indeed a garden 

 of any day, but a garden for 

 " brave moonshine," a garden 

 of twilight opening and midnight bloom, a garden 

 of nocturnal blossoms, a garden of white blossoms, 

 and the sweetest garden in the world. It is a garden 

 of my dreams, but I know where it lies, and it now 

 is smiling back at this very harvest moon. 



The old house of Hon. Ben. Perley Poore — 

 Indian Hill — at Newburyport, Massachusetts, has 

 been for many years one of the loveliest of New 

 England's homes. During his lifetime it had ex- 

 traordinary charms, for on the noble hillside, where 

 grew scattered in sunny fields and pastures every 

 variety of native tree that would winter New Eng- 

 land's snow and ice, there were vast herds of snow 



415 



