MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



the end of a woody copse — so far away from 

 all parterres, that it seems to passers some 

 strange, gorgeous wild-flower; and yet its 

 blaze of orange and crimson is as common 

 and vulgar as the wood-fire upon a farmer's 

 hearth. Holly-hocks — so far away you can- 

 not tell if they be double or single (they are 

 all single) — lift their stately yellows and 

 whites in the edge of the shrubbery; Phloxes, 

 purple and pink, hem them in; and at their 

 season a wilderness of Roses bloom in the 

 tangled thicket. 



Dotted about here and there, in unexpected 

 places — yet places where their color will shine 

 — are clumps of yellow Lilies, of Sweet- Wil- 

 liam, of crimson Peonies, of Larkspur, or even 

 (shall I be ashamed to tell it?) of Golden-rod 

 and of the Cardinal flower (Lobelia). In a 

 little bed scooped from the turf and bordering 

 upon the nearer home-walks, are the old-fash- 

 ioned Spider-wort, and that stately Lily, which 

 Raphael makes the Virgin hold on the day of 

 her espousals. And yet you may go through 

 half the finest gardens of the country and 

 never find this antiquated Lily! The sweet 

 Violet and the Mignonette have their place in 

 these near borders, as well as the roses. Cy- 

 press and Madeira vines twine, in leash with 



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