o r K 



COUNTRY H O M E 



of ice over the pool of the fountain, and the goldfish sought the 

 shelter of the bedraggled rose geraniums which hung miserably 

 over the chilly coping. Only the phlox here and there held up its 

 cheery head, and the chrysanthemums looked on calm and un- 

 moved as if to say: "What did you expect? That the summer 

 would last always? Cut down the withered dahlias, they have 

 done their work for this year and will rest until another springtime. 

 Look yonder on the brilliant maple leaves, the glowing sumac 

 and yellow hickory, for this is what the Frost King has done for 

 your pleasure and your delight. 



" When do the roses rest here ? " I asked an Italian in Rome, 

 translating literally. 



"Oh, how sentimental you Americans are!" he answered. 

 " We never use such an expression in regard to flowers. " 



Perhaps because the roses never do stop blooming entirely, 

 in Italy; but after all I like our changing seasons best, and I like 

 our thoughts of the flowers as beings that rest and work, that sleep 

 and waken as do we ourselves. 



