168 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



woodbine on the south gable, I approach the 

 house. Polly is picking up chestnuts on the 

 sward, regardless of the high wind which 

 rattles them about her head and upon the 

 glass roof of her winter-garden. The gar- 

 den, I see, is filled with thrifty plants, which 

 will make it always summer there. The 

 callas about the fountain will be in flower 

 by Christmas : the plant appears to keep 

 that holiday in her secret heart all summer. 

 I close the outer windows as we go along, 

 and congratulate myself that we are ready 

 for winter. For the winter-garden I have 

 no responsibility: Polly has entire charge 

 of it. I am only required to keep it heated, 

 and not too hot, either; to smoke it often 

 for the death of the bugs ; to water it once 

 a day ; to move this and that into the sun 

 and out of the sun pretty constantly: but 

 she does all the work. We never relinquish 

 that theory. 



As we pass around the house, I discover 

 a boy in the ravine filling a bag with chest- 

 nuts and hickory-nuts. They are not plenty 



