CHAPTER X. 



OCTOBER. 



A WRINKLED quince, a rotting pear, three grapes, and a 

 gnarly apple comprise the list of " goodly fruits " that I 

 gathered, this hazy, dreamy second of October, 1887, from 

 an old garden, of which but the merest traces are remain- 

 ing. The day was fitted only for retrospective work such 

 as this. The mellow light of the half-hidden sun, the 

 muffled notes of the birds from the fog- wrapped meadows, 

 the steady dropping of decaying leaves, all led to medita- 

 tion. I called back the spring time of another century. 



It was of this garden that Jane Bishop, in May, 1703, 

 wrote : " We have now an abundance of goodly fruit, which 

 father planted some seven years ago ; and it is with joy 

 that I see growing, as we wished, the blossoms that sister 

 and I did gather from the adjoining woods." 



Jane Bishop was young then, and cared far more for 

 flowers and the wild world about her than the monoto- 

 nous tirades against frivolous pleasures to which every 

 First-day she was doomed to listen. Her love of flowers 

 and a spirit of mischief went hand in hand, and she it 

 was who, in October, 1705, deluged a meeting of sedate 

 old Friends, at her father's house, with thousands of scar- 

 let autumn leaves. It was purely an accident, so she said, 

 and of course it was not. She it was who, on plea of 

 shading the little porch, cunningly chose Virginia creep- 

 ers, that soon covered the cottage, and made it as brilliant 



