OUR GRANDMOTHER'S GARDENS 



the dominion of the air, while on all sides the peren- 

 nials, long since insurgent trespassers from the beds 

 where they were planted, mingle their colors in an 

 intoxicating jumble. Lilies of many sorts, white and 

 purple and spotted ; tall pale larkspurs and canterbury- 

 bells, and bachelor's buttons running the gamut of blue 

 from white to indigo. Candleberry, smoke-bush, snow- 

 balls jostle the roses that take refuge on the roof of the 

 summer-house and porch, and in and out of the fence. 

 Myrtle, or periwinkle, with its geometrical flowers of 

 sober blue and its polished leaves, scrambles every- 

 where, and from odd corners stocks and spice-flower 

 send their sweetness. All the old-fashioned sister- 

 hood, in fact, wander as they will within the pre- 

 cincts of this garden. The old wooden benches 

 stand comfortably under the trees, beyond whose 

 shadow the sun steeps his rays in the tangled 

 color ; a languid, murmurous hum from bee and 

 beetle accentuates the silence, a gentle, interested 

 silence, as of old days brooding over the place, musing 

 of past events. 



Hither came Hawthorne in his youth, escorting his 

 cousins back from some evening sociable with shy cour- 

 tesy. " He had not much to say, but his silence never 

 made you feel uneasy," the younger of the two sisters 

 will tell you, going back to her girlhood with a smile. 

 " Perhaps he was always a little relieved to say good- 

 by at the gate, however. But he liked to spend an 



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