THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 



less beauty-wise hands might have proved too severe 

 a plan. A great sense of peace pervades this garden, 

 accentuated by the sky-reflecting pool with its encircling 

 benches and sheltering tree. 



In quite a different setting is the sea-shore place 

 owned by Cecilia Beaux, at the farther end of Gloucester 

 Point, some three or four miles from the ancient fishing 

 town. The long yellow road that leads to it passes by 

 many a row of drying-sheds where the white cod glisten 

 in the sun, and then on by the radiant bay where chil- 

 dren are playing in and out of the water, to where the 

 voice of the almighty ocean sounds a mighty diapason 

 beyond the line of dunes that meet the eye at the Point's 

 extremity. The house is entirely hidden from the road 

 by a tangled thicket of tupelo-trees, a small and some- 

 what fantastic tree indigenous to the country, whose 

 branches, interlacing overhead, form a continuous 

 canopy of green, under which narrow paths twist and 

 cross, astir with moving shadows. A pool as full of 

 mysterious reflections as a magic mirror lies at the 

 intersection of several of these paths, and as you 

 wander through the miniature forest you are forever 

 conscious of the close companionship of a murmur- 

 ing brook, continuously heard but only occasionally 

 glimpsed. Wild flowers and birds of many species 

 flourish here, apparently utterly unaware of human 

 proximity ; which, indeed, you doubt yourself until the 

 sly path suddenly deposits you precisely at the open 



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