146 C|)e Barton's Storn. 



its floral libation. I push open the wooden gate, 

 to be greeted by the first snow-drops, the daffo- 

 dils, the yellow crown-imperials, the grape- 

 hyacinths. I see the blue irises, the larkspurs, 

 the bell-flowers, the bachelor - buttons, the 

 monk's-hood. I note the big double white pop- 

 pies, the clumps of sweet-clover, the drifts of 

 snow-pinks, the white phloxes. I see the Diely- 

 tras, the sweet-williams, the tall, yellow tulips, 

 the sword-grass and ribbon-grass, and Trades- 

 cantia. I smell the sweet-peas, the valerian, the 

 madonna-lilies, the white and purple stocks. I 

 inhale the breath of the lilies of the valley, the 

 brier-rose, the white day-lily, and the purple wis- 

 taria twining about the porch. I see, too, the 

 double-flowering rockets, the spotted tiger-lilies, 

 the dahlias, the rows of hollyhocks, and the 

 phalanx of sunflowers. 



Then, the flowering shrubs of the old-fash- 

 ioned garden the snowberries, honeysuckles, 

 and roses of Sharon, the storm of the snow- 

 balls, the mock-oranges, and the great white 

 lilacs leaning over the hedge, heavy with their 

 blossom and perfume. Nor is the herb-garden 

 of the Fourth Georgic forgotten, where 



Cassia green and thyme shed sweetness round, 

 Savory and strongly scented mint abound, 

 Herbs that the ambient air with fragrance fill. 



