148 Oe Garten's .Story. 



to think of in the city. Those who really love 

 the country in its harsher aspects are few. I 

 doubt if there exists another Thoreau for whom 

 " the morning wind forever blows, bearing the 

 broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terres- 

 trial music." 



I see, too, the neglected farm-garden ; one 

 passes many such along the dusty road. Here, 

 an old locust and mock -orange have been 

 allowed to sprout at will ; the blue iris has crept 

 outside the fence, with clumps of double daffo- 

 dils turned over by the plow and flung on to 

 the road-side. There, is a jungle of stunted 

 quinces and blighted pear-trees. The spreading 

 myrtle-patch has usurped the place of what was 

 once a lawn ; tall thistles, hog-weed, pig-weed, 

 and burdocks make and scatter seed year after 

 year ; an army of weeds has overrun the path 

 the plantain, purslane, goose-grass, dandelion, 

 joint-weed, and mallow ; and a green goose- 

 pond, over which are hovering yellow butterflies, 

 exhales its miasma in the sun. Once the gar- 

 den was beautiful, famous for its old-fashioned 

 flowers, and many are the " slips " the neighbors 

 obtained from its floral stores. The grain-fields 

 and fat pastures corresponded with the luxuri- 

 ance within. But the farm changed hands on 

 the death of the owner, and the new owner 



