92 THE GARDEN OF A 



me, otherwise my spirits keep so volatile that they 

 would often lead my body a sad chase if it were 

 always sunny weather. 



In spite of the delay in planting, this day is a 

 perfect boon, ministering to me in the same degree 

 as does fresh air, a drink of water, or sleep at other 

 times. 



It is also a pleasure to be in the attic again. One 

 may marry and leave, and life seems wholly changed, 

 but a room remains the same, year in and year out. 

 The furniture consists of a hammock, divers trunks 

 and chests, one an odd little affair from which the 

 journals came, covered with the mottled skin of the 

 hah* seal, the key to which father wears on his chain, 

 an ample and antique haircloth lounge, two shabby 

 but hospitable chairs, a cupboard, and an old library 

 table that makes up in drawers and pigeonholes for 

 what it lacks in varnish. At first the drawers are 

 obstinate and decline to open. Here in one are 

 papers of seeds and, of all things, a string of Dan'l's 

 hickory-nut beads with my initial cut on the biggest 

 or king bead, as we used to call it. Truly, I am 

 growing old ! 



There is a peculiar odour in this attic on rainy 

 days that is as much a part of it as the smell of 

 the hickory logs in the stove, the familiar furniture, 



