GARDEN OF A COMMUTER'S WIFE 245 



" Why does the pine tree moan ? " asked the 

 poppy. 



" It does not," answered the grass that crept 

 about the pine's roots. "That is its way of 

 breathing." 



" I make oblivion," said the poppy. 



"And I, love," said the rose. 



" Are they not both the same ? " asked the tall 

 white pine, stooping to shake the dew from its slender 

 fingers. 



In these days the morning scent lies heavy, and 

 even the grass yields it. The mixed grasses of the 

 early meadows are more fragrant than the later. 

 The perfume of the vanilla grass is ravishing, while 

 the stiff, stark timothy seems more like straw. Now 

 among the outdoor sounds, bird music at its height 

 and the babbling notes of the early nestlings, comes 

 a new tone, the voice of the lawn mower. If you 

 listen to it sympathetically, you will find it has a 

 various vocabulary and that its moods may be easily 

 interpreted by the human ear. 



If the grass is of the right height and condition 

 for the cutting, then is the machine happy, cheerfully 

 talkative, easily garrulous. If, however, the turf is 



