AN ISLAND GARDEN 75 



farther out there is a soft wind blowing; little 

 fishing-boats with their sails furled lie at anchor 

 between us and the land, faintly outlined against 

 the delicate tone of the water. All is so still ! I 

 hear a bee go blundering into the Bachelor's But- 

 tons that hold up their flowers to the sun like 

 small, compact yellow Roses. Suddenly comes a 

 gush of the song-sparrow's music, but father mar- 

 tin sits at his door very quiet ; it is too hot on the 

 red roof of his little house, so he sits at its portal 

 and meditates while his small wife broods within, 

 only now and then from his pretty throat pours a 

 low ripple of sound, melodiously content. I am 

 conscious of the sandpiper calling and the full tide 

 murmuring, and I, too, am content. 



Outside the garden fence it is as if the flowers 

 had broken their bounds and were rushing down 

 the sloping bank in a torrent of yellow, where the 

 early Artemisias and Eschscholtzias are hastening 

 into bloom, overflowing in a flood of gold that, 

 lightly stirred by every breeze, sends a satin shim- 

 mer to the sun. Eschscholtzia it is an ugly name 

 for a most lovely flower. California Poppy is 

 much better. Down into the sweet plot I go and 

 gather a few of these, bringing them to my little 

 table and sitting down before them the better to 

 admire and adore their beauty. In the slender 

 green glass in which I put them they stand 

 clothed in their delicate splendor. One blossom 

 I take in a loving hand the more closely to examine 

 it, and it breathes a glory of color into sense and 

 spirit which is enough to kindle the dullest imagi- 

 nation. The stems and fine thread-like leaves are 



