102 AN ISLAND GARDEN 



tion of beauty. All summer long it is kept fresh 

 and radiant with their loveliness, a wonder of 

 bloom, color, and fragrance. Year after year a 

 long procession of charming people come and go 

 within its doors, and the flowers that glow for 

 their delight seem to listen with them to the mu- 

 sic that stirs each blossom upon its stem. Often 

 have I watched the great red Poppies drop their 

 fiery petals wavering solemnly to the floor, stricken 

 with arrows of melodious sound from the match- 

 less violin answering to the touch of a master, or 

 to the storm of rich vibrations from the piano. 

 What heavenly music has resounded from those 

 walls, what mornings and evenings of pleasant- 

 ness have flown by in that room ! How many 

 people who have been happy there have gone 

 out of it and of the world forever ! Yet still the 

 summers come, the flowers bloom, are gathered 

 and adored, not without wistful thought of the 

 eyes that will see them no more. Still in the 

 sweet tranquil mornings at the piano one sits 

 playing, also with a master's touch, and strains of 

 Schubert, Mozart, Schumann, Chopin, Rubin- 

 stein, Beethoven, and many others, soothe and 

 enchant the air. The wild bird's song that breaks 

 from without into the sonata makes no discord. 

 Open doors and windows lead out on the vine- 

 wreathed veranda, with the garden beyond steeped 

 in sunshine, a sea of exquisite color swaying in 

 the light air. Poppies blowing scarlet in the 

 wind, or delicately flushing in softest rose or 

 clearest red, or shining white where the Bride 

 stands tall and fair, like a queen among them all 



