OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



derneath their bare branches is gay with marsh 

 marigolds and dandelions; later violets — our own 

 wood violets — blossom in company with hundreds of 

 English primroses. 



In a hidden corner of our tiny bay, under the 

 rosemary willow, we set out water lilies, pink and 

 yellow, blue and white. Of course these had to be 

 planted in tubs, which are sunk below the ice in winter. 

 Parting the delicate tracery of the willow branches on 

 a sunny morning in August, twenty or thirty of these 

 fragrant flowers may be seen floating on the bosom of 

 the bay, their round leaves lifting lazily with the 

 undulating water. 



This bay is a source of constant pleasure to us, for 

 it reflects the little island with its pebbly shore, its 

 gnarled old trees and many wild flowers of varied 

 hues. We scarcely touched this island, it was such 

 a perfect bit of wildness. Beneath the grove of small 

 poplars at the east we scattered wild columbine and 

 trilliums, but amid the milkweed and wild grasses 

 facing the bay we put masses of goldenrod and rosy 



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