An Incipient Garden 17 
wholly impossible. It’s too damp to stay here any longer,” 
and he strolled away. 
Finding myself weakened under the force of his arguments, 
I chose another adviser—my pretty maid with golden brown 
hair and rose leaf cheeks, to whom I had daily confided my 
accumulating dreams. 
“Mollie—come here—sit down,” and down she sat obedi- 
ently. “This is it,” said I waving an authoritative hand in 
the direction of the tree and grape-vine, ignoring rocks and 
brambles. “This is JT. My good Adam says it is impossi- 
ble; what do you think?” 
She looked not at the difficulties, but like a true woman she 
spoke. “Do you want it?” 
“T do,” replied I fervently. 
“Then I’d have it,”’ quoth she. 
And thus it came to pass that a certain well-beloved spot is 
bounded on the north by a stone wall and a background of 
trees, on the east by a rising slope upon which open my cham- 
ber windows, on the south by the full sunshine, and on the 
west by another rising slope beyond which stretch forest trees. 
Never was there a more favored nook, free from early and late 
frosts, moist from the depression made by the swale that runs 
between the banks, forming a natural waterway to carry off 
the winter snows, sheltered from the wind in every direction.? 
1 See Frontispiece—The Site of the Garden. 
