ets all about these interesting little pines. St. 

 Bruno lilies and dwarf grasses, white violets and 

 blue forget-me-nots, Armeria Alba, Spanish Iris 

 and dwarf Maidenhair Ferns carpeted a semi- 

 circle, beneath a tinkling wall fountain away up 

 on the highest level of this rock garden. The 

 fountain was an old one, a bronze Satyr's head 

 rested against a medalion of carved gray stone. 

 Sweet indeed is the music of falling water. I wish 

 I could place a fountain somewhere in every gar- 

 den. How charming is Charlotte Becker's poem 

 of the fountain: 



Here, mirth and tears and hopes and fears 

 Have lads and maidens brought. 



Here children stray in early May 

 With blossoms from the hedge, 



To wreath with pale rose garlands frail 

 The fountain's carven edge. 



He heeds not mould, nor sun, nor cold 

 The satyr at the spring, 



Where in and out, and all about 

 The rippling water sing 



With what long gain of love and pain 

 Their melody is fraught. 



27 



