CHAPTER VI— JUNE 



THE FEAST OF FLOWERS 



THE beginning of the mid-year month has 

 two high points in my growing garden. One 

 is a point of roses; the other of strawberries. 

 We were shown, several years ago, how straw- 

 berries may mean quite as much as roses. It was 

 when we took up residence at Breeze Hill, the 

 mansion-house still in the hands of the lingering 

 mechanics. The "flitting" — ^that is, the final cut- 

 ting off from the old city-street home — ^took place 

 on the first day of June. All day the wagons had 

 passed between the two houses, the mile of sepa- 

 ration being doubled by the muddy roads. It was a 

 weary couple who fronted the last load of final 

 odds and ends, gathered up before the key was 

 turned on the home that had been ours for more 

 than eighteen years, and the old horse that drew 

 us also seemed weary. Thoughtful for the morrow's 

 breakfast, the good wife had me stop en route and 

 buy some strawberries offered on a street stand. 

 Jogging along, tired, a little "blue" from over- 

 doing, we wondered as to the future in a new 



(8T) 



