dron and Pines, down a flight of steps to the brilliant Rose Garden 
beyond. 
This again is an amphitheatre cut into the hillside but rounder, 
a perfect " Rose-bowl. " 
The axis of the two gardens is the narrow straight vista which 
continues down the hill toward the sunset, where a hazy view of 
distant marsh-meadows prevents the feeling of being too shut in and 
in danger of suffocation from the overpowering beauty of the Roses. 
But a rose-garden is beyond my pen to describe. These superb stan- 
dard teas in full bloom belie the fact of our terrible winter of 1919. 
Winter is forgotten here and every bush is blooming its fullest for 
the delectation of their Garden Club guests. 
It is superb, so beautiful that it hurts, too perfect, too overpowering 
for me. I turn back alone and leave the delighted chorus of my beloved 
fellow-gardeners — retracing my steps I climb the stone stairway and 
sit alone awhile. The precious long shadows have moved on and 
deepened, the flowers have taken on an even softer tint, a thrush 
pours out his soul in liquid melody and I wonder if Heaven has 
anything in it as beautiful as this. 
W ^ * w ^ 
Thursday morning dawns bright and clear, our last day at the The Endi- 
North Shore, the harbor water dances brilliant blue and silver, the cott Gar- 
rugged old rocks seem to stand browner and firmer and the pines den at Dan- 
to wave greener and darker as we motor along the shore. We have vers 
torn ourselves away from the homes of our perfect hostesses, each 
sure in her heart of hearts that she was the luckiest woman in the 
Garden Club of America because her lot had fallen to her in that 
particular home. 
The motors turn inland, none of us visitors knowing or caring in 
what direction. We are safe as long as there is a Massachusetts li- 
cense on the car ahead! Across country we scurry and shortly the 
staid little town of Danvers appears. Here a turn to the right brings 
us to our welcoming green sentinel standing this time by an old 
stone gateway which guards a long avenue of old Elm trees. 
Under a grove of tall Pines stands the dignified old house, white 
and placid, where generations of Peabodys and Endicotts have 
lived and gardened. We have just time to note the charm of wide 
verandas, the entrancing detail of an iron hand-rail, the shady lawn 
and the pine grove where the oldest of old Buddhas nods as he has 
nodded for a hundred years, before we start out on our quest of the 
Garden. The ancient Evergreens sparkle in the brilliant morning 
light. As you cross the lawn the odor of warm pine needles reminds 
you of something once very dear to you, that long-forgotten mixture 
of Pine trees, Scotch Roses and Clove Pinks — where have you loved 
49 
