daisies cheer tlie heart of the nature lover even tho' the farmer 
may look with scorn on the eifect. 
All the family call the great man "Monet," never father 
or Monsieur; he works at his canvases every day from eight 
o 'clock until five or later with the usual interval of twelve to two 
for luncheon; he enjoys good food, has an excellent cook and 
the very best that the market affords; like most Frenchmen 
he appreciates a good glass of wine. He smokes cigarettes 
constantly, lighting one from the other without intermission 
from the moment he rises until he goes to bed. He has not a 
large fortune, as he gives his money away and has always lived 
well. His paint must cost him a pretty penny, but I believe 
that all his spare cash goes for fertilizer to nourish that 
exquisite garden. He rarely leaves his home and never 
willingly. ' ' I hope never to have to leave this garden again, ' ' he 
wistfully cries, "I detest Paris and all cities. Here is peace 
and work. What more can man desire?" 
In the dining room, where we sat down at the long table 
for tea in the French fashion, the panels are painted a prim- 
rose yellow, roses peer in at the casement windows and the 
walls are hung with Japanese prints of the early part of the 
last century. In some of them American and English 
personages are curiously portrayed. The hall between the 
dining room and studio is also lined with these brilliant prints. 
The house is peculiarly home-like and livable, filled with an 
atmosphere of congenial work. 
As we leave a flash of sunlight proves too tempting 
and I take another snapshot. "Still at it?" he cries and 
smilingly accompanies us to the green door in the wall. As 
we say our goodbyes and enter the oar, he stands an upright, 
genial figure bearing his eighty years with unconcern, and our 
last glimpse is of his waving hand from under the crowning 
white roses against the sunlight and the color of that garden 
that he loves. Francis K. Hutchinson 
Lake Geneva Garcleu Club. 
Dewfall, moonrise, high sweet clover, 
Chimney swifts at their twilight play; 
Quail call, owl hoot, moth a-hover, 
Midnight pale at the step of day. 
Star-wane, cobweb, brown-plumed bracken; 
Morning laughs, with the frost in flower; 
Duck flight, hound cry; wild grapes blacken, 
Day leaps up at the amber hour. 
Sun dark, snowcloud, eaves ice cumbered, 
Gray sand piled on a carmine West; 
Faint wing, flake dance; winds unnumbered 
Swing the cradles where leaf-buds rest. 
Wide light, bough flush, gold-fringed meadows. 
Berries red in the rippled grass; 
Stream song, nest note, dream-deep shadows 
Drawn back slowly for noon to pass. 
12 
