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CHAPTER XX 
A MOONLIGHT GARDEN 
“ How sweetly smells the Honeysuckle 
In the hush’d night, as if the world were one 
Of utter peace and love and gentleness.” 
— Walter Savage Landor 
ARDENS fanciful of name, a 
Saint’s Garden, a Friendship 
Garden, have been planted and 
cherished. I plant a garden 
like none other ; not an every- 
day garden, nor indeed a garden 
of any day, but a garden for 
“ brave moonshine,” a garden 
of twilight opening and midnight bloom, a garden 
of nocturnal blossoms, a garden of white blossoms, 
and the sweetest garden in the world. It is a garden 
of my dreams, but I know where it lies, and it now 
is smiling back at this very harvest moon. 
The old house of Hon. Ben. Perley Poore — 
Indian Hill — at Newburyport, Massachusetts, has 
been for many years one of the loveliest of New 
England’s homes. During his lifetime it had ex- 
traordinary charms, for on the noble hillside, where 
grew scattered in sunny fields and pastures every 
variety of native tree that would winter New Eng- 
land’s snow and ice, there were vast herds of snow- 
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