GOLDEN GLOW AND HOLLYHOCKS 201 
The fan is no longer aglow with roses, even the 
Clios having shed most of their flowers. Here and 
there, however, a lovely monthly rose is unfolding. 
Only yesterday I gave Timothy Pennell a large 
bunch to take home to his son. The only ones 
that Mrs. Keith will ever pick to give away are 
those from Aunt Amanda’s bush. She says all her 
old friends know those roses belong to the Six 
Spruces. 
We still call our place the Six Spruces, although 
there are now but five. Yet the fallen tree lived 
its life among the others, and it would seem wrong 
to stop counting it now, just because that dreadful 
stroke of lightning prevented it from staying 
longer. Some day, I suppose, all the trees will die 
and their places be taken by others. 
I am glad that we have a mignonette, lemon 
verbena and maidenhair fern in our garden. When 
I arrange the roses, I put little sprigs of these 
among them, and I always choose a sweet-smelling 
green for flowers that have no fragrance. Mr. 
Hayden seldom comes here without picking a bit 
of lemon verbena for his buttonhole. Some days 
he returns with an old piece looking much dried 
and dead, and exchanges it for a fresh bit. He 
says that whenever he really wishes a thing he 
comes to the Six Spruces. Now, both Joseph and 
I know that there is an abundance of lemon verbena 
planted at Nestly Heights, but we suppose Mr. 
Hayden has never discovered its whereabouts. The 
