THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 
less beauty-wise hands might have proved too severe 
a plan. A great sense of peace pervades this garden, 
accentuated by the sky-reflecting pool with its encircling 
benches and sheltering tree. 
In quite a different setting is the sea-shore place 
owned by Cecilia Beaux, at the farther end of Gloucester 
Point, some three or four miles from the ancient fishing 
town. The long yellow road that leads to it passes by 
many a row of drying-sheds where the white cod glisten 
in the sun, and then on by the radiant bay where chil¬ 
dren are playing in and out of the water, to where the 
voice of the almighty ocean sounds a mighty diapason 
beyond the line of dunes that meet the eye at the Point’s 
extremity. The house is entirely hidden from the road 
by a tangled thicket of tupelo-trees, a small and some¬ 
what fantastic tree indigenous to the country, whose 
branches, interlacing overhead, form a continuous 
canopy of green, under which narrow paths twist and 
cross, astir with moving shadows. A pool as full of 
mysterious reflections as a magic mirror lies at the 
intersection of several of these paths, and as you 
wander through the miniature forest you are forever 
conscious of the close companionship of a murmur¬ 
ing brook, continuously heard but only occasionally 
glimpsed. Wild flowers and birds of many species 
flourish here, apparently utterly unaware of human 
proximity; which, indeed, you doubt yourself until the 
sly path suddenly deposits you precisely at the open 
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