There it was as it had always been—the front door shadowed with the clematis vines 
and the white snakeroot in blossom 
Tpe Old 
Pallard Place 
AND THE GARDEN TO WHICH A WOMAN RETURNED 
WHERE ONCE SHE USED TO PLAY—ON BOILER WORKS 
AND BIRDS—WHAT THE GERAIAN GARDENER WANTED 
TO DO—OF HIM WHO LOVES A GARDEN 
Fanny Sage Stone 
Photographs by R. L. Warner 
W E always hurried by the place, especially after dark, fear¬ 
ing that some dreadful thing would spring out at us from 
behind the great spruce 
trees. No house and 
grounds could have been 
more gloomy and forbid¬ 
ding. A high picket fence, 
painted brown and sand¬ 
ed, was in front of the 
house. The gate was real¬ 
ly the only fascinating 
thing about the whole 
place. It was kept shut by 
an iron chain that was 
hung from the gate to a 
post, and on it was a 
heavy iron ball. This 
chain made a splendid 
swing for a little girl, and 
on the few occasions 
when I ventured into the 
yard the temptation to 
stop for just a moment 
and try the swing would 
overcome me, until T 
thought of the stern¬ 
faced people who might 
at any time fling open the big door and glare out at me. 
The place looked like the people within the house, and I can 
remember when a child, 
wondering if houses al¬ 
ways looked like the peo¬ 
ple who lived in them. 
A straight, brick walk, 
almost overgrown with 
grass, led up to the front 
door of the austere, white 
house with high, front 
steps and with many 
green blinds that were al¬ 
ways closed. Shades were 
drawn to most of the' 
windows, too, so little, if 
any, sun ever peeped 
into the cold, uninviting 
rooms. The brick walk 
led one around the house 
to a side porch. There 
were a few peonies, a 
honeysuckle bush, a sy- 
ringa and some blush 
roses along its edge. A 
forlorn old horse grazed 
in the yard and kept the 
Near the side porch was the same syringa bush now grown way above the second story window 
a shower of white blossoms in June 
162 
