House Garden 
a corner in the spring; the rock-loving 
columbine, from over the Schuylkill, grows 
in the rich loam to twice its usual size; 
Dutchman’s-breeches comes up year after 
year; Helonias bullata , that strange bog-loving 
herb, now banished 
from among the lilies, 
unfailingly puts up its 
purple flower-head in 
May, but its first 
cousin, Turkey-beard, 
feels scarcely at home 
even in the driest part 
of the garden, and 
threatens to die out. 
The rattlesnake- 
plantain and the 
showy orchis live on 
in a hidden corner, 
while Veratrum virtde 
unfolds its plaited 
leaves unfailingly each 
spring. It is a keen 
pleasure to see the 
native wild flowers 
holding their own so 
well ; to see each 
colony increase from 
year to year ; and to be 
reminded each spring 
of last summer’s 
pleasant holidays by the appearance of new 
sorts of wild flowers in the garden. 
Gardens have their good fortune and their 
bad. Ours has just past through a time of 
trial. Not many days ago, a frozen rain, 
the like of which is not within the memory of 
man, enshrouded it. The continuous down¬ 
pour, freezing as it fell, encased in thick ice 
everything it touched. The slenderest twigs 
were at least an inch in thickness. Boughs 
were enveloped in a weight of ice fifteen or 
twenty times their 
own. No trees, save 
the white oaks, proved 
equal to such a load. 
By noon, boughs 
began to fall; and with 
increasing frequency 
the crashing sounds 
were heard, till night¬ 
fall, when the rising 
wind worked such 
havoc and destruction 
as nature will fail to 
repair in many a year. 
The trees in our gar¬ 
den suffered less than 
many others, yet the 
black oaks lost their 
topmost branches— 
even great limbs eight 
inches thick. The old 
red cedar is but the 
wreck of its once 
shapely self. For two 
days, rain and ice; then 
on the third, the sun 
rose clear and bright. It was a fairy scene 
that lasted but an hour, yet the enjoyment 
of its beauty was impossible for a mind 
heavy with sorrow for those 
“ Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.” 
Frank Miles Day. 
V 
DRIFTED SNOW 
A CONTEMPLATIVE SATYR 
l 39 
