The Garden, You, And I Part 24

_Hallowe'en._ The Infant and Anastasia, her memories revived by Larry's voluble and personally adapted folk-lore, are preparing all sorts of traps and feasts for good luck and fairies, while Lady Lazy is content to look at the log fire and plan for putting the garden to sleep.

Yesterday I finished taking up my collection of peonies, Iris, and hardy chrysanthemums that had been "promised" at various farm gardens beyond the river woods, and duly cleared off my indebtednesses for the same with a varied a.s.sortment of articles ranging from gladioli bulbs, which seem to multiply by cube root here, to a pair of curling tongs, an article long coveted by a simple-minded woman of more than middle age, for the resuscitation of her Sunday front locks, and which though willing to acquire by barter she, as a deacon's wife, had a prejudice against buying openly over the counter.

Meyer has gone, having relapsed into comparative cheerfulness a few days before his departure on the receipt of a bulky letter which, in spite of the wear and tear of travel, remained heavily scented, coupled with Bart's a.s.surance that he could remain in America another four weeks and still be at a certain Baltic town of an unp.r.o.nounceable name in time for Christmas.

In spite of heavy frosts my pansies are a daily cheer, but it is really of no use for even the flowers of very hardy plants to struggle on against nature's decree of a winter sleeping time; the wild animals all come more or less under its spell, and the dogs, the nearest creatures of all to man, as soon as snow covers the ground and they have their experience of ice-cut feet, drowse as near the fire as possible and in case of a stove almost under it. I wonder if nature did not intend that we also should have at least a half-drowsy brooding time, instead of making the cold season so often a period of stress and strain and short days stretched into long nights. If so, we have taken the responsibility of acting for ourselves, of flying in nature's face in this as in many other ways.

Does it ever seem to you strange that our contrariness began within the year of our legendary creation, when Eve came to misery not by gazing in a bonnet shop, but when innocently wandering in her garden, the most beautiful of earth? By which we women gardeners should all take warning, for though the Tree of Life may be found in every garden,

"Yet sin and sorrow's pedigree Spring from a garden and a tree."

_December 10._ Snow a month earlier than last year, but we rejoice in it, for it will keep the winds from the roots of the trees not yet wholly settled and comfortable in their new homes. The young hemlocks are bewitching in their wreaths and garlands, and one or two older trees give warmth to the woods beyond the Opal Farm and sweep the low, snow-covered meadow, that looks like a crystal lake, with their feathery branches. The cedars were beautiful in the May woods and so are they now, where I see them through the gap standing sentinels against the white of the brush lot. It seems to me that we cannot have too many evergreens any more than we can have too much cheerfulness.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LOW, SNOW-COVERED MEADOW THAT LOOKS LIKE A CRYSTAL LAKE.

Copyright, 1902, H. Hendrickson]

There are no paths in the garden now, a hint that our feet must travel elsewhere for a time, and I confess that Lady Lazy has not yet redeemed herself, and at present likes her feet to fall upon soft rugs.

The Infant's gray squirrels, Punch and Judy, and the persistent sparrows have found their way to the house, taking their daily rations from the roof of the shed. Punch, stuffed to repletion, has a _cache_ under the old syringa bushes, the sparrows seeming to escort him in his travels to and fro, but whether for companions.h.i.+p or in hope of gain, who can say?

The plans for the remodelling of Opal Farm-house are really very attractive and yet it will be delightfully simple to care for. Maria and _The Man_ have agreed better about them than over anything I have ever heard them discuss; but then, as it is purely a business arrangement, I suppose that Maria feels free from her usual pernickety restraint.

We surmise that either she has much more laid by than we supposed or she is waxing extravagant, for she has had the opal, that _The Man_ gave her once in exchange for an old coin, surrounded with very good diamonds and set as a ring! Really I never before noticed what fine strong white hands she has.

I shall ask Father Penrose for the _Cyclopaedia_--it has a substantial sound that may soften his suspicion that we are not practical and were not properly grieved over the loss of the hens!

XX

EPILOGUE

(DICTATED)

_Woodridge, January 3._ In the face of circ.u.mstances that prevent my holding the pen in my own hand, I am resolved that the first chronicle of the New Year shall be mine,--for by me it has sent The Garden, You, and I a new member and our own garden a new tree, an oak we hope.

The Infant is exultant at the evident and direct result of her dealings with the fairies, and keeps a plate of astonis.h.i.+ng goodies by the nursery hearth fire; these, if the fairies do not feast upon personally, are appreciated by their horses, the mice.

His name is John Bartram Penrose, a good one to conjure with gardenwise, though he is no kin to the original. He has fresh-air lungs, and if he does not wax strong of limb and develop into a naturalist of some sort, he cannot blame his parents or their garden vacation.

MARY PENROSE,

her [Ill.u.s.tration: ROSE MOTIF.] mark.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PUNCH ... HAS A CACHE UNDER THE OLD SYRINGA BUSHES.]