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Our Country Lite

BY
FRANCES KINSLEY HUTCHINSON

AUTHOR OF ‘‘OUR COUNTRY HOME,” AND
‘‘ MOTORING IN THE BALKANS”

 

CHICAGO

A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912
CopyRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912

 

Published October, 1912

The illustrations in this volume are from photographs by the author
except the full page views which are by Henry Fuermann and the three
bird pictures on pages 114, 120, 121 by Irene Grosvenor Wheelock,

PRESS OF THE VAIL COMPANY

COSHOCTON, U. Ss. A.
TO
Tue Constant IMPROVER
May 26, 1912

“He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast,”

“He prayed best who loveth best
All things both great and small.”
CHAPTER

iE

II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX

XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV

CONTENTS

PROEM
‘AFTER TEN YEARS
Daity DoIncs

Epocus OF THE FORMAL GARDEN .

Tue Upper GARDEN

THE BaNnTamMs

THE OPEN WINDOW

Our LAKE

THE Story oF NaN .
SLEEPING OUT OF Doors
Our GuEst Book

Our FavorITEe JAUNTs .
Tue Country IN WINTER .
SOMETIME .

THe SECOND BEST

Hours IN OTHER GARDENS .

PAGE

13
17
34
62

84

- IOI

. II4

, ERG
- 175
. 190
. 218
. 241
. 265
- 282

« 306
ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
“God’s glorious out-of-doors” . . . . . . . ~~ Frontispiece
The house after ten years. . . «© 2 ew ew ee ee 8
The lawn after ten years... i ee 2Ga Se wes Gah ee ce AIO)
The blue columbine from Calezade So) AG ae Oe Se ea eke ees eed
One of the Indian “metatas” . . . 24
The Manchurian cherry, or Prunus Mackii, alter fet years . 25
An old elm on the Indiana farm. . . . . ww ee 25
Two of the Berlepsch bird boxes. . . . . . . s « 38
The German automatic food-bell . ©. 2. 2. 2. 2. 1.) 1). 38
The robin’s rendezvous . . . . 2. 2 «© «© «© «© « 39
Two baby woodcocks in nest. . . . . . . « ~ + 46

The yellow billed cuckoos a day old. . . . ww 46
The nest and egg of ahumming bird. . . . . 2. « . 47

Egg and nest of Cooper hawk . . . . . 1. we O47
Plan of the formal garden. . . . . 2... we O64
he formal garden. .. « -« «© «6 « 4 © # « 2 | 65
The first snow. . Go Yel Gp eo > 4: De SO ce 608
How we protected the ae, Ge tea tee ay SE ee se a 8
A self-sown columbine. . . x w t: Ge 4 -&, 869
The ivory-white comeliness of the Tapa anemone. . . 69
The beauty of narrow pathways between high green walls. . 86
A spring in exactly the right place . . . . . . . . 86
“hestrailé <i: So vi, Gt ae 4 Be a oe me Be oe ae ns Gn 8%
Before the grape screen are flowers for cutting. . . . . 94
The roses in winter have a comical aspect . . . . . . O4
Foxgloves, too .  . oo Se Be Ge 2 te ee en a Ta ae AOS

The Physalis Racienetl Se kis Bee a eS SE a A Ks es OS
 

ILLUSTRATIONS

 

 

PAGE
The paddock: 2 % <&. « @ & 3. SG ears & GtIes
Bantams in the snow . . : Laie ae a. Gh Jed FOO
The woodlot with content Sainte baues was ours. . . 107
Baltimore oriole about three weeks old . . . . . . « 114
The open window under the eaves between the two trees.  . 115
Wood thrush babies . . . . .© © «© «© «© «© « «+ 120
Baby song sparrows . . Tepe eo eee oT
Water lilies in a hidden corner fat the bay eee Mee Fh 2
A grassy path to the tea house... So cee fe ap
The lake tempers the breeze from the hot prairies. . 143
In the early spring the shore is gay with marsh sieanles: and
dandelions-; <: 22 2% Bi Ges Se 4 28s ee Sr 564s
Our shore from the new pier... . . 148
Our house was slowly becoming aielesed! in aise foliene - . 149
Nan nine days old . . . . ee ee eee 162
Nan two weeks old . . 2. ee ee ee ee 82
Nan seven weeks old. . 2. 1 ee eee ee 82
The upstairs porch. . . a Yel ee oe RF ee O70
The shrubbery from the sipstairs ee ey oe ee Gee ee 8 SD
The tent . . PSC ater a ans eee eee eLO
Ready for the ASolit ot fee eee ee Los
Novel effects of light each Gendine ee a ae eo tes S53, HATOD
Two nattire lovers’... <2 2. a oe & Gs & 3. cE Ry WS 42 o1902
The entrance at the east . . hy Kin oe de 2 2TO3
“IT and Jack got up real early att fished” Se ob oe Be QOL
Anshour’scatch: << 2 “x @ “% <s 8 2° ab 4 cer B 4 B04
“We like peanuts too”. 2... ee eee 205
Blissful moments . . .« « 2 «© «© «© «© «© «© «© « 205
elie: lots: ac “Ss Ge. as oe a) Gp ee TS
Kingfishers’ nests . . pe ee ee ee Sel eS
Green herons thirteen fee ald OR ge an Re A SRD cee2Tg
The little grand-daughter. ©. ©. 2. 1. 1 ee ee 219
Now indeed is the country divine. . . 2. . «© «© « « 252

10
 

ILLUSTRATIONS

 

 

The bridge to the island

Ciscoville “

The waiting ice-boat . . . 2. 2. 8 «

A winter conservatory. .

The old well of St. Francis

A water picture was revealed . .

“Nature and books belong to the eyes that s see dieu”
“But the children—that is another matter”

The power to make things grow .

Weeding long beds of iris. :
The helplessness and response of such feed oe
Barbary figs at La Mortola

a Venice garden

Landing at the island of the Sida
Dom palms on the island of the Sirdar .

Il

PAGE

252
2253
. 253
. 276
. 276
- 277
. 286
- 298
. 298
. 299
- 299
: : Me he oe SL
The lodge has disappeared under a tangle ae rose ane wistaria—
. 312
303
. 313
PROEM

6¢ EAVEN and earth are threads of the same
H loom.” Standing in the glory of the setting
sun, the earth and sky. enveloped in rosy
flames, this phrase shot across my consciousness. My
emotions had risen almost to the breaking point with
the rapture of crimson oak against azure sky, sun-
shine on forests of golden maples, hillsides of sumac
and dogwood reflected in still waters, the fragrance
of falling leaves, the faint melodies of passing birds,
the piercing sweetness of the whitethroat’s song, and
now this crowning glory! Heaven and earth met in
golden splendor. One could almost see the serried
ranks of angels which Fra Angelico loved to paint,
and hear the celestial harmonies beyond those daz-
zling forms which men call clouds.
This feeling of expansion, of freedom which comes
from great open spaces, this joy in the full rounded

13
 

PROEM

 

 

firmament, nothing of this had we conceived until
taught by our life in the country. How could we
guess the wonderful colors of land and sky until we
had watched them ourselves through many a changing
season? How could we know the marvelous forma-
tion of even the humblest weed until we had watched
it develop hour by hour and day by day. The extraor-
dinary intricacy of animal life was a hidden world to
us until revealed by patient, practiced observation. Yes,
there lies the secret! ‘Practiced observation.” Eyes
trained to see, nostrils sensitive to woodland odors,
ears quickened to faintest forest sounds. Not alone
the organ notes of the storm, nor the boom of ice-
bound lake, nor the melody of wild birds, nor the chat-
tering of squirrel and chipmunk; but those frail mur-
murs which come to the listening ear,—the rat-tat of
the woodpecker in the tree-top, the patter of the
squirrel’s scramble over the shingles, low twitters from
a warbler’s nest, the dropping of acorns, the whisper-
ing of leaves, the gentle plash on the pebbly beach, the
gurgle of leaping fish, the rustle of harmless reptile.
14
 

PROEM

 

 

It seems to be almost a sixth sense, this aliveness to
Nature’s secrets, this keenness of vision, this superhu-
man delicacy of hearing and scent. Primitive man
had it; it belonged to us, but alas! we have bartered
our birthright for a mess of pottage.

Let us seek it anew patiently, lovingly, in God’s
glorious Out-of-Doors. Here our _ half-dormant
faculties shall regain their normal functions, we shall
come into our own again, and at last we shall wholly

live.

15
OUR COUNTRY LIFE

CHAPTER I

AFTER TEN YEARS

ELL I remember the voice of the scoffers who

\ \ said: “Let be. What is this babble about

a country lifer <A novel toy, a passing fad
whose glamour will soon fade. How old a possession
is it, this country home of our friends?”

And the enthusiasts answered meekly: “It is true
that only five years ago we began this new existence, but
we feel that it will be our life work.”

The scoffers smiled pityingly at such sublime if mis-
taken confidence: “Have we not heard these tales from
the beginning? So it is with every new thing. It
never lasts; neither will this one.”

With a triumphant air the enthusiasts now face the
scoffers. After ten years their joy in this glorious task

is greater, their plans for the future increasing each

2 17
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

year, and their delight in past accomplishment keen
beyond belief.

“Flow long have you had this placer” is a usual ques-
tion when we are showing visitors the various parts of
the estate, endeavoring to select and emphasize those
details which will appeal most to their particular out-
look. Lately I have noticed, when the answer has been
“Ten years,” a look of surprise accompanying the reply,
“Oh, really!’—quite an emphatic “really.” I try to
control my enthusiasm and wonder what my visitor is
thinking, as we go from one fascinating sight to another.

As I look back over the flying months it does not seem
possible that it is ten whole years since we came into
possession of our country home, although what occupied
our minds before that is an equal mystery! Instead of
exhausting its possibilities and becoming tired of its per-
plexities, we feel that we have just begun to realize a
small part of its pleasures; not only have we our faits
accomplis to gloat over, but there are an infinite num-
ber before us still to be accomplished. After all, were

these “perplexities” anything more than delightful
18
SUVaA NAL YaLlAV ASMOH AHL

 

 

 

 
aqHL

SUVGA NAL WALIV NMVT

 

 

 

 
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

problems to work out? I know many charming women
who enjoy a game of solitaire. This is our solitaire.
I know one remarkable intellect who scorns solitaire
but takes the keenest delight in deciphering and un-
raveling the intricacies of Bradshaw and the Conti-
nental time-tables. That is her pet game, as this
adorable and unending riddle of a country place is ours.

At the skeptical friend who said, “We ’ll give you five
years of it,” we cast a look of reproach; whereupon he
added: ‘Well, say ten at the outside. After ten years
of this sort of thing’—vaguely waving his hands over
our wonderful shrubs with a background of sparkling
water—“after ten years of this you ’Il be like all the rest,
you ’ll want something new.”

We reply frankly: “We do like something new, we
are fond of variety, and we have found it here. The
five years you gave us went by so swiftly that we never
had time to count them; and now ten golden years
have passed since first we entered our paradise. We
are not peculiar folk: we do not crave monotony or
loneliness; we like a varied existence, and all this we

19
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

have here at our doors. Here, before our opened eyes
and unstopped ears, here is variety unending; here
are new worlds to conquer. Never are two days alike;
and from that first moment when the humming birds
waken us until the crickets’ merry chorus sings us to
sleep, a constant succession of problems stirs us to new
effort, a constant succession of achievements brings us
joy.

With what real affection we contemplate a certain

”

seedling elm, which ten years ago stood even with our
eyes but now swings branches thirty feet above us.
Those maples which we planted close to the house and
watched anxiously through two summers are now so
splendidly flourishing that an acquaintance, seeing the
place for the first time, asked how we managed to build
the house without injuring those fine trees. We
treasured that compliment. Gone are the wires which
held them; gone are the ragged ends of the branches
so much appreciated as lookouts by the hummers; and
in their place stand symmetrical masses of greenery.

As for trials and disappointments, they only add

20
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

variety. The seventeen-year locusts hummed like an
army of bees in the forest one whole summer through;
they did not eat every leaf, as I fully expected they
would, but they laid their eggs in the ends of new
branches which soon withered and hung lifeless, a
sorry sight throughout the woods. Our optimistic
gardener refused to let this state of affairs affect his
spirits.

“Tt is Nature’s pruning,” he asserted, “next year
the trees will be better than ever.”

And they were.

Another radiant springtime our smiles were turned
to tears by a May frost, which did its deadly work
so completely with the wonderful wealth of bloom
that fifty shrubs—privets, rhodotypus, and viburnums
—were killed to the roots; every leaf fell from the trees,
and every climbing rose died to the ground! Of
course we had no fruit that year either for ourselves
or for the birds; but it made a new experience, and
the aftergrowth of vines and shrubs from the healthy

roots disclosed a totally unexpected beauty. For what

21
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

Nature will do with the plans of man is always an
interesting problem. The very uncertainty whets the
imagination and stimulates to further effort. There
are times when the effect is not at all what one
anticipated, and new methods must be tried.

One year we planted twelve thousand crocus bulbs in
the woods; and when the spring came they were a
lovely sight, running like little tongues of flame into
the forest, disappearing gradually in a dip of the ground
or in the brown leaves. The effect was absolutely
natural. In the fall when the bulbs ripened, the chip-
munks discovered the new delicacy and diligently
honeycombed the earth wherever the crocuses were
planted. Only about two hundred survived out of our
generous supply, but we are going to try again and
see if we cannot protect them better.

One often hears of a friendship garden, a beauti-
ful place in which to linger and to remember. With
us the entire estate is sown with memories, for one
comes upon the souvenirs of thoughtful fellow-workers
in every direction. The striped wild violet sent as

22
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

a freak by a schoolmate has taken kindly to its loca-
tion under the honeysuckle bushes, has increased to
a small plantation, and is keeping true to its acquired
character. The blue chicory and bouncing bets which
came from one who knows and loves this place of ours
almost as we do ourselves are slowly spreading in the
wild garden, although the soil is a bit richer than the
railroad embankments on which they thrive so well
From a well-known horticulturist came our Prunus
Mackii or Manchurian cherry which has doubled in
size. This friend has given us not only many and
varied plants, but much good advice pertaining there-
to. To him are we especially indebted for our Rosa
altaica, that pure white blossom with rich foliage
which increases here with marvelous rapidity. When
this guest is with us, woe for the unlucky wight who
cares naught for horticulture, as he will get nothing
else! With a delight only equaled by our own he ex-
amines every shrub, every leaf and flower, comment-
ing on their characteristics and suggesting new varieties
which we must have.

23
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

A slip from the clinging Virginia creeper which
came from the house of one of our oldest and dearest
friends now adorns our own rooftree. Among the
dwarf pines and cedars in the gravel pit flourishes a
blue columbine from Colorado, which we owe to a well-
known geologist; we thank him also for a plantation
of wild ginger down by the spring. I never see its
heart-shaped leaves but a memory of that hot summer
day comes to me with the picture of a stalwart form
carefully carrying a heavy basket along narrow foot-
paths in a glen and through high grass in open meadows.

Ragged Robin from England, and cyclamen from
the Alban Hills, remind us of a Boston lady whose ac-
quaintance we made in Italy one never-to-be-forgotten
springtime. Gorse from the Friendly Architect
brings to mind Ireland and the English cliffs in June.
Foxgloves, too, are from the same generous hand. Of
what do our trumpet vines remind us, spreading in such
vigorous health over the end of the pergola? Can we
not see the luxuriant fertility of that Indiana farm from
which they came, so highly prized as a precious heritage

24
 

 

 

 

THE BLUE COLUMBINE FROM COLORADO

 

ONE OF THE INDIAN “METATAS"
 

THE MANCHURIAN CHERRY OR PRUNUS MACKII AFTER FIVE YEARS

 

AN OLD ELM ON THE INDIANA FARM
 

AFTER THN YEARS

 

 

by its possessor? And the Mertensia Virginica from the
White Mountains—its pale blue flowers transplanted
from the rocks have flourished even as the friendship
to which we owe them. How pleased we were to re-
ceive from a lady learned in the haunts of flowers and
birds a plant to cover bare places in the shade—the
moneywort. ‘Those splendid bushes of scarlet and rose
hibiscus came from a former neighbor. What a pleas-
ure they are from June to October, although each in-
dividual flower lasts but a day! Our two fine maples
close to the terrace wall recall the early days at our
dear lake before we knew the comfort of ownership,
those days of joy and gladness at Bonnie Brae; for
these are offerings from that beauteous spot.

The list is a long one, far too long to complete here,
but each separate gift is as sincerely prized and tended
as if it were our only possession. Nor are our garden
treasures confined to trees and plants and seeds. Those
mossy bowlders, strangely carved by centuries of glacial
action, are precious to us as the big heart of their
gracious donor. If, wandering in the woods, one

25
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

stumbles upon a comfortable wooden bench beneath
a giant oak, be sure to make obeisance to this same
beneficent being, who is never happier than when shar-
ing his clever conceptions.

On arriving in July one year we found two hollowed-
out granite bowlders about two feet in diameter on the
floor of the dog-trot. Curiously smooth was the in-
side, and their purpose was so evident that I exclaimed
at once, “What beautiful bird-baths! But where did
they come from?”

Upon investigation we learned that they had a name
and ahistory. In the early days of California, as else-
where, the Indian women ground their corn on granite
stones called metatas, which in the course of years grew
hollow with the work. But let our good friend tell
us in his own words how and where he found them:
“We went down shooting quail—about eight miles on
the trolley and about as far driving—before sunrise,
in the Tia Juana valley south of San Diego. There
had been a heavy fog in the night. When the sun rose,
as far as the eye could see, every blade of grass and

26
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

every leaf of the mesquite bush hung heavy with drops
of rainbow-tinted dew. The meadow larks were nest-
ing in the grass, and from the higher branches lifted
up their voices in exquisite rejoicing. Not one or two
at intervals along the way, but a whole continuous
orchestra accompanied us, their songs blending and
rising and falling, and rising again! It was one of the
memorable days of our forty-six years of married life!”

“Yes, but the metatas?’’ I venture, as he stops.

“Well, they lay in perhaps four places, half a dozen
or so, in the tall grass, denoting so many villages that
had been deserted. For when the San Diego Mission
was established—you know, by Junipera Serra—in
1765, the converted Pueblos within a radius of fifty
or sixty miles left their villages and clustered around
the church for mutual protection. As these rocks were
too cumbersome to move, they were left beside the
wigwams.”

Here they had remained for nearly a hundred and
fifty years, to be discovered by this wandering tourist,
who was also a born collector. With avidity he seized

27
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

the Indian relics, carried them swiftly to the eastward,
and distributed them with a liberal hand among his
many friends. So we accepted the metatas, these tokens
of a bygone civilization, as precious treasures and put
them at once to practical use. The Indian woman
busily preparing her midday meal little imagined that
she was carving bird-baths for a Wisconsin wood-
land some thousands of miles away; but I am sure that
she would approve their present use, half sunk in the
ground and filled with clear water.

After ten years of country life what have we ac-
complished?

From a wild woodland we have evolved a house
with attendant garage and lodge; a water system, green-
house, and woodshed; vegetable, fruit, and flower
gardens of various kinds; a lawn and roads and paths
disturbing as little as possible the native forest. This
is the material result.

Unconsciously we have made for ourselves an ab-
sorbing interest, an endless source of entertainment,

and—the most important of all—an ever-ready refuge
28
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

in time of need. Not only in the spring and summer,
but any week-end during the winter when brains and
bodies are exhausted with the stress and strain of city
life, do we run away to the peace and comfort of our
country home. Its very existence saves us from dis-
couragement. It stands ready to receive us with wel-
coming arms, to soothe our tired nerves, to cool our
fevered brains, to teach us the wholesomeness of soli-
tude. After hours of tramping through snowy woods,
after great draughts of icy, sunlit air, after a good
dinner before an open fire, the worst case of insomnia
succumbs. What a delicious sense of liberty! What
absolute freedom to follow one’s own desires! No set
hours for engagements, no interruption from telephone
or doorbell! One does not have to do anything at
all! Is that the reason why work in the country al-
ways has such a glamour of play about it?

“What are you going to do in the country at this
time of year?” asked a bewildered lady on overhear-
ing my resolve to go up to the lake one cold January
day after a particularly strenuous season, when the

29
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

social world was scattering for Florida and California,
for Europe and Africa. J had no tiresome railroad
journey—or worse, waterway—to go through; my
refuge lay close at hand and it enclosed within its broad
acres every element of restfulness, of interest, and of
pleasure for me that these seekers after diversion
would find in their varied quests.

“T am going to work on the gardens of course,” I
replied, willfully enjoying her mystification.

She looked at me keenly,—was I joking or merely
crazy? I presume that she thought I meant the actual
spading of earth, under several inches of snow, a dif-
ficult as well as fruitless task. But to the wise in
garden lore the winter brings its own work of selec-
tion, experiment, and rearrangement; for each effect,
to be successful, must be carefully planned on paper,
and there is always some part of the estate to be im-
proved or developed. Now is the hour for the ir-
resistible glories of the seed catalogue; now with what
thrills of anticipation do we choose our new plants,

reject past mistakes, and lay fresh schemes!

30
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

In these ten years we feel that we have just touched
the edges of a new kingdom—wild-flower cultivation.
Not only must we devote space to our own woodland
favorites, but to the acclimatizing of great masses of
bloom from every part of our country and even from
across the sea, selecting the ones hardy enough for our
severe climate. It is a fascinating and stimulating
study with endless possibilities. Wild flowers must be
massed to get an effect, but they respond to a little
care with peculiar zest and produce an impression of
astonishing beauty. Never shall I forget that picture
of a high railroad embankment in Germany, half a
mile of giant sapphire lupins!

I must confess that many of our best results are due
to accident, or rather, let us acknowledge, to Nature’s
methods of planting. She is our great teacher and
shows us not only the most practical and sensible mode
of procedure, but how to achieve captivating results.

“What is that lovely bloom in the Forsythias,” asked
a well-informed visitor one September morning, looking
from her chamber window; “there among the roses too,

31
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

and there again in the bayberries! That delicate pale-
blue mass—can’t you see it? What bush can it be?”

I gazed out in bewilderment; I had not seen that
particular effect before, and we rushed out together to
discover the new bush. But it was not a bush, merely
the wood aster—planted by the birds—which, rising to
the light and air, adorned with its exquisite tones the
green masses of shrubbery before the house.

It is difficult for us now to imagine our existence with-
out the absorbing interest of our country home. But
a wise philosopher once said that no one should be a
slave to his possessions; that the mere fact of having a
corner exclusively his own should not necessarily tie him
forever to one spot or keep him from roving when the
spirit moves him. This is a difficult lesson for the En-
thusiast to learn, but by dint of practice she has dis-
covered that other countries have glorious springtimes,
and other lands grow gorgeous wild flowers; and this
very roving has made the homestead dearer. The ex-
change of ideas draws us into contact with other minds
working out the same problems, makes us appreciate

32
 

AFTER TEN YEARS

 

 

what others have done in the same direction, shows us
countless phases hitherto unseen, and brings us back to
our own peaceful roof overflowing with new thoughts
and full of thanksgiving. Moreover, country life has
taught us two opposite truths: it has revealed to us the
charm of solitude, and it has given to us the opportunity

to become better acquainted with our kind.

33
CHAPTER II

DAILY DOINGS

’ “AO most of us, accustomed as we are to the hideous

noises of the city, the atmosphere of the country
is at first blank; very restful for a day or two,
but after that very dull. By that time, if the mind is
receptive, small echoes, insignificant utterances gradu-
ally become audible, and interest is aroused in their
source. Once started, the way is easy and the ramifica-
tions endless.
“Which one shall I take this morning?” will be the
query, instead of ““‘What shall I do with myself today?”
To develop our own senses as we see them developed
in the wild creatures about us, is the goal we fain would
reach. To learn is the great incentive of living. Is
that why each one of us demands the right to learn by
experience the common truths of the ages? Would not
there be enough to fill one’s waking hours, if each
new generation could but begin on that level of knowl-
34
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

edge where the father stopped? I presume that in
a large way each generation does begin on a higher
level of knowledge; certainly the child of the present is
familiar in everyday life with phenomena which would
have been called witchcraft and magic in the olden
time. Now that we have learned to utilize the waves
of ether for carrying our messages, nothing seems too
wonderful to believe. Let us not forget in this great
era of mechanical inventions, that it is Nature that
has been the chief teacher, and that she still holds
precious secrets for the future man.

But if she jealously guards her deeper thoughts and
hedges the path thereto with endless difficulties, she
spreads a feast of delight to the casual intelligence
and fills his restless spirit with her blessed balm of
peace.

There are no marvelous events to chronicle in our
simple country life, but it is astonishing how full the
days are and how rapidly they pass. A glance at the
line-a-day book brings more forcibly to my mind our
daily doings.

35
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

January 1. We counted twenty-five robins on our
snow-covered lawn this morning. We haven’t seen
them until today. Have they come down from colder
climates in search of food? For the winter has been
unusually severe.

January 23. After a wonderful crimson glow
changing gradually to primrose, comes the round red
ball of the sun in a burst of heavenly glory. The lake
is frozen in long undulations where deep blue shadows
lie; the heaped-up blocks of ice on the sandbar are
reflected in mirrors which yesterday were water; the
farther hills are still swathed in the misty garments
of the dawn; high above us in the clear sky the horned
crescent of the moon grows ever fainter; hoar frost
sparkles from every exposed surface; the snow is reced-
ing gradually from shrub and tree root, leaving moist
patches of earth for the delectation of Master Junco
and his kind. The stray Bohemian waxwing, which
has been visiting me for a week, appears on his look-
out, the top branches of the south maple, then darts

down to his breakfast of haws on the prairie rose be-
36
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

neath my window. The snapping of the pony’s feet
as he touches the crisp ice, taking the children to
school in the small cart, is the only sound that disturbs
the stillness; and that is soon lost as they disappear be-
hind the fishing village. ‘‘Cheep,” cries the chickadee
on the sill, and the nuthatch grunts a bit to inform me
of his presence. Yes, the food is fresh and to his taste,
also to the taste of the blue jay, who has to be fright-
ened off with threatening gestures. Although the
nuthatch permits no relative to eat on the dish with
him, occasionally he relaxes his strict rules and carries
a morsel to his waiting mate upon the tree; and when
he succeeds in getting away with a particularly big
piece of suet, I notice that the other bird follows him
with celerity instead of coming to the table herself.
How dexterously she darts after the bit of nut dropped
from his bill, and with what beauty of action she
seizes it in mid-air!

January 24. Thermometer 45°. The wild geese
calling at twilight. Yesterday we found a snowdrop.
Is the spring so near?

37
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

February 9. I wonder whether the sun is really
more brilliant in winter. Or does the snow give a
crystalline clearness to the atmosphere? Certainly
never before has the downy woodpecker’s black and
white coat seemed half so striking. He gives us ample
opportunity to admire him, slowly swaying on the suet
hung under the food-bell at my western window, or
slipping down the maple in the out-of-doors dining-
room. This German food-bell consists of a glass jar
with screw top like our Mason jars, holding about five
pounds of canary and rape seed. The food slipping
automatically into a tiny dish below is protected from
rain and snow by a bell-like cover. Suspended on
brackets far enough from the tree so that only birds can
reach it, this ingenious contrivance not only furnishes
supplies for all seed-eating and suet-eating birds but
furnishes us with entertainment at almost any hour of
the day. The hairy woodpecker, too, peers from the
other side of the tree cautiously reconnoitering; with
the exception of the blue jay he is our largest winter
visitor, but he is also the most timid one. The juncos

38
 

 

 

 

 

THE GERMAN AUTOMATIC FOOD-BELL
 

 

 

THE ROBINS’ RENDEZVOUS
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

hop along the snowy terrace after the freshly sprinkled
seed, and to our surprise a white-crowned sparrow ap-
pears among them. The nuthatches, and especially
the chickadees, always claim our interest, so that our
luncheon party is a lively and diverting function.

March 3. Although February is the proper time to
put up the Berlepsch bird boxes, ours, arriving late,
were installed today. Those bird boxes for all hole-
nesting birds have been carefully evolved by Baron von
Berlepsch after thirty years of study and they have been
most successful in Germany where the natural nesting
places have been cleared away. It remains to be
proven whether there is the same need for them in this
country. In suburban towns, flickers, woodpeckers,
wrens, bluebirds and chickadees have accepted them
eagerly. In the illustration is shown one of the wren
boxes under the eaves and a box suitable for woodpeck-
ers.

April a2, A red letter day! A. néw bird for
Wychwood! What a sensation was that first sight of
a woodcock this afternoon; I might better say sound,

39
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

for the sight was so quickly over. I turned breath-
lessly to my companion and exclaimed: “What was
ite

“Don’t you know? Nothing makes a whistling
sound like that except a woodcock.”

‘““A woodcock here? But I thought that they were
very shy birds.”

“Well, they evidently feel that they are protected
here.”

By searching we found their characteristic borings
for food, and the marks of their feet in the moist earth.

April 23. We flushed a woodcock again from be-
side the brook. Was it the same individual or is
there a pair? What joy if they were to nest here!

May 3. My wild wish has actually come true!
The woodcock was even then nesting in the deep woods
that border our lawn within two hundred feet of the
house, and this morning we discovered the nest quite
by accident; in fact I just missed stepping on it.
Four pointed speckled eggs lay apex to center in a
little hollow of pressed-down dead leaves at the foot

40
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

of a slim bush. Later we went back hoping to catch
the mother; and I assure you that to find the nest when
by itself was one thing, but to find that nest when the
adult bird was on it was quite another. Such a mar-
velous blending of feathers into leaves! Such abso-
lute immobility! Although you knew that by stand-
ing at a certain spot and sighting the base of a certain
sapling you must look straight at the woodcock nestled
into the brown leaves, still you failed to see the bird!
As to taking pictures, of course we tried it; no one
could resist the temptation, and we hoped that the
sensitive film might reveal what we wished to see.
There was not the least difficulty about arranging the
tripod or long exposure, for the clever bird sat like a
statue. But the results were nil.

May 7. Yesterday we counted thirty-four species of
birds on our place: towhee, golden-crowned kinglet,
humming bird, kingfisher, Bonaparte gulls, phebe,
Baltimore oriole, rose-breasted grosbeak, indigo bunt-
ing, redstart, Maryland yellowthroat, a female palm
warbler, myrtle and chestnut-sided warblers, flickers,

AI
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

red-headed, hairy, and downy woodpeckers, white-
throat, chipping sparrows, English sparrows, and a
long sparrow not identified, robins, wood thrushes, blue
jays, white-eyed vireos, brown creepers, crows,
yellow warblers in flocks, cat birds, a woodcock on
her nest, six bluebills in the bay, cedar birds and cow-
birds. No one can be sure what any day may bring
forth, or even what day the warblers will arrive; some
come earlier than others, but in this location the first
half of May and from the ninth to the twenty-ninth
of September, there are sure to be some warblers about.
According to a late theory they take advantage of a
strong wind and come up from the south or down from
the north on its wings. Certainly we have noticed
that a still morning after a gale is the very best time to
look for the wanderers. In the spring as there are no
immature birds and the plumage is much more brilliant,
their identification is easier. But migration time,
whether in spring or fall, means great excitement and
anticipation in our country home, and we try to have
with us then friends who will most enjoy this sur-
42
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

prising spectacle. From Mr. Chapman’s list of
seventy-four kinds of warblers in America we have
counted twenty-five at different times on our place.
May 9. We witnessed a rare sight today. It was
one of those perfectly quiet mornings, the sky slightly
overcast; and all unknowing of the treat before us we
started down the shore path, a merry party, to walk
to the village. Of course the enthusiasts were armed
with field glasses, a usual precaution. We had scarcely
left our place before we saw an army of the tiny
warblers in all the brilliancy of their spring plumage
flitting over the ground before us. “The warblers!”
we cried softly in concert. Begging those who wished
for exercise not to wait for us, we stood still, our
glasses glued to our eyes, as, after the disappearance
of the merry party, one by one those winged dots of
sunset hues drifted daintily back to their feast on the
moist earth. If I only knew what it was that they
found so much to their liking, I would certainly pro-
vide it for them each year. To see the magnolia
warbler with his bright yellow rump and white-edged
43
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

tail, or the olive back of the white-throated green
warbler, or the brilliant chestnut-sided warbler dis-
appearing among the branches of the trees is a pleas-
ure, but a tantalizing one. Here “these fascinating
sprites of the tree-tops,” as Mr. Chapman calls them,
were within fifteen feet of us, in the bright light of
noon-day, perfectly fearless, apparently unconscious of
our presence, stepping delicately hither and thither or
clinging to low shrubs like pendent jewels. Here the
unmistakable and well-named black and white warbler
consorted with the more somber Kentucky; there the
chestnut crown indicated the palm warbler; and be-
yond, a group of Canadians with their jetted neck-
laces over yellow. Beside us the Cape May warbler
expanded his striped chest, and that gray bird, turn-
ing, disclosed the black throat and yellow spots of the
golden-winged. As we named each new one we felt
new sensations of delight, or if we did not recognize
one, out must come the notebook for a minute de-
scription. The splendid Blackburnian once seen can
never be forgotten. But the wonderful bit of the sky
44
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

dropped down to earth, there beside the path! what
bird is that? Can it be the rare cerulean warbler?
None other. To my surprise I discover later that it
nests not far from here at Lake Koshkonung. Butler
says that this warbler “is seldom found nearer the
ground than twenty feet, ranging from this height to
the tops of the tallest trees.” Now why, on the edge
of deep woods did this multitude of tree-loving birds
stay cheerfully upon the ground for over an hour busily
helping themselves to all manner of unknown delicacies
and voicing their happiness in countless trills and
carols? The myrtle warblers are old friends, and the
yellow warblers are with us in flocks all summer, so
little heed was paid to them; the redstart too is one of
our intimates; but the Maryland yellowthroat with
his black mask visits us only on these semiannual oc-
casions on his way to the neighboring swamps to nest
or to join his companions for the fall migration.

A large bird new to us seemed to be accepted on
terms of equality in this wandering company, a bird
as big as a junco, with his white outer tail feathers,

45
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

too; but the streaked spots on the breast and the more
brownish tinge marked it as an American pipit or
titlark. Six or seven of them tipping their tails as they
walked, mingled with the warblers, and later two or
three Baltimore orioles added more color to the daz-
zling picture. It was a thrilling experience.

May 11. Today we took a snapshot of the baby
woodcocks in their dead-leaf cradle. So brand-new
were they that the down was scarcely dry on their wee
backs. ‘Three hours later they were off and away to
the brook, I suppose, for there was no trace of them
to be found near the nest. The babies were beauties
in their soft down distinctly striped dark-brown and
tan.

May 17. A woodland tragedy! One of our first
resolves on taking possession of the place was to let
Nature have her way and not to interfere with the nice
balance which she keeps. One advised us to kill off
the squirrels; “you’ll never have birds with those
enemies around.” But we have birds and the severe
winters keep the crop of squirrels within bounds. An-

46
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE YELLOW-BILLED CUCKOOS A DAY OLD
 

 

 

 

THE NEST AND EGG OF A HUMMING BIRD

 

 

 

EGG AND NEST OF COOPER HAWK
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

other advised us to shoot the blue jays and cowbirds.
We have learned by experience the wisdom of this
warning. ‘Then with the quantity of small birds who
learned that they would find protection in our woods
came their worst foes, the Cooper hawks. Very slyly
and very early in the season two pair built nests in the
deepest part of the woods, and while awaiting the
warblers, found plenty of refreshment in our neigh-
bor’s poultry plants! Great was the excitement of the
crows at this invasion of their domain; fierce battles
took place but the hawks stayed. Wary creatures are
these denizens of the forest and it took weeks to get
two of them shot.

This morning in a secluded dell we spied an oven
bird walking through the grass, and from the tree-top
at the same moment came “Teacher, Teacher,” in
eager repetition. We searched the ground, but fruit-
lessly ; any one of those leafy mounds might be the long-
sought-for nest; to find an oven bird’s home had been
my dream for years. Finally we decided to sit down
quietly at some distance and watch.

47
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

A new trill diverted us, and a cerulean warbler
ventured near. How exquisite his blue coat flashed in
the sunlight! A tiny “cheep” still nearer and we
turned to see his mate fly across the path not ten feet
from the ground. Swift as an arrow darted a huge
bird toward the warbler, caught it in his talons and
bore it to the ground, then frightened at our approach
flew to a tree-top.

“The hawk!” we cried in horrified accents.

“Run for the gun. Ill watch,” gasped my com-
panion. And stumbling over the rough surface of
the forest I finally gained the road and sped toward
the garage. It seemed ages before we could load the
gun, climb into the motor and return. The hawk had
not waited for us but we discovered her nest and later
on succeeded in shooting her. The nest was brought
down from its crotch in the tree some fifty feet above
the ground and the three blue-white eggs which
positively identified her destroyed. We could not
have Cooper hawks, the very worst of the species, en-
joying our hospitality.

48
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

June 14. Down at the end of the lawn where the
ground dips into a sudden hollow, where the under-
brush is thick and the brambles wave effectively their
thorny branches, I discovered to my great delight a
yellow-billed cuckoo’s nest with four eggs in it this
morning. ‘The coarse nest lay about three feet from
the ground in a beautiful tangle, and the mother bird
flew only six feet or so away uttering her soft protests
apologetically at my intrusion. Three years ago al-
most to a day we watched a cuckoo feeding her young
within twenty-five feet of this nest. The next morn-
ing when I brought down my kodak two tiny birds were
in the nest and one was just coming out of the shell.
It did look odd to see such young birds entirely covered
with pin feathers. JI longed to linger and watch the
little family but the poor mother cuckoo was so un-
happy and anxious that I went away.

June 15. Among my other June duties is the
one of removing the cowbird’s egg from the vari-
ous nests where the unnatural mother places them.
I go from bush to bush each morning looking

4 49
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

out for all such unwelcome guests. The poor
little yellow warblers are so helpless under this
burden! Sometimes they do lay a new floor over
the cowbird’s egg and build another nest on top of
it, but as a rule they have their own eggs to consider,
and unless relieved by outside help, patiently proceed
with their brooding until the horrid interloper hatches
and smothers the other little ones. The wood thrush
is far too sweet-tempered to rebel against the cowbird’s
actions; in two days I have taken five cowbird’s eggs
out of the same thrushes’ nest! Even the catbird is at
times a victim. Once to my horror I saw a cowbird
actually eating a catbird’s egg! After that I gave or-
ders that the cowbirds must be shot.

June 18. At times I have in charge between twenty
and thirty nests, and one can easily imagine that it takes
many hours of my summer days. In this manner we get
really acquainted with our feathered neighbors, and
they learn to have great confidence in us. I remember
a terrible commotion one morning down in the oval.
Upon investigation I found that the yellow warbler’s

50
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

nest in a low rosebush had been turned upside down by
a high wind in the night, and the four precious eggs
were lying scattered about on the ground. Luckily
they were unbroken; so we righted the rose and tied
it up securely, then carefully replaced the eggs under
the watchful eye of the anxious mother who im-
mediately took her place on the nest and in due time
the little ones one after another came blithely forth
to the joy and pride of the tiny parents.

June 28. In what lovely curves the humming bird
dips as he woos the fair lady of his dreams sitting ap-
parently oblivious on the trumpet vine close by.
Down in a half-circle and up again swings my gay
cavalier twenty-five times in succession. Is it a test
of endurance, I wonder, or a traditional mode of court-
ship? My maple is a favorite rendezvous of the hum-
ming birds; almost any hour one may, by looking
closely, perceive a tiny bunch which suddenly resolves
itself into a misty whirl of iridescence as the deep cups
of the trumpet flower attract him. Another beloved
blossom is the old-fashioned bee-balm (Monarda

51
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

didyma) ; over this scarlet mass of bloom we counted
more than twenty hummers wheeling and fluttering in
excited competition.

“We will make the bed twice as large next year,”
cries the Constant Improver.

July 1. What is the small wren scolding about?
I hear his insistent notes as, scissors in hand, I stand
over the snapdragons, and as it continues I must search
out the cause of the disturbance. Usually it is noth-
ing more important than the too close proximity of a
pert chipmunk. Evidently her little ones have made
their first flight, or possibly one may still be in the
box just under the eaves at my west window.

We had been in the house five years before any
of the wrens deigned to accept the offers that we made
them to come and live with us. In vain we nailed
up comfortable boxes with an entrance cut just the
right size, in the most desirable places; fruitlessly we
put out birch-bark wigwams and hollow gourds rec-
ommended by interested friends. Down by the brook,

52
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

away in the hollow, their merry song frequently be-
trayed them. It is still a mystery why they hesitated
so long to have confidence in us.

Great was our rejoicing, then,.one May when, on
our arrival in the country we found not only that the
wrens had moved into the box at my own west window
but that they had accepted the birch-bark wigwam
and also built a nest on the shelf of the tool-house and
another under the eaves of the kitchen-house. We had
plenty of melody that season, and each year since then
the rollicking company has returned to us. This
spring one took possession of an old woodpecker’s nest
in a log placed inside the dog-trot! When the screen
had to be put up, the log was carefully moved in the
night to a place under the eaves; but this particular
wren disapproved of the change and took French leave.

A learned ornithologist informed us that our birds
were Bewick wrens. Certainly no wrens could have
more delicious notes or be more captivating in their
daily life.

53
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

Her sight is short, she comes quite near;
A foot to me’s a mile to her;

And she is known as Jenny Wren,

The smallest bird in England. When

I heard that little bird at first,
Methought her frame would surely burst
With earnest song. Oft had I seen

Her running under leaves so green,

Or in the grass so fresh and wet,

As though her wings she would forget.
And, seeing this, I said to her—

“My pretty runner, you prefer

To be a thing to run unheard

Through leaves and grass, and not a bird!”
*T was then. she burst, to prove me wrong,
Into a sudden storm of song

So very loud and earnest, I

Feared she would break her heart and die.
“Nay, nay,” I laughed, ‘“‘be you no thing
To run unheard, sweet scold, but sing!”

O I could hear your voice near me,
Above the din in that oak tree,

When almost all the twigs on top

Had starlings singing without stop.

July 28. A rainy dawn. I hear against a fugue of
falling drops the song sparrow’s soft cadences; the
brisk trill of the busy wren encouraging his mate in her
efforts to stop those pleading mouths; the whir of the

54
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

humming bird above the trumpet flower; the warning
note of the hairy woodpecker and the low rumble of
passing thunder. Very agreeable it is to lie in this
cozy shelter out in the sweet-scented rain and listen to
the morning melodies.

August 2. It is impossible to get lonely in the coun-
try, for one has ideal company always diverting and
never a care. ‘Today when within the screened porch
I leisurely ate my melon fresh from its cunning ham-
mock in the glasshouse, the hungry bees and wasps
buzzed their displeasure outside; a pert young cat-
bird alighted on her own table within a foot of mine
and hastily grabbed the cocoanut with many a suspi-
cious glance at me; a yellow warbler shook the shining
drops from his wings as he reached the protecting bush
over the bird-bath, and a redstart darted down to the
tub for his turn.

August 10. We have seen the woodcock again.
Seven of them have been counted wandering over the
place, and at twilight this evening they came out boldly

55
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

on the grass in front of the house. We watched them
from the windows of my room and they seemed astound-
ingly fearless.

August 23. The last fledgling of the last brood of
wrens left my window box by six o’clock this morn-
ing. ‘This was the second brood in the same nest this
year, but whether or not the same pair of wrens, quien
sabe? JI shall miss their joyous trilling and the de-
tails of their housekeeping, which I have watched at
such close quarters through so many months. How
any birdlings can have the courage to leave the nest for
the first flight is a continual mystery to me! The
fluttering of wings at the sight of food is of course a
kind of providential exercise preparing the muscles to
bear later the full weight of the body.

September 15. A brilliant day. As I leaned far
out of my window to drink in the delicious air of the
morning, I saw a curious sight. Circling high over
the lawn, far above the tallest trees were between
forty and fifty big birds which I did not know. They

were not gulls although their wings were wide, neither
56
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

were they wild geese, nor herons. One or two came
down low enough for me to see plainly with the glass,
white breasts gleaming silvery in the sun, two black
bars on the short rounded tails, and black edges to
the otherwise white wings. Of course all these observa-
tions were from underneath. With slow motions they
wheeled and circled in the blue sky. Hawks they
must be, I concluded, but without more definite data
I could not be sure whether they were Cooper hawks
or not. Certainly they were an imposing group poised
there just over our acre of lawn. I wonder whether
they were gathered together for migration.
September 18. During the fall migrations small
birds are often knocked senseless by flying against our
windows. In this way we are able to examine minutely
the little creatures and occasionally are able to re-
store their shattered senses. This morning a brightly
marked bird was picked up just outside the dining-
room and brought up to me. It was impossible to
mistake it. I knew at once that it was a warbling
vireo. He lay on my hand with beak open, and I gave
57
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

him water from the medicine dropper. That seemed
to revive him a bit, so I took him down to the dog-
trot; but as he still panted, I added to the water a wee
drop of whisky. He had no sooner swallowed this
than he spread out his wings and dashed to the ceiling.
That would never do, for he would certainly hurt him-
self against the glass, so I caught him again. He did
not seem afraid, possibly he might have been still dazed
by his adventures; but the instant I opened my hand
in the outer air away flew Mr. Vireo and was out of
sight in a trice. ‘This reminds me that last year a pair
of warbling vireos built their nests in a maple tree close
to our main entrance, and their delicious notes were a
great addition to our summer chorus. I wonder
where their dainty basket cradle hung this summer;
for although we heard them often we failed to find
their nursery.

October 28. Last night I heard a grating noise at
my window, and looking out, perceived plainly the
pointed nose of a field mouse rapidly enlarging the

hole of the wren box to suit his larger hulk. This morn-
58
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

ing the entrance was twice as big as it should be.
This did not please me at all, the quarters were too near
my own for comfort and I had the man take down the
box, tear out the mouse’s dwelling and put a new front
on with a hole the proper size for wrens. On my re-
turn from a brief visit in town I found that Mr. Mouse,
not at all discouraged, had reénlarged the entrance hole
and was very comfortably fixed inside for the winter.

‘What can we do?” I asked in despair of our re-
sourceful gardener.

“A bit of tin might be a good thing,” he suggested,
“he can’t gnaw that.”

So the mouse’s warm coverings of softest yellow fluff
were mercilessly thrown out, even the wren’s tiny twigs
cleared away, another front put in reénforced with tin
carefully smoothed on the edges to avoid hurting the
feathers of a bird and the fresh box was replaced ready
for the first spring visitor.

October 31. At six in the morning an orange sun-
rise reflected in the still lake, a faint morning star in a
gleaming sky and then a fiery ball appears above the

59
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

hilltop sending its rosy path across the water to our
chamber windows; hoar frost veils the green grass, a
junco’s feeble chirp is heard, then a light picking and
a squeak. It is a pair of robins after the woodbine
berries over the southern windows, a belated pair of
robins who evidently have decided not to migrate this
year but to trust in the full provision of our berry gar-
den for their winter’s sustenance. Suddenly a sharp
patter on the housetop, a confused scrambling on the
roof, then a silence as the tree is attained and a gentle
scratching on my screen informs me that it is time for
breakfast according to Mr. Squirrel. His hunger ap-
peased he begins to carry away the nuts to store in
secret places of the lawn; then the blue jays gather and
caw in derision. Back and forth runs the industrious
squirrel providing for the coming winter; over him
flies the thieving blue jay also keen upon his winter
store. No sooner has Mr. Squirrel safely hidden his
precious nut in the soft dirt than down sweeps Captain
Blue Jay, digs it up and flies away with it. Against
such tactics what defense has Master Squirrel? With
60
 

DAILY DOINGS

 

 

a flirt of his tail he leaps to the tree-trunk and dashes
after his tormentors, but they only fly away, shouting,
“Jay, jay, jay, jay!”

‘Tomorrow we close the house for the season.

61
CHAPTER III

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

(). first parents were created in a garden; so

as we grow older our hearts turn naturally to-

ward the open gateway of a garden. Not only
to enjoy its sights and sounds, passively to accept its
delights, but to labor in its behalf, to produce new
effects—that is the joy of gardening. Is it heresy to
imagine that the mere fact of idleness may have had
something to do with the fall of our poor Mother Eve?
Who was put in the garden of Eden “‘to dress it and to
keep it’? Adam. Whose duty was it to till the earth
that it should bring forth fruit? Adam’s. Who was
designated to give a name to each living organism?
Adam. ‘These occupations must have been absorbing as
well as inspiring, and would easily fill his waking hours
to overflowing. He had no leisure at that time for temp-

tation. No wonder that he felt the need of a helpmeet
62
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

with whom to discuss all he had done. But Eve, poor
thing! evidently had ‘no particular work laid out for
her aside from listening to Adam. If she had only
been of a systematic nature and made elaborate records
or even kept a line-a-day book! With no maternal or
housekeeping duties, no clothing of any kind to keep
in order, her days may have seemed a bit long. But
the modern Eve has small chance for ennui if she really
loves her garden and lives in it.

“Flow do you fill your time? What have you been
doing today?” asks a casual caller. Dazed by the
effort to remember all the small doings of my well-
filled hours and knowing that a too detailed answer is
neither expected nor desired, I search to eliminate every-
thing but the obvious, to relate in large terms my petty
joys.

How can I explain that when I opened my eyes and
saw the humming bird poised over a trumpet flower
but two feet from me, I breathed more softly in silent
ecstasy; that as the sun flooded the lake in silvery sheen,

my whole being rejoiced; that each bird note gave me
63
 

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a sense of companionship with Nature which only life
in the country can bring; that as I wandered through
the shrubbery freeing a choice bush from the too
friendly grape, digging up a burdock or spying out a
hidden thistle, pulling the ragweed or clipping along
the path, my only regret was that I had not another
pair of eyes to take advantage of earth and sky? The
study of Nature tends to diffuseness rather than to con-
centration. No matter with what determination you
start out, no matter how interested you may be in that
particular branch, I defy you to shut your eyes to other
passing beauties, to countless other beguiling sights.
‘Pause a bit,” they seem to say, “stop and realize the
joy of living. Let not the love of order keep you from
the love of us. Be still, relax, lay down that learned
book, that well-thumbed list, those shears and fly-whisk
deft. Come sit in quiet contemplation at our feet.”
Few parts of our estate have had more careful thought
and none proved of more educational value than the
bit of ground, fifty by sixty feet, known as our formal
garden. It seemed a perfectly simple proposition,

64
 

 

 

THE FORMAL GARDEN
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

just “plenty of flowers” was all I demanded. The loca-
tion was faultless, facing due south and shielded on
the north by the kitchen-house and on the west by the
woods. A glance at the plan will explain its design.
Surrounded by a bowlder wall three and a half feet
high with four entrances, the paths paved with brick,
as it lay empty beneath my chamber window, it offered
material for many an experiment and many a pleasant
dream.

After we had decided upon the dimensions, we
searched for a fountain the right size to put in the cen-
ter. Wandering through the hill towns of Italy, many
a fountain did we photograph and many elaborate ones
did we see, but when at last we found one to please
us, it was in an unexpected place. Instead of being
tucked away in an inaccessible corner of the country,
it stood in the busiest piazza in Rome; and we had
looked at it for many years without ever really seeing it
until, with this conception in our minds, we came upon
it. Where the Corso passes before the towering col-

umn of Marcus Aurelius (perhaps this may explain
5 65
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

our former blindness!) , in the middle of a large, rather
awkward basin stands this lovely “tazza” brimming
with water,—a constant libation to the memory of the
great Emperor General.

Could we have it copied? Nothing easier. So a
duplicate was made in the beautiful travertine stone
which cuts like cheese and hardens as the years go by,
growing darker under the action of the water, until
early it has the aspect of age. With what impatience
we awaited its coming, with what glee we greeted its
arrival, and with what satisfaction we installed it above
the shallow basin! ‘That part of the garden, at least,
is permanent,—through all its variations the fountain
has preserved its charm.

The floral border about it, too, has never caused us
any misgivings. ‘Tulips in the springtime are a blaze
of color ;—mixed tulips, crimson, orange, and dark pur-
ple, cast fantastic reflections upon the rippling water.
After they have passed, rose geraniums fill the narrow
space to overflowing, stretching above the edge of the

basin and affording cool shadows in which the goldfish
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EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

love to linger—a thrifty, fragrant, unvarying circle un-
til the late frost.

On three sides of the garden the ten feet of border
are given over to perennials with only the necessary
number of annuals to fill empty places. With curious
pleasure we greet the first red fingers of the peonies as
they push upward to the light in early May, and how
effective in the garden a month later are their great
globes of dark red, rose, and white! Beneath their
spreading leaves hide lily bulbs which later in the sea-
son burst into curving chalices of Oriental incense.
Nicotiana too reminds one of some Eastern odalisque
as she lifts her drooping head toward evening, opens
her starry eyes and anoints herself with choicest per-
fumes for the night-moth’s coming. Hers is not the
olive beauty of the Orient, hers is the fairness of the
Georgian maid, pure white or blushing deeply under
too ardent a regard.

Whenever I think of the most beautiful blue flower
in the world, the Chinese larkspur with its delicate

stem of quivering blooms comes to my mind. Such
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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

living blue! Such daintiness of form! So lightly
poised are they that it seems they must sail away on
the wings of every passing zephyr. But no; they only
bob their small curtsies and settle back somewhat
breathless as the breeze departs.

What would a garden be without phlox, the inevi-
table, the incomparable, the old-fashioned yet ever-de-
sirable phlox? White, cherry, rose, and a kind called
blue, it fulfills its mission in our sunny border with an
abundance, a freedom which cheers the heart of the
Enthusiast. Dependable, with no roving tendencies,
at the same time almost to a day each year it appears
above the black earth and blossoms until blighted by
the frost. One big group has reverted to its original
magenta, but its flowers are so large and the heads so
luxuriant that I cannot bear to remove it. If it
blossoms at the same time as its cherry neighbors, I
mercilessly cut it all back, thus providing myself with a
huge brass bowl of gorgeous color for the house; and
later in the fall, when the cherry phlox has gone, my
magenta flowers make a fine show beside the pale

68
 

 

 

THE FIRST SNOW

 

4

 

 

1 ily Sins Oi
\ samen?"

 

HOW WE PROTECTED THE BOX
 

 

 

A SELF-SOWN COLUMBINE

 

THE IVORY-WHITE COMELINE

 

S OF THE JAPANESE ANEMONE
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

boltonias. A white phlox near by has acquired a beau-
tiful pink center, and its petals have a faint rosy tinge
in the morning sun.

What the Cherokee rose is to California and the
South, what the cistus is to the arid plains of Italy,
such is the ivory white comeliness of the Japanese
anemone to our northern gardens. Promptly on the
first day of September it opens its folded petals, and,
growing more and more confident under the hot sun
and cool nights of autumn, it expands in numberless
exquisite flowers vying with the single dahlias for the
leading place in our affections.

The two Japanese quinces planted at the east end
of the borders grew so large after six years that clip-
ping was in vain and they had to be transplanted to
other fields of usefulness. The great clump of elms,
which we found in the north border and could not
bear to dislodge as it shaded so perfectly the kitchen-
house, became so overwhelming that it too had to go.
I know that it is only a question of time when the

white crushy rose known as the “Blanc double de
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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

Coubert,” which has flourished so gayly at each side
of the forest gate, will have to find more space in
which to extend its thorny branches.

The boltonias against the wall in the west border
are so like wild flowers that they make a connecting
link between the phlox and anemone within and the
rudbeckias of various kinds without the little garden.
The vagaries of plants! One year we had hollyhocks
just outside the wall; evidently they regarded the
flowers inside with envious eyes, for ever since then,
hollyhocks, pink, white, and crimson, have appeared in
places unconventional within the small enclosure.
When they thus select their own abode they seem to
think that they must justify themselves in order to be
let alone, so they expand with unusual beauty. Who
could have the heart to disturb that staff of rosy bloom
springing, alas! too near the border’s edge? ‘We
will leave it just this season,” we say, hoping that next
year it will choose another spot.

The pale blue salvia (farinaceous) too,—planted
quite properly beside the wall,—what would a foreign

70
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

gardener say to its present position, waving its slender
stalks from the extremest corner of the bed? Every
week with string and stakes I tie it back, and every
week its delicate arms seem to stretch out more greedily
across the path. Through the long summer it looms
above the fringed stokesia and blue lobelia until rosy
lilies spring to keep it company and anemones o’ertop
it and dahlias form a compact screen behind it.
When we cut down the clump of elms within the
northern border, the plants beneath its spreading
branches responded so quickly to the sun’s hot rays
that instead of remaining a low proper growth of ten
inches or so, they ran riot in all directions. The frail,
ladylike African daisy became fairly intoxicated with
her liberty; she grew from ten inches to more than two
feet, lopping against her neighbors and sprawling over
the bricks in really a disgraceful fashion. Gentle
persuasion having failed to guide her back into the
path of rectitude, we were obliged to part company.
The cockscomb, too, flaunted its gorgeous banners,
orange, claret, and crimson, three feet above the earth

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and that on the border’s edge! It is far too splendid
to suppress; we will try it in another place next year.
Ageratum, the “true blue” is generally a favorite with
gardeners, and I can see the reason. It does bloom
persistently the entire summer. I hardly know why
I do not like it, but to me it lacks character as well as
scent. Possibly we have not yet discovered its proper
environment.

Entirely around the border of the garden against
the wall are planted dahlias; these I think are a fixture.
Some seasons they begin to bear as early as July, and
as the days grow shorter they increase their efforts,
branching and budding and blooming until cold
weather seizes them. There stands the old-fashioned
stiff double dahlia in pink and yellow, white and
crimson; there the cactus dahlia in bright red (the
porcupine) or deep maroon (the Hagan) ; there the
century or single dahlia, most effective of them all.
From many seedlings we have chosen one to be our
favorite, one to bear the name of Wychwood, and this
flower with its white petals striped with a rich rose

72
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

encircling the quivering yellow center is a source of
delight to each one who beholds it. Curiously enough
this dahlia has the habit, even when cut, of partially
closing at night until it resembles a tulip, but each morn-
ing it expands again.

Because I mention marigolds the last, one must not
think that they are least within my heart; they light
the darkest corner of the place and bloom unmoved
by wind or rain. Before them as a border we use
the sanvitalia, that sturdy, self-reliant plant whose
cheery yellow flowers are always neat as wax. At all
times it is ready for company, the faded blooms dis-
appearing so quickly and so completely that I do not
remember having seen one! I wish I knew its history,
how and when it came from Mexico to the noble fam-
ily in Parma who gave it their name. Some sea-
captain relative or friend must have been fond of
flowers to have chosen this tiny bloom instead of the
more showy products of the tropics, and to have
treasured these slips all the long distance across the sea.
Was it an offering of affection to some fair lady which,

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placed in her very own garden, would always recall
the far-off lover? Or did a son mindful of his moth-
er’s taste, take pleasure in thus ministering to her small
joys? I know that each year I welcome its gay pres-
ence, its unquenchable spirit, its childlike brightness.
Like most ambitious youth, however, it dislikes to con-
form to rule and at least once a fortnight the san-
vitalia and the ageratum with any other leaves which
stray over the path have to be cut back to the raised
brick border. It used actually to hurt me snipping
that splendid growth, but the after-effect is so fine that
my heart has become hardened. A formal garden
must preserve a certain amount of formality especially
as to its walks, and without this cruel curtailment there
would soon be no walks.

In tiny crevices of the stone wall a yellow columbine
seeded itself one year, and now season after season until
frost, four separate plants bloom vigorously. Of
course they have attention, a seed is never permitted
to mature, but they repay our care tenfold. No gar-
den is complete without heliotrope. Ours nestles into

74
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

a corner near the entrance, where it surprises the in-
comer with its fragrance. Snapdragons and calendula
with many kinds of lilies conclude the list of flowers
in the garden’s border which varies but slightly from
year to year.

But those four center beds! The hours we have
spent over their development, the different plants we
have tried! To find anything which will bloom from
June to October without cessation is no easy matter;
and then the growth must be harmonious and the
color satisfactory. One bed is entirely to our taste,
the pink petunias. One year we have the “rosy dawn,”
the next perhaps “Bar Harbor beauties”; but pink
petunias they are to me, and I am not offended if they
shade to darker hues or come imprinted with an oc-
casional star. Of course they require a firm hand over
them and are not permitted to encroach upon the
border or to fall—no matter how beguiling the spray
—upon the path. They present a solid mass of bloom
until the frost, and their delicious scent mounts to my
casement window in the dusk.

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For one of the beds we tried pink snapdragons but
they were not sufficiently bushy and they were too fond,
even in the dwarf variety, of reclining along the ground,
making a ragged and uneven appearance.

“Baby ramblers would look well for one of those
beds,” quoth the Constant Improver pensively one
autumn.

“They do blossom all summer,” assented his com-
panion, “and when fresh are beautiful in color.”

‘When fresh” was the trouble. I could not bear to
cut off any that showed a trace of beauty; in conse-
quence, rarely was the bed in perfect condition and
never thick enough. Dwarf roses, Cecil Brunners,
Bon Silenes and Killarneys with a ground covering of
mignonette, sounded ideal; but the mignonette in the
enriched soil covered not only the ground but the roses,
smothering any attempt at bloom, and the entire effect
was dull and wanting.

China pinks we have had in one bed, and they are
fairly satisfactory; they require a great deal of care

to keep the seeds from forming, but they are striking
76
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

in color and shade into wonderful tones. I had the
curiosity one year to ascertain the actual number of
blossoms in this bed on the eighth day of October. I
acknowledge that the plants had thriven remarkably,
covering the ground well, and I was delighted to find
over eight hundred flowers with as many buds gracing
an area eighteen feet, ten inches by ten feet with a
corner taken out.

For the last two years we have had one bed of
tuberous begonias (Sutton’s single pink), and if planted
thick enough they are really splendid. The rich shin-
ing leaf and delicate pink flower remain in apparently
the same condition all summer long, only doubling in
growth. A little weeding now and then, with plenty
of water, is all that they ask.

I did so want one yellow bed, for I am afraid I must
confess that is my favorite color, and this seemed a
reasonable request. ‘There are so many yellow flowers.
For two years we had the “golden ball” chrysanthe-
mums, which at their best are luminous with color; but
they go off not later than the middle of August, and

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we could n’t have the aspect of the garden ruined thus
early. One season we tried the California poppy, and
it was a glorious sight in July; but neither did that
last.

“Why not try marigolds, the Legion of Honor,” I
suggested, “with calendula in the middle?”

For I had kept calendula in bloom the whole sum-
mer in the border. So these were planted, but my
arms were not long enough to reach the central pods;
by September they were turning yellow and dying al-
though the marigolds were crisp and bright about them.
To eke out the remainder of the season we put in hardy
chrysanthemums, which at least looked fresh and
green.

“How would marigolds do alone next year?” in-
quired the Lady Gardener.

“Yes, they might do, but I believe that heliotrope in
the center would be better,” answered the Constant
Improver. So that experiment is to be tested.

“A formal garaen should have an edge of some low
growth,” continued the Constant Improver; “suppose

78
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

we try the variegated geranium or Pelargonium as the
English call it? We might put it around the center
beds only this year and see how we like the effect.”

So it was done, but the critical eye of the Master
found fault with the grayish shade; variegated leaves
are not favorites of ours at any time, they have to our
eyes an unnatural and sickly appearance.

‘What can we have for an edging thenr” demanded
the Lady Gardener. “Up at Lake Minnetonka | saw
a lovely fine-leaved plant which they called Jacob’s
Ladder. I wonder how that would do.”

“I’m afraid it would n’t last all the season,” answered
the Head of the House, “but we’ll make inquiries.”

“Tf you can keep the Polemonium from blossoming,”
returned our interested correspondent, “it will remain
green and flourish, but as soon as it blooms the leaves
turn yellow and die down.”

“Well, let’s try it,’ I agreed, and rich plants of
Polemonium ceruleum were carefully placed about the
four central beds. If I had realized the tenacity of
purpose, the will-power and determination to multiply

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

of Madam Polemonium I might not have been so
ready to undertake her culture! Gayly I pinched off
the first flower stalks here and there along the border;
cheerfully I searched for any indications of such pur-
pose among the leaves; very beautiful was the shining,
dark-green effect between the bricks and bright colors
of the garden plots. Of course it cannot be supposed
that Madam Polemonium consciously began to dis-
guise her object in life, but certainly those flower stalks
grew harder and harder to distinguish from the leaves,
and I could almost hear her chuckle when I cut off
one of the latter by mistake! Finally convinced that
she was utterly discouraged I took a vacation for three
days. The advantage she took of my absence was in-
credible. Nearly every plant had shot up a lovely
stalk of pale-blue florets, and they made so charming
a picture that I almost left them.

“This is too wrenching for my sensibilities,” I con-
fessed. “Don’t let’s have Polemonium next year.”

“Well, you know there’s nothing takes the place of

box.”

80
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

“Yes, of course, but I thought it winter-killed here.”

“We might possibly protect it and then have some
extra plants to insert in case a few died.”

“It would be perfectly lovely,” assented the
Enthusiast; “we can but try it anyway.”

So for two summers now we have had the only per-
fect edging for a formal garden, the old-fashioned
box, kept clipped to a height of ten inches, fraught
with numberless associations and aromatic with the
memories of Italy.

I cannot end this story of the formal garden with-
out some mention of the various growths on the low
bowlder wall which encloses it. Within the garden
against the north wall we planted a gardenia rose.
That simple statement hardly seems to warrant the thrill
with which we contemplate its perfection or remember
its wondrous efflorescence. Even when told that it is
a hybrid Wichuriana produced by Dawson in 1890,
our enthusiasm still seems unexpressed. Its almost
thornless stems are pale green shading to rich claret;

they bear clean-cut, shining leaves and semi-double
6 81
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

roses, creamy fading to clear white. As it extends its
sprays of exquisite blossoms for twenty feet along the
wall, each one a perfect specimen with a dewdrop at
its heart, we stand before it in admiration too deep for
words. And its fragrance! ‘Truly this rose combines
the virtues of all roses, with none of their blemishes.
On the south side of the southern wall the Dorothy
Perkins riots in a blushing abandon of indescribable
beauty. Over the top of the wall and on to the bushes
beyond she flings her rosy draperies until each July
we think nothing can be more ravishing than this!
But by the middle of September, the clematis—
that snowy, starry, spicy, clematis from Japan which
no hard winter kills, no insect harms—the clematis has
wound its delicate sprays around the entrance posts,
enwreathed the neighboring shrubs, and drooped its
flowery lengths along the rough stone wall. Then in-
deed we say, “This is the crowning glory of the year!”
But October comes apace, and the gray wall is crim-
son with the woodbine and purple in shadow with its

pendent fruit; the leaves of the golden ash drop down,
82
 

EPOCHS OF THE FORMAL GARDEN

 

 

torn from the trees by the wind’s rough play. The
flowers of fall are many and gay, and the sky is blue,
and the air is soft—what can we do but again exclaim:
“This is the very best of all. Now has the garden

attained its prime; now at last are we satisfied!”

83
CHAPTER IV

THE UPPER GARDEN

UT from the formal garden, leading into the
sunset by way of the deep woods, a path

straight and narrow invites one to descend a
little slope and watch the birds at play about a shallow
pool. On one side under low, shadowy branches, lies
a huge bowlder scarred by glacial action in bygone
ages, and over its wounded surface flows gently a heal-
ing stream. Mosses and lichens have crept into its
crevices, and ferns touch softly its mottled contours.
When the golden maples above it strew the ground with
their mellow leaves, when the sun gleams on the clear
water reflecting the sky in its depths, when the red of
the woodbine leaflet glows like a gorgeous gem, so
absolutely a part of the wilderness is it that Himself
and I look at each other in glee.

A newcomer upon discovering this treasure usually
84
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

exclaims, ‘““How fortunate you were to find a spring in
exactly the right place!”

Sometimes we smile politely and say nothing, but
frequently we divulged our secret; for the truth is, it
is not a spring, but water piped from an artesian well!
Neither did we find the bowlder there half sunken
in the ground; it was given to us by a dear friend and
had been placed experimentally in half a dozen dif-
ferent spots before it found its permanent abode in
this shady dell. The gravelly hollow is really lined
with cement, and the apparently tumbled collection
of small granite rocks, pink and purple and mossy,
carefully conceals the irregular edge of the basin.
Does this remove the romance or make the place less
lovely? Not in our eyes at least. Wild violets make
a carpet between the flat stepping-stones; our own
aralia droops her spray of dark-red berries over the
water; the veined leaves of the native smilax mingle
with the blue wood-aster; and from the earliest flower
of spring to the wych-hazel in October one may al-

ways discover a new interest in this charmed retreat.
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Beyond the spring, the path leads on to where great
rocks form a right-angled seat. Here is the squirrels’

” as we used to call

rendezvous, for “‘cups and saucers,’
them, telltale remnants of their acorn feast, are ever to
be found here.

When we first began to make our paths through-
out the woods, we unconsciously adopted the “natural
method,” winding in and out among the trees, so that
one was constantly being surprised by a new point
of view; but after visiting the more formal forests of
France and Italy we began to appreciate the beauty
of long vistas and narrow pathways between high green
walls. Of course we could not have the ilex hedges
or clipped yews, nor would either be desirable in our
kind of a country place; but we became curious as to
what effect we could produce with a long straight
pathway through our woods.

Charmed by any new suggestion, the Constant Im-
prover no sooner conceived than he put his plan into
execution. From the great rock seat extending

straight as an arrow for over seven hundred feet, a
86
 

 

 

 

THE BEAUTY OF NARROW PATHWAYS BETWEEN HIGH GREEN WALLS

 

 

 

 

A SPRING IN EXACTLY THE RIGHT PLACE
 

 

THE TRAIL
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

path was cut and lightly graveled. Many bushes from
the forest were planted on its sides, many wild flowers
transferred to tracts upon its borders, and the trees
bent over it tenderly, and the sun dappled it with
shadows. The birds adopted at once its unfrequented
nooks, and the squirrels ran merry races down its leafy
lengths.

The effect of the long straight trail, as it steadily
rises In wavering contours, is entrancing! Here is no
green wall even in mid-summer but a suggestion of
sylvan seclusion which is extremely restful. In the
more open spaces taking advantage of the sunshine,
grass from a hidden source has completely overlaid
the stony footway, while even in the shade good Mother
Nature has embellished our borders with a rich
covering of moss; occasionally roots of great trees
cross the path, affording refuge for curious fungous
growth, and to the initiate each step brings a new
beauty and a new delight. Here the bloodroot, spring
beauties and masses of hepatica, pink, lavender, and

white, star the brown earth in the greatest profusion;
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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

here the Jack-in-the-pulpit pops up his stiff young head
and the May apple unfolds her bright umbrella leaf;
here the white trillium nods her greeting to the breeze
and the maidenhair sisters uncurl their tresses;
here when the Indian pipe appears for its brief day and
the viburnum changes to pale pink, when the hazel
brush is rosy and only the bramble green, when the
maple leaves form a rich tapestry upon the pathway,
is our favorite retreat. Even in the winter, white with
untrodden snow, crossed by the sharp shadows which ~
the bare branches make, or marked by hieroglyphics
which only the learned can read, it still has a beauty
all its own and is to us a place of enchantment.

Many names have been suggested for this sequestered
walk: “Charle’s Way,” “Lover’s Lane,” “The Indian
Trail,” among others less appropriate; but it has
grown to be known simply as “The Trail.” At the
end of the long vista, the Trail turns abruptly and
continues under a magnificent arching oak, across a
brook guarded by great granite bowlders, where beyond

an open gate, lies the upper garden.
88
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

It is a level piece of ground about an acre in ex-
tent, given over to fruit and flowers; in fact, a sort
of “overflow meeting” for both the formal and the
kitchen gardens. On one side is the woodshed and on
another the small greenhouse for storing tender plants
in winter and forcing chrysanthemums in summer.
On the west, to hide the compost heap and garbage pit,
we erected an original and highly ornamental rustic
screen between eleven and twelve feet in height, on
which to grow grapes. Behind the small greenhouse
are sixty running feet of cold frames neatly made of
cement, and the big greenhouse from which tomatoes
in spring and melons in summer add a special flavor
to our menu. By September this house, too, is over-
flowing with chrysanthemums, and even the cold
frames are pressed into service so that we may have
great quantities of these friendly and multicolored
favorites in both country and city houses until Christ-
mas. We do not attempt to grow the huge heads which
one sees in the autumn flower shows, but confine our

attention to the single, the pompon, and the anemone
89
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

varieties with a very few Chinese for early bloom.

Different kinds of strawberries take up fully one
quarter of this garden, with constant need for new beds.
As early as the seventh of June the Marshall and Sen-
ator Dunlap are ready to be picked; the Barrymore and
President soon follow with the Gandy lasting until the
eighteenth of July. JI was agreeably surprised to dis-
cover only recently that the tiny Alpine strawberry, of
which the French are so fond and which in flavor re-
sembles our own wild strawberry, can be successfully
grown in our own garden. ‘This gives one the feeling
of acquiring a new fruit. We have some cuttings of
the new continuous-bearing strawberry, which is sup-
posed to furnish a supply of fruit until October; and
this summer will inform us still more fully as to its
merits.

Gooseberries, the big English purple ones, and cur-
rants, black, white, and red, also flourish here; black-
berries are comparatively unimportant compared to
the golden and red raspberries. These delicious
morsels are given a generous allotment of space in

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THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

the upper garden; but in order to enjoy them ourselves,
we have to resort to strategy. Having seen bits of
paper strung on tapes flapping over berry beds in
France, we tried that clever device as a protection
against our own greedy birds. Do you think that they
were intimidated? Not in the least. They had the
audacity actually to alight on the tapes, evidently re-
garding them as put there for their especial convenience.
That failing, more drastic measures had to be taken.
Immense lengths of mosquito netting were sewn to-
gether, spread over poles, then wired to the ground
entirely around the raspberry bushes. I confess it did
not add to the beauty of the garden, but it served its
purpose and really prolonged our season, as the berries
ripened more slowly under this thin covering.

It is only within the last two years that we have made
the acquaintance of the Physalis family, two members
of which now have their homes in our upper garden.
The domestic Physalis (pubescens) or ground cherry,
sometimes also called cherry tomato, in her modest
khaki-colored garment and her humble attitude,

QI
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

scarcely lifting her eyes above the ground, is in strik-
ing contrast to her Japanese relative with his upright
carriage and flaunting hues: The one gives pleasure
to our eyes, the other to our appetite.

The Physalis pubescens is very old-fashioned; in-
deed it is first described in 1774 as growing in Dr.
Sherard’s garden in Eltham, England, although no
mention is made of its culinary uses. It is supposed
to have come originally from the Barbados. In its
dainty paper-like case it used to form the chief delicacy
of my doll’s parties, and the taste of it now brings back
those halcyon days. Perhaps it is more for old as-
sociation’s sake than for its own peculiar flavor that
we treasure it; although Professor Bailey encourages
me by writing that “this plant is worthy a place in every
home garden.” Made into a pie it becomes a dessert
which usually mystifies our guests.

This part of our country is not famous for its fruit,
but we have planted in the upper garden in long rows
on either side, cherry and plum trees, pear, apple,
and crabs. JI cannot say that they have made much

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THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

growth or given us much of their produce. The birds
have benefited by the cherries, and the trees in blossom
are a joy to behold. Must we always be material?
One year we had half a dozen delicious pears and about
a dozen “wealthy” apples equally satisfying, besides
about a peck of the “Duchess” variety. In time doubt-
less these young trees will repay us for their care.

Apropos of this let me digress a little from my upper
garden to tell about an interesting experimental fruit
farm which is being conducted on the lake by the
State Horticultural Society. Five acres of land are
offered by the owner, the two-year-old trees are donated
by the institution, and full instructions as to their care
are given to the farmer who does all the work.

Two or three times a year the orchard is visited by
a committee from the Society, and the inspector is
likely to drop in at any time. When and how to
prune and to spray the trees is carefully explained to
the farmer, and when at the end of five years the trees
begin to bear, the produce is divided between the So-
ciety and the farmer for two years. Then at the end

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

of seven years the orchard belongs to the owner of the
land. It is only about ten years since experimental
work of this character was begun, and more orchards
are being set out each season. Apples and cherries of
different varieties are being tested on our lake but as
the work is only eighteen months old, conclusions can-
not yet be drawn. ‘This experimental orchard is of
great interest and value not only to the owner and his
immediate neighbors, but to the entire community in
which it is placed.

Not only fruit but flowers for cutting are grown in
this upper garden; long allées of sweet peas, big clumps
of peonies, wide tracts of lilies-of-the-valley, high
growths of dahlias, variegated sweet williams,
Achillea the pearl, and that huge, yellow daisy-like
flower staggering under the heathenish name of
Buphthalmum speciosum! Boltonias both pink and
white, and the haughty ‘““Miss Mellish” sunflower stand
before the high grape screen with monkshood, phlox,
and marigold.

Recently we have adopted a dainty stranger from

94
 

 

 

 

NG

S FOR CUTTI

ARE FLOWER

N

BEFORE THE GRAPE SCREE

 

 

ASPECT

A COMICAL

IN WINTER HAVE

THE ROSES
 

 

 

 

THE

PHYSALIS

FRANCHETI
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

an Eastern land which we found sitting quaintly on
the counter of our village drug-store. The vase of
angled, orange-scarlet seed vessels dangling four or
five along the length of the stem was a picture.

“What wonderful color!” I exclaimed. ‘What are
they?”

“T don’t know their name,” responded the head of
the establishment; but seeing my covetous eyes, I sup-
pose, with his usual courteous helpfulness he added:
“Won't you take them?”

“Oh, no! Only one, then.” And I bore off my
prize to look up its name and nature. “The seeds so
resembled the ground cherry in shape that we knew it
must belong to the same family and soon found it in
our catalogues. It was named the Physalis Francheti
after the Frenchman who first described it, as recently
as 1879. Why it should be called the Chinese lantern
plant when it comes from Japan is one of the in-
congruities of nomenclature, although its lacquer tint
and balloon-like shape certainly remind one of those
gorgeous lights. The seed pods retain their color all

95
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

winter and arranged in a Japanese wall basket against
the brown wood of the chimney piece, really make a
striking effect.

I have said that the most beautiful blue flower in
the world is the Chinese larkspur, but the bright blue
salvia (patens) sometimes causes me to hesitate.
There is a curious evanescent quality in the stem and
leaves which throws into still stronger relief the splen-
did, velvet-blue of the bloom. Ina corner of the gar-
den made gay with yellow coneflowers, this plot of
brilliant azure looks at a distance like a tiny pool.

Of all the coneflowers, the triloba is the most satis-
factory. How inadequate are words to describe its
color! Its petals are small but so vividly yellow shad-
ing to orange that the effect is dazzling in the sun-
light. Doing well in half shade, when cut it brings
the sunshine to the darkest corner of a room. Unlike
many of the rudbeckias, it has the agreeable habit
of keeping crisp and fresh for days in the house; and
its blossoming period lasts from July to the first week

of October. At first we planted it just outside the
96
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

formal garden in a lovely tangle along the Trail, and
here it gladdens our eyes still. Although a biennial,
it sows itself and increases so generously that we take
up many small plants in the fall and put them in other
parts of the grounds. Every season we say, “Next year
we 'll have another plot of triloba,” until now it greets
us not only from the edge of the woods in the wild gar-
den, but from the path leading to the gravel pit and
from the oval before the east entrance, while from the
driveway a great tongue of it extends into the forest.
But in my enthusiasm for the gay triloba I have wan-
dered far from the upper garden! Here on each side
of the path are gillyflowers and pink, purple, and white
asters, not the stiff, zinnia-like variety but the feathery,
loose growing kind. Salpiglossis with its blooms of
every hue, and larkspur in varied shades of blue and
pink; foxgloves speckled with indescribable shades,
and the giant summer hyacinth (Galtonia candicans)
with its fragrant, bell-like drops reminding one of
fairy chimes; Shasta daisies and lilies of many kinds,
snapdragons, mignonette and golden coxcomb, with

7 97
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

calliopsis, coreopsis and gladioli in great variety of
bloom, follow each other in their seasons.

My life is really a series of Christmas Days. Each
morning when I come in from my outdoor nest I won-
der what new joy this dawn will bring. I glance at
the desk to see if by chance a friendly letter has ar-
rived, then if my dream comes true, I curl up on the
chaise longue to read it at once. Is there a package?
Perhaps the return of a botanical specimen with its
proper name carefully explained by an expert of the
University; perhaps only a needed supply of buttons
from the, at times, convenient city; perhaps a book
ordered so long ago that it has been forgotten, or pos-
sibly an offering from some compassionate relative,
such as an adorable sunbonnet which unfolded in my
hands the other day. I have never gotten over the
childish joy of opening bundles; it remains like my
taste for fairy tales. The morning that thrilling
envelope arrives containing my recent exposures!
Only the soul of a photographer can appreciate the feel-

ings with which I unseal it and examine one by one, in
98
 

THE UPPER GARDEN

 

 

fearful trepidation, the results of my last experiments.
Or an innocent looking pamphlet lies at the bottom of
my heap of business mail, a small pamphlet, loosely
bound about with brown paper; but if the name of
Horsford or Elliot or Meehan chances to be uppermost,
I seize it with avidity; for this is that insinuating docu-
ment known as “Summer Planting.” Everyone ac-
knowledges the fascinations of the seed catalogues
which come to us in such tempting profusion in the
fall. Their size alone is bewildering, and one can
harden one’s heart to their wiles at the beginning of
the season; but I defy anyone to resist the pleading
of that plausible and pleasant phrase “Summer
Planting.” Has not each one of us a bare corner where
for some unaccountable reason the brilliant representa-
tions of the colored print have appeared only in
sickly imitation, or where a late frost has blanched an
enterprising early bloomer, or where some pest or
other has devoured its favorite food quite regardless of
its being your favorite flower too? All these corners
must be filled with something, and it is for this very
99
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

reason that “Summer Planting” holds out helping
hands. Of course in our cold frames we keep lilies
ready to transplant where needed, and asters fill in ac-
ceptably late in August; but in this pamphlet are won-
der-working possibilities. Who could resist them?

I suppose that everyone’s flowers are more or less
like his neighbor’s, but whenever I look at mine spread
before me like a glowing carpet in the upper garden
or watch the gardener as he comes through the shadow
and the sunshine of the long pergola carrying huge
baskets overflowing with richly colored blossoms, I have
a feeling of especial pleasure and exult in the thought

that these are mine.

100
CHAPTER V

THE BANTAMS

MAN always wants a farm. He may have
everything else that mortal mind can imagine
to keep him busy, to maintain his interest, to

make him happy, but always in his most ecstatic dreams,
he sees himself as a farmer. Why this should be, no
mere woman can divine; but she learns its vital truth
as the years progress. The only real cure for this
aberration consists in acquiring that farm, sinking a
fortune in its upkeep, and going through the anxious
moments incidental to the various live stock with which
it may be furnished. I do not find that any amount
of money preserves the farmer from severe disappoint-
ment at blasted crops or diseased cattle or eggless
chickens. I suppose it is the pride of man which dis-
likes ridicule and shrinks from failure.

To my secret joy, no land available for farming pur-

IOI
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

poses lay near our country place; and although we had
plenty of opportunities—‘rare opportunities” —pre-
sented by assiduous friends as well as by mere acquaint-
ances, thus far we had escaped the toils. In my
estimation we had already carefully selected all the
desirable features of farm life and rejected its per-
plexities. The woodlot with comfortably simple
house, the flower gardens, the kitchen gardens, the
glass houses were ours; the crops and the live stock with
their attendants and buildings were our neighbor’s.
It seemed to me an ideal arrangement. The waving
fields of corn for which this Big Foot Prairie is famous,
the rolling meadows of billowy grain outlining the
contours of the land, the vivid green of the alfalfa har-
vest, were they not mine to look at and enjoy as well as
the man’s who owned them?

To most people life in the country would be in-
adequate without at least one cow; but as cows
to us meant simply milk, and we never had any diffi-
culty in acquiring that from our neighbors, we were
content. I could and did enjoy my neighbor’s cement,

102
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

screened and “awninged” barns with attending hay-
lofts and silo towers, and dairy where modern me-
chanical devices amazed the uninitiated. Milking
time at the Upland Farm, for instance, was quite a cere-
mony, and anyone bidden to witness it had to obey cer-
tain fixed rules. The first important one was that ab-
solute silence must be maintained. Not only no loud
talking but no talking of any kind was permitted, even
the irritating sound of whispering was forbidden; for
in order to get the best results, these fine animals must
be undisturbed. Much impressed by these precautions,
we tiptoed into the long barn where, disposed in two
even rows, stood over a hundred superior Holsteins
chewing their cuds in agreeable harmony, attended by
white-robed farm-hands and being milked by ma-
chinery! Some three hundred feet away the gasoline
engine was carefully secluded, and a soft whir was
the only evidence of power. The clean floor, the fresh
straw, the hay-scented air, the well-kept cattle, and the
orderliness of all things might well inspire the owner

with a righteous pride. We congratulated him upon

103
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

his success, but I felt no inclination to follow in his
footsteps.

No one could be more enthusiastic than I really feel
over the sheep on my neighbor’s moors, whether nib-
bling the grass at noontime, their funny soft noses work-
ing busily, or gathered in masses by the gate at twilight,
or moving along the highway in a whir of sun-flecked
dust. They always add a certain picturesqueness to the
landscape. I even admire—in the distance—my
neighbor’s small pig-houses scattered over the sunny
meadow, where pigs in all stages of development root
vigorously. The poultry plant too—of my neighbor
—I can appreciate with its carefully heated apart-
ments, its rows of bins for food and cleansing materials,
its brooders and incubators and specially arranged fat-
tening coops. Ducks, geese, Guinea hens, turkeys,
pigeons,—in all I take the keenest interest—at my
neighbor’s; but never with an envious heart.

So when the first mention of bantams was made to
me, I agreed somewhat dubiously as to their charms.

Chickens, even bantams, I felt persuaded would mean,

104.
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

if not now, surely in the future, a chicken house and
long wired runs which never could be made beautiful
to anyone but a utilitarian. I confess the feat was ac-
complished in a most beguiling manner. One morn-
ing the Constant Improver casually mentioned that
our neighbor Mr. H—— had some extremely pretty
black bantams. This was in August. In September,
he remarked that this same neighbor wanted to present
us with a rooster and four hens.

“They won't require any care or food,” he said,
“they ‘Il just run around in the woods and look pretty.”
It sounded attractive.

“Yes, they will be pretty,” I agreed, “if they don’t
get into the garden.”

“Oh, no! They won’t get into the garden; Mr. H——
assures me they never do any mischief. And think of
the nice fresh eggs we shall have, even if they are
small.”

So the four black bantams escorted by their gamey
little cock arrived and immediately took themselves

to the woods, returning night and morning to the pad-

105
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

dock to be fed. Now paddock may seem a queer name
for a chicken yard but the graveled space adjoining
the stable was always called the paddock, and so the
name remained even when the stable was transformed
into a garage and the graveled enclosure became a
chicken yard. ‘These bantams soon became monarchs
of the estate, wandering not only through the woods but
into the gardens at their pleasure, never doing any
harm. They were indeed well-behaved, high-bred,
aristocratic fowls, and they ate the grasshoppers and
other noxious insects with a thoroughness approved of
by the gardener.

As if all the world had suddenly learned by some
occult process that we kept bantams, we began to re-
ceive almost daily leaflets and pamphlets about chick-
ens; advertisements of food for chickens; hints for their
care; fantastically named germicides; all manner of
paraphernalia for housing them and for breeding them;
catologues of sellers of fine stock and of famous eggs;
lists of journals and magazines devoted to their culture.

Books began to pour in upon us whether from earnest

106
 

 

 

 

 

BANTAMS IN THE SNOW
 

THE WOODLOT WITH COMFORTABLY SIMPLE HOUSE WAS OURS
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

advisers or mischievous friends never could be dis-
covered. We acquired quite a library, but fortunately
no more chickens.

Finally after studying the practical needs of our ban-
tams and the most approved nests and roosts, we built a
house thirteen feet six inches by twenty-three feet, three
sides of which were of brown stained ship-lap, with a
slightly sloping roof covered with prepared tar-paper
and gravel. Isn’t ship-lap a picturesque word? One
visualizes at once the ships of the olden time with their
overlapping timbers. The front of the house was
screened and had also glass partitions which could be
lowered at will. Each of the two rooms was provided
with a practical roost and three box nests. Besides tiny
exits with chicken ladders toward the woods, a large
door opened into the paddock. Big bushes and trees
hid this small lean-to in the rear, and across the front
of the house extending the entire length of the paddock
was built a beautiful trellis also stained dark brown.
In and out and under this screen would trot the baby

bantams. But I am anticipating,

107
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

When our new black pets arrived they found, already
at home upon the estate, a yellow bantam rooster and
eight hens with feathered anklets, belonging to our
gardener’s small boy. Never doubting that they would
be friends, we made no attempt to separate the birds.
But the black cock brooked no rival in the field; he
made that yellow rooster’s life a misery and finally
killed him; then annexing his enemy’s bewildered
harem he strutted triumphantly off to the woods.

I arrived in the country rather late the next summer,
and it seemed to me that wherever I went within one or
two hundred feet of the chicken house, I would hear a
gentle scuttling and see a black bantam or a yellow ban-
tam or a mixed speckled bantam disappearing in the
underbrush, while a chorus of baby crowings mingled
with cluckings and cheepings pervaded the evening
air.

At dinner I asked, quite innocently, ‘““How many ban-
tams have we now?”

A curious look came into the face of the Constant

108
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

Improver as he answered, a bit hesitatingly, ‘I believe
—William says—there are a hundred and ten.”

“A hundred and ten!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Flave you gone into the poultry business?”

“No, not exactly,” he mildly returned. “You see,
it’s this way. ‘The bantams won’t lay their eggs in those
specially prepared nests in the chicken house. They
will steal their nests and they come back from the woods
with an air of the greatest importance and ten or twelve
little ones trailing along behind them.”

“Do you mean to tell me that from those four hens
and one rooster with the assistance of eight or nine yel-
low pullets we have now a hundred and ten bantams,
big and little?”

“IT do indeed and they’re increasing weekly.
Something must be done.”

Something indeed. I was speechless.

“T wonder if the F

rupted my wis-d-vis, “their little boy said something

)

 

s would n't like a few,” inter-

about wanting one the other day.”

109
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

“Yes, that’s a good idea. I’Il take a selection up
there the next time I go that way.”

‘Perhaps we may hear of somebody else who would
like them,” went on the tender-hearted man, for he saw
a certain fixed resolve appearing in my eye.

“Well, there’ be plenty to give away if that
emergency arises; but I think we'd better try eating
a few of them.”

“They ’d be so little,” he protested.

“Well call them pigeons and have one apiece.”

But they were not nearly so small as that. Be-
tween four and five months old, weighing about a
pound and a half, hung a week in the ice house, fat,
tender, juicy, with a faint gamey flavor, they were a
feast for the gods! Here was our reward, here our
justification. Let the bantams have their own way,
let them increase and multiply, we have learned how
to enjoy them, now full well we know their gastronomic
value.

We even contemplated bestowing a medal on that

persistent little hen who on the seventeenth of October

IIo
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

emerged from under the porch of the cottage with
thirteen chicks toddling after her! And this was her
third brood this year, each one from eleven to thirteen
in number! The successful man is he who recog-
nizes ability wherever he finds it, only bending this
energy to conform to his plans. Here was certainly
a potent force; instead of rebelling at its manifesta-
tion, why not avail oneself of its possibilities?

These black bantams are wild little creatures in-
finitely preferring to roost in the trees rather than un-
der a roof so they have to be “shooed” into their coop
each night. They are evidently in full sympathy with
the Mistress of the Manor in regard to sleeping out
of doors.

“Flow am IJ ever going to get any pictures of them?”
I demanded of their caretaker.

“Oh! I can manage that. Ill not let ’em out in
the mornin’ till you come up.”

That seemed an excellent plan and one sure to suc-
ceed. So at about nine o’clock on a bright, sunny

morning we placed the water-pan and the food they

III
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

liked the best directly in front of the door. I seated
myself not too near with the camera and the door was
opened. The procession began at once, led by
the gamey cock who scorned to hurry although his
mates, after one indignant glance at me, hastened to
overtake him on the other side of the trellis. A brood
of week-old chicks in a flutter of excitement tumbled
out of the spacious opening accompanied by their anx-
ious mother with many warnings. A young rooster
drooped his wings haughtily as he stalked by, the sun
flashing into color his iridescent plumage. Fat
pullets—my mouth watered at sight of them—hopped
gravely down the little step to the gravel and, bantam
after bantam, little and big, not bestowing even a hesi-
tating glance at the tempting dainties so lavishly dis-
played, with one accord took their separate and
immediate departure for the woods.

They said so plainly: “We are outraged at being
kept shut up until this hour; we know that it was for
some evil purpose; we do not accept your hospitality ;

we are perfectly equal to getting our own living, and

112
 

THE BANTAMS

 

 

we prefer our liberty to anything else. What is food
compared with freedome”

It was a fine example of concerted action, whether
instinctive or prearranged. In less time than it takes
to tell it, not a feather was in sight, although tri-
umphant clucking echoed by tiny crowings be-
trayed their approximate presence. I could almost
hear one of the favorites exclaim to my little Chanti-
cleer, “Did you ever hear of such treatment? How
dared they? It’s abominable.” At least that is the
way it sounded as she sidled up to him and lifted her
beak to his notice. Doubtless they were discussing
the situation all about me, for at times a scout would
appear in the distance to reconnoiter, to see I suppose
if the paddock had assumed its normal aspect.

I retired. There seemed nothing else left for me
to do. But I could not consider myself vanquished.

Another plan must be evolved.

8 113
CHAPTER VI

THE OPEN WINDOW

VERY room in which one sits should have a
kK window that opens at least three feet square into
the out-of-doors. It should be not more than
two feet from the floor and protected in such a man-
ner as to exclude both rain and wind. Does this sound
impossible? So I once thought. But I have found
out that it can be done; discovered it partly
by accident, as is the way with so many of the good
things of this world. In the tiny cottage where our
country life began, the windows, wherever not pro-
tected by the eaves, were provided with a kind of hood
about a foot wide, which was merely a continuation of
the overlapping wood of the house wall. This,
with the thick foliage of the maple trees growing close
to the house, formed an effective screen against any
but the fiercest storms.
When we built the big house I remembered this
114
 

 

BALTIMORE ORIOLE ABOUT THREE WEEKS OLD
aHL

SAAVa AHL YAGNO MOGNIM Nido

Nada MLA

OML FNL

SdauL

 

 

 
 

THE OPEN WINDOW

 

 

agreeable feature and went, full of enthusiasm, to the
Friendly Architect with my plans; but he looked at
me askance and remarked among other things that evi-
dently I had forgotten this was to be a plaster house,
and hoods over the windows would be an abomination!
Perhaps he phrased it more politely but that was
his essential meaning. Of course I was no more
anxious than he to ruin the exterior of the house. I
only begged that wherever possible our windows
should be protected. This he readily promised, and_
as a result we have five rooms in which at least one
window never need be shut.

In my own room this rainproof opening is a con-
stant joy and is open from May until October. Facing
the setting sun, protected on the north by the
jutting bricks of the big chimney, overhead by the
three-foot eaves assisted by the overlapping boughs of
a specially planted maple, it provides me with fresh
scented air from fragrant shrubs below it, with sweet-
est sounds from bird throats about it and with a suc-

cession of pictures inimitable and unforgetable.

115
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

Woodbine leaves surround it and creep over the well-
filled box of rose geranium and lemon verbena.
Through it I look out into leafy depths sparkling with
raindrops or shimmering with sunlight, into green
bowers or gay autumnal mazes. Beneath the maple
a wild cherry has spread its glossy foliage, and below
the terrace lies the formal garden radiant as a jewel
against the cool recesses of the forest. Beyond the tall
shrubbery gleam the changing waters of the lake, and
the sky broods over all. Beside this window is my
favorite seat, and I have no need for other pictures
than those framed within this open space.

The birds have chosen this maple for a resting place
and here from the tiniest warbler to the rampant
blue jay they give me ample opportunities to ob-
serve their various manners. Here is always a generous
supply of suet for those who like that best, and here
too hangs the German food-bell furnishing the chick-
adees with winter provender.

The chickadee is a bird of moods. No one can feel

perfectly acquainted with him who has only seen him
116
 

THE OPEN WINDOW

 

 

skimming from tree to tree in a merry race with his
mate, or pecking at his bit of food held deftly in one
claw, or doing gymnastic stunts from the ends of
branches. His notes, too, are as varied as his moods.
He seldom alights on the sill without a little “cheep”
and the woods echo with his well-known song. After
the frost my window box is transformed into a buffet
where various bird delicacies are carefully displayed,
and often when I rush to the window to scare away
the squirrel from this birds’ table, my little
chickadee cocks his head on one side and cries, “Dee,
dee, you are really too kind.” Occasionally he
bubbles over in a joyous trill so unlike his usual call
that I look out quickly to be sure it is he.

For days the stillness of the early dawn had been
broken by two soft, sad notes in falling cadence. A
Peabody bird in January? The call was so like the
attempts of young birds of that species that I searched
the near-by trees, the terrace wall, the shrubs; but I
saw only a few juncos, an English sparrow or
two, and of course the chickadees. Is it possible that

117
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

I cannot tell the whitethroat from the English spar-
rowe And I scrutinized those saucy, but in the
country, clean, birds carefully. No, there was no
mistaking those bandits of the bird world; no white-
throat was among them. I asked a caller well versed
in this country’s habits if the whitethroat ever stayed
as late as this. “I think that you must have heard
what we call the spring song of the chickadee,” she
answered at once. Although I smiled politely
and thanked her I was not convinced. Until I actually
saw a chickadee emitting those two notes I could not
believe it. For days J waited and watched, hearing
often but never seeing, until finally one morning just as
I was putting out the dish of food for the birds’ table,
a chickadee on the nearest branch to me lifted up his
small voice and cried: ‘“O—h, de—r!” An exquisite,
prolonged, pathetic sigh. Now I was convinced, now
I recognized that Mr. Chickadee had his own small
trials, and that although he endeavored to be cheery
before the world there were moments when his hid-

den griefs must find expression.
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One season we opened the house before the middle
of April; in our climate that means winter weather and
a scarcity of food, so the birds were very grateful for
the nuts and seeds placed on a board covering my win-
dow box. The nuthatches and chickadees, the juncos
and even the catbirds made me many a visit, but one
morning in early May a song sparrow shyly ventured
to the sill and helped himself from the seed dish with
many a rapid glance about. From that time until the
end of September every day that lovely bird came
daintily to his meals at my open window. Always he
approached in the same manner, a swift flight to the
maple tree from which he scanned the board, a gentle
hop along the nearest branch, a step to the chimney
shelf, thence, still hopping, to the sill and coveted dish.

Unlike the chickadee and nuthatch, who announced
their approach, the song sparrow kept a discreet silence
when eating, only the crunching of seeds as the shells
dropped back into the dish betraying his presence. If
not disturbed he generally took from thirty to fifty
seeds before leaving, but on one particularly hungry

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morning he ate seventy-one seeds without even stopping
to drink. For beside the food dish stood a saucer of
gravel enclosing a shallow basin of water renewed
daily. He always drank in a leisurely fashion, often
returning to the seeds with apparently new appetite.
His hunger appeased, he would fly from the sill di-
rectly to the top of the nearest bush below and fling
into the air his thrilling notes.

Any sudden movement in the room while he was
feeding sent him leaping from the board, but he finally
learned that the movement of a hand in writing, even
within two feet of him, meant no harm. This oppor-
tunity to study the markings of a song sparrow, his
bright beady eyes, his shapely body, his rapid motions,
was eagerly accepted and enjoyed. The nuthatch and
the chickadee found plenty of food in the deep woods
by the first week in June, so abandoned the window-sill
to the catbirds and song sparrow. Late in July an un-
usual commotion informed me that two sparrows had

been feeding on the sill; that is, one drove the other

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WOOD THRUSH BABIES
 

THE OPEN WINDOW

 

 

away. How long they had been taking turns, whether
mate or child, I could not tell.

One morning in mid-August a greedy young bird
followed his parent to the sill with insistent cries and
was given fifteen seeds before leaving. In two hours
the couple returned for more food. It was a charming
picture; the eager nestling with fluttering wings, the
careful mother turning her head on one side as she
inserted the seed within that open beak; against cool
greens beyond their fawn-colored feathers appeared
more vivid. The swallowing of food did not seem to
interfere at all with the vocal chords of my young song
sparrow, but his notes gradually became less harsh as
his appetite decreased until at the last just before he
flew they were little more than murmurs of satisfaction.
Her duty done, the hungry mother came back to the
sill alone and ate one hundred and thirty-one seeds with-
out stopping; then took some fine gravel, a drop or two
of water and finished with a desert of sixty-one more

seeds! One could almost see her form expand as she

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lifted her wings and preened herself in absolute con-
tent.

The presence of the hairy or the downy woodpecker
feeding her squawking infant from the suet six feet
away never disturbed the song sparrow in the least; a
catbird devouring chopped nuts on the other side of the
water dish never interfered with his repast; even the
gray squirrel would get within two feet of him before
he would leave what he had learned to consider his
own apartment. It is needless to add that this par-
ticular year I gladly gave up my window-box of sweet-
scented plants in exchange for the companionship of
these adorable song sparrows.

These are some of the joys of my window; but
that there are also drawbacks was shown by another
winter experience. For several nights I had been
disturbed by the nibbling of some night animal on
the birds’ window sill, so just within the small open-
ing of the double windows I placed a mouse trap. No
sooner had I lost myself in slumber than I was

awakened by a squealing and a thumping by the

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window; flashing on the light I saw such a surprising
object flopping over the floor, dragging the trap with
him that I called for help.

“Oh! do come and see what I’ve got,” I cried; for
this was a new animal to me and a remarkably lively
one; the head suggested a rat but his flat furry tail,
brown lined with white, contradicted that idea. My
request that he be drowned brought a protest which
I speedily overruled.

‘“Now that small beast has been disturbing my rest
for two or three nights and I want him killed,” was
my demand, made emphatic as much by fear of let-
ting my sympathies prevail as by loss of sleep.

So the Constant Improver gingerly wrapped a towel
about the little rascal and dumped trap and all into
the filled bowl. This was too much for the beastie
and with a final wriggle he freed himself from the
trap. At this the tender heart of the strong man
carried the day; quickly he opened the door of the
porch and shook the half-drowned animal out to a
barely won freedom.

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“Tt’s a lesson for him, he’ll not disturb you again,”
he murmured half apologetically.

I wonder whether I looked as doubtful as I felt,
but there was nothing left to say. Back to bed again
I crept and for a space quiet reigned. Then crackle,
crackle, at the window!

“T like the wild things,” said I to myself, “so I
will just let him nibble while I go to sleep.”

How fortunate if we could only do the thing we
will to do! Instead of sleeping I turned restlessly,
sure that the beast had come into the room. I could
plainly hear little thumps and runs on the bare floor,
but the instant that I turned on the light all
was still. After two hours of philosophizing I went
to the window in desperation, closed the hole by which
he had come in and stood watching him. There in
the bright moonlight my small disturber was spring-
ing from chimney to sill and back again; even when
I “shooed” at him and drummed on the glass he only
retreated a few inches. His movements were very like

a chipmunk’s but not quite so swift. By and by he

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decided to go on with his night’s entertainment
in spite of me and made a flying leap for the opening
in the double windows; as he hurled himself angrily
again and again at his accustomed entrance, I realized
that screens would be advisable up here even in mid-
winter.

And what was this little beast who walked abroad
at night and fearlessly entered our room? I believe
he is called a flying squirrel as he can make such huge
leaps in the air, flattening out his small body and steer-
ing with his broad tail. I know that they are
not at all nice pets for the house, and that much of the
damage attributed to the common squirrel is done by
this mischievous creature.

“Flave n’t we a trap that catches small animals with-
out hurting themP” I asked the gardener the next morn-
ing.

“Yes’m,” he answered.

“Well, please put it on my window sill to-night with
peanuts in it.”

It had not been there an hour before two small

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furry creatures were within its wires and I hardened
my heart to giving orders that they were to be drowned.
But the very same night their ghosts or their relatives
paraded up and down my chamber walls and scram-
bled over the roof so that another trap had to be set.
This time only one squirrel was caught although 1.
saw another one near the trap.

“T believe I ll keep that cunning little thing a few
days and study him. Haven’t we an old bird cage
in the attic?”

‘“Ye—es,” was the dubious reply of my faithful
maid, who by this time was quite used to my erratic
ways.

“Well, bring it down, and Ill wire the door so he
can’t push it open. They are such clever little things.”

With a vast deal of effort, with gloved fingers and
quick motions the flying squirrel was transferred from
trap to bird cage and the door carefully held until my
room was reached. As I went for the wire I asked,
“Did you put some water in the side dish and—”

“Oh! he’s out,” exclaimed the maid, and I rushed
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back to behold the resourceful creature half running,
half leaping about the room.

“How—” I began.

“Ben said he could n’t possibly get through that hole
—his head was too large—where the dish should have
been, but it got broken.”

I only half listened to her breathless explanation.
“Shut the doors,” and I rushed to the fireplace to put
up the screen. But I need n’t have taken any of these
precautions; that squirrel knew my room_ per-
fectly, and he knew the six-inch hole in the storm win-
dow where he was accustomed to go in and out, for
he scrambled to it at once and made his escape. Yet
would you believe that, once outside, he only hopped
about two feet away and then, squatting on the sill,
looked back at us with such an expression of derision
that it was uncanny. I could not be beaten by so tiny
a creature, I must bide my time.

The trap was put out again that night and in the
morning the door of escape was found open and all

the food gone! How he must have posed before his

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

family and friends as the unconquerable, the invincible!
At last I succeeded in getting two flying squirrels in
the trap and, wiring every possibly cranny in the bird
cage, transferred them thither.

With the cage on my writing table it was difficult
to do any work, they were so cunning. Quite fear-
less and philosophic, after examining carefully every
nook and corner of their new abode, disdaining food
or water, they curled up against the side of the cage
close together, their broad tails over their eyes;
and there in a round ball they stayed until I put them
out of doors at nine o’clock. At an unusual noise up
would pop one sharp nose and open would come one
drowsy eye but only for a moment. Evidently their
nervous systems were in perfect condition, and day-
time to them meant slumber.

The next morning by dint of poking gently with a
broad paper-cutter we induced them to enter a proper
squirrel cage. Once in the new quarters, each of them
woke up enough to investigate every separate cor-

ner of the new abode, even testing the wheel. Then

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one of them deliberately curled himself up in the small
tin food-cup on top of the corn and peanuts, where he
remained without even stretching himself until after
eight at night, when I put the cage out on the porch.
Then such yawnings and friskings, such eating
and drinking, such gay whirls in the festive wheel! I
did not stay to see how late they kept up their antics,
but I heard that only the dawn quieted them. The
next day Arthur, as we named the least aggressive
one, who had spent his daylight hours the day before
curled up in a round ball on the shelf, with his tail
carefully spread before his eyes, after poking his com-
panion a bit, managed to crawl also into the tin cup,
and there the two stayed all day. It was certainly not
for warmth that they did this, as the room was heated.
Only the gentle regular pulsation of their backs indi-
cated that they were alive.

When we went to town for the winter, these flying
squirrels had become such pets that they were taken
down to the cottage, where their funny antics amused

the family. They were permitted the freedom of the
9 129
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

house, ate out of the hand, snuggled in the
men’s pockets, and returned readily to sleep in their
comfortable cage. As spring came on they roamed
abroad and finally took possession of one of the
Berlepsch bird boxes hanging near the cottage and
intended for a downy woodpecker. Here they set up
housekeeping and joined again the great community of
wild life about us.

It is the middle of August. I am awakened by the
clear, gay whistle of the oriole and the trial peeps of
young birds striving after the full phrase. The vesper
sparrow, too, has come close to the house to repeat
again and again his trill and tumbling notes. The
catbird adds his unmusical call, and the peewee from
his high perch intones his mournful melody.
The robin ventures some cheery sounds, and the song
sparrow stops between the incessant demands of his
cowbird fledgling to voice his joy of life. From the
hollows in the woods comes the tree toad’s tom-tom
as the sun bursts forth from overhanging clouds to
make more brilliant the dripping leaves.

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One gray morning last September the world seemed
hushed as if expectant, only the insect chorus persisted
in a faint undertone. Suddenly the clarion call
of a robin was heard. Now our robins had left us
some ten days ago, so I went out with the glass to hunt
the tree-tops for these visitors. From the low branches
Of an oak on the edge of the lawn. one of the
songsters was announcing the arrival of the band.
I hastened to see whether the Hercules Club berries
were ready to be served, for well I know how fond the
robins are of this fruit. No, the rosy stems were
tipped with pale green berries making an exquisite
picture as, above the tropical foliage, the great heads
swayed back and forth against the hazy sky, but the
robins did not appreciate this kind of a display. They
were far too material. However, there were plenty of
other berries for their choice; the wild grape
hung its dainty clusters from the pergola roof as well
as from many a tree-top; the dogwood and elder of-
fered a variety of luscious berries, and on the house
wall the Virginia creeper’s rich dark fruit dangled

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

in lavish profusion from crimson stems. Cutting
off the larger leaves and keeping the vines confined to
the timbers of the house seems to increase the quantity
and size of these berries. And how the birds enjoy
them! Magnolia warblers perch on a swinging stalk
and with lively motions of their slender bodies eat
their fill.

What a happy six weeks those visiting robins had!
They feasted until they were as fat as pigeons; they
were on guard from the pergola way around to the
south terrace; they even drove away the belligerent
blue jays and suffered only the magnolia warblers and
the hermit thrushes to share their daily repasts. By
and by the Hercules Club berries did turn blue and
for each one a robin stood expectant on the linden tree
hard by. They voiced their thanks in lovely spring-
like chirruping and vied with the song sparrows
in the cool twilight.

How they love the fountain in the formal garden!
In the chill air of late September a robin often
alights on the still waters of the Roman tazza, gazes

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entranced at his mirrored image, then dashes in with
vigorous splashings and flies away with that triumphant
attitude which a bird so often affects after his tub.
The thermometer is so low that I shiver at his daring;
but flirting the water from his protecting coat he darts
to a sunny twig-top to complete his toilet. Early one
morning this water was entirely covered with so thick
a film of ice that robin after robin skated over its
slippery surface in surprised dismay; but the sun soon
restored it to its normal condition and set the gold-
fish free.

Back and forth among their larger brethren dart
the restless little goldfinches, no longer yellow and
black, but dressed now in their winter suits of sober
olive and scarcely to be recognized for the gay mites
we used to see swaying on the thistle heads in July.
To watch them now, hanging head downward on a
trumpet-vine bean, feathers all ruffed the wrong way
as they industriously extract the seeds from the open
pod, is to fall in love with them anew.

Soon after the first of October come the juncos, a

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

jolly company whirling in the highest wind, finding
mysterious delicacies beneath the bayberry bushes, and
making friends with the demure Peabody birds.
These juncos are our winter friends, and I am never
weary of watching their bewitching ways; but the Pea-
body bird makes our home merely a_ stop-over
on his way south. His delicious notes rejoice our
hearts from the middle of September until the last
of October, beginning in April, when the snowdrops
and marsh marigolds announce that spring has come.
At about nine o’clock one evening in late September
I was busy at my desk beside the open window, when
I heard a curious scratching at my dressing-room
screen; going to the window I frightened a small bird,
who took refuge at the next screen and finally clung
to the window frame of my own room as if begging
to be let in. I opened the window, and without a
moment’s hesitation in he flew. A tiny brown creature
with a white throat and wide speckled tail, a long
beak and a light line over the eye. He permitted
us to handle him without much trouble. What could
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he ber Evidently a baby. But to be out at this hour!
We finally concluded that it was a Bewick wren as
that is the most common species here. When he came
against the wall of the room he had a little
sharp cry and this same call we now heard outside
from some restless relative; however, none was to be
seen. Bringing the old bird cage from the attic we
made him comfortable with seeds, crumbs, and water,
then put him in the next room where it was dark; after
a bit of investigation he accepted his new lodging and
settled down quite at home. At the end of an hour
he was fast asleep on the lower perch. All that
night I had visions of a tame wren about my room
and wondered what I could feed him. The next morn-
ing before six o’clock I crept cautiously into the ad-
joining room to see after the welfare of my nocturnal
visitor. No sign of Mr. Wren within the cage. No
sound of any kind within the room. The windows
were screened of course but the hall door was open. I
wandered through the bedrooms and the living rooms
downstairs, but could find no trace of any bird.

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

Finally hearing a commotion in the butler’s pantry I
opened the door. Behold a very angry little prisoner
and a bewildered group of domestics! That little
creature had discovered the shortest way downstairs
and now proposed to get out of the house. No longer
tame he hurled himself against the confining walls,
and it was only with infinite precaution for the
china as well as for the tiny bird that we finally
succeeded in getting him again into the cage and bring-
ing him to my room. Very sulky he looked and very
unhappy, not a bit of food or drink would he touch,
he had had his curiosity satisfied about the interior of
‘that lighted box; now all he wished was to return
to his beloved out-of-doors. After getting his breath
he began to poke his head through the bars of the cage,
and in three minutes he had freed his whole body.
As I opened the window, with a dainty, unhurried air
he stepped along the sill avoiding the woodbine stems
and made one joyous, lengthy flight to the red-hawed
rose bushes in the midst of the shrubbery.

“Hermit thrushes?” Yes, tomy amazement. When

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a hermit thrush alights on your window sill not more
than two feet from your moving fingers, gazes intently
at you, wags his tail once or twice, then calmly turns
his back and helps himself to dangling berries,
you have a queer feeling of being admitted into the
mysteries of an inner circle hitherto undreamed of.
It is not only the opportunity of studying each feather,
each detail, each motion of the living bird which pleases
you, but the sense of mutual confidence and trust which
at each repetition of this conduct fills you with exultant

satisfaction.

137
CHAPTER VII

OUR LAKE

ANY and beautiful are the lakes of Wis-
| V consin, varied in size and shape and sur-

roundings; some are filled with wild rice,
others covered with lotus and white water lilies; some
clear with the bubbling of many springs, others
shallow as a river bed, and still others as deep as the
crater lakes of Italy. Each one has its own peculiar
charm, and each one its devotees. To us our small
lake, nine miles long and from one and a half
to three miles wide, is more than a mere expanse of
limpid water to reflect the clouds at sunset and the
moon’s pale glow, to sparkle beneath the sun’s rich
rays and rise to white-foamed grandeur under the
wind’s strong sweep. It tempers the breeze from the
hot prairies, affords refreshment to the swimmer, and
is a delight to the sailor. Even to him who does not
sail the sight of a white sheet skimming across the

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OUR LAKE

 

 

water brings a never-failing sense of exhilaration and
youth. It typifies the joy of living.

And there are more prosaic reasons for taking pleas-
ure in our small bit of water. The delight of fish-
ing does not consist entirely of sitting for hours mo-
tionless in a small boat or even in catching a
long string of the scaly beauties; the main pleasure
of this sport to an average person comes after the fish
have passed through the hands of the cook! Perch
and pickerel abound, the flesh of the latter being par-
ticularly firm and sweet, caught in such deep clear
water. Black bass although not common are fairly
plentiful, and four or five will well repay a fisher-
man for his hours of waiting. Occasionally one has
been caught weighing as much as four pounds, but
the average fish is not above two pounds.

Our lake seems to be used more than many others
for transportation; small steam yachts, launches,
Hankscraft, and motor boats are darting back and
forth the livelong day. The city visitor, heated, dusty,
and depressed, alights from the train on a summer

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

—

afternoon and, sinking into a comfortable chair on
deck, abandons himself to the sensuous enjoyment of
floating in the clean coolness to his destination. If
rainy, the cabin is commodious and large-windowed;
here in the fall a cup of tea is often offered to the
passenger, an attention much appreciated by the
feminine guest. On hot moonlight nights it is a fa-
vorite custom to have supper on board, as the yacht
drifts lazily over the still waters, making an ideal finish
to a Sunday in the country.

Although most of our time is spent in our beloved
woods and gardens, it is the lake after all which brought
us to this spot, and we are never oblivious of its love-
liness. In fact one of our chief problems was how
to treat our shore in such a way as not only
to preserve but to enhance its natural beauty. We
have about sixteen hundred feet on the water, as the
island is long and narrow; on account of changing the
main line of the shore for about three hundred feet to
conform with the line of the house, we had to begin
here at the very foundation of things and build

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OUR LAKE

 

 

the beach. Choosing for a model a natural shore
near-by, we placed the pebbles and sand and rocks in
irregular outline leaving, as we imagined, ample room
for overhanging shrubs before we put in the rich
soil beside the gravel path. How much the success
of a country place lies in willingness to submit to Na-
ture’s whims! From the rosemary willows stretch-
ing along the shore almost to the island bridge we
planted wild roses. In June they are an exquisite de-
light, as we anticipated; in October to our surprise
they glow with conscious color too, for twining around
their ruddy haws, the crimson leaves of the self-sown
Virginia creeper make a band of amazing loveliness.
“But doesn’t the vine hurt the roses?” asks-a con-
scientious garden-lover. It really does not seem to;
surely we would not want them higher or more
full of bloom. The jewel weed pokes its tender stem
through the prickly branches, and tiny asters, all self-
sown too, make variegated patches of lavender and
white above the green rose leaves. Before the roses
begin to leaf out in the early spring, the ground un-

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

derneath their bare branches is gay with marsh
marigolds and dandelions; later violets—our own
wood violets—blossom in company with hundreds of
English primroses.

In a hidden corner of our tiny bay, under the
rosemary willow, we set out water lilies, pink and
yellow, blue and white. Of course these had to be
planted in tubs, which are sunk below the ice in winter.
Parting the delicate tracery of the willow branches on
a sunny morning in August, twenty or thirty of these
fragrant flowers may be seen floating on the bosom of
the bay, their round leaves lifting lazily with the
undulating water.

This bay is a source of constant pleasure to us, for
it reflects the little island with its pebbly shore, its
gnarled old trees and many wild flowers of varied
hues. We scarcely touched this island, it was such
a perfect bit of wildness. Beneath the grove of small
poplars at the east we scattered wild columbine and
trilliums, but amid the milkweed and wild grasses
facing the bay we put masses of goldenrod and rosy

142
 

 

 

 

 

CORNER OF THE BAY

A HIDDEN

IN

WATER LILIES

 

 

 

 

A GRASSY PATH TO THE TEA HOUSE
 

THE LAKE TEMPERS THE BREEZE FROM THE HOT PRAIRIES

 

 

 

 

 

IN THE EARLY SPRING THE SHORE IS GAY WITH MARSH MARIGOLDS
AND DANDELIONS
 

OUR LAKE

 

 

loosestrife for bits of color in the water. Maples and
walnuts, linden clumps and dwarf oaks, slippery
elms and ironwoods in a tangle of grape, bittersweet
and Virginia creeper make this a favorite haunt for
birds and beasts—not to say humans—and a grassy path
to the rustic tea-house became a necessary invasion.

In this bay a pair of coots settle down for weeks
each autumn; a kingfisher constantly flies back and
forth from island point to willow, every now and then
diving into the water for his prey; and one morning
we discovered a mink’s nest hidden beneath a mass
of poison ivy! A guest well versed in the lore
of the animal kingdom, wandering alone on the island
at nightfall, had heard a queer cry like the mew of a
very young kitten coming from beneath the shelving
bank; so by the light of day we must needs take a boat
and search along the waterside for the cause. Two
or three hollows and one small but deep excavation
close to the water, all abounding in clam shells and
recently munched fish bones, betrayed the home of
Mr. Mink. But of him and his progeny we did not

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at that time catch a glimpse; he may have been hiding
beneath any one of a dozen rocks or hillocks, mocking
both our untrained human sight and undeveloped
sense of smell. Later, however, we did see a mink
swimming near the shore in the clear water.

Some of our friends and neighbors are kind enough
to own canoes, painted a harmonious green or left in
natural wood color; and one of my choicest memory
pictures is this bay as a canoe glides beneath the bridge
and emerges into open water, paddled by a red-coated
demoiselle who lingers at each lovely lily and slowly,
although always far too soon, disappears beyond the
willow tree.

One year a pair of kingbirds built their nest upon
the farthest branch of the leaning walnut at the end
of the island. More pessimistic than they, we daily
expected that the nestlings would wriggle over the edge
and fall into the water; but no such catastrophe oc-
curred. The brood developed in unusual vigor and
later came to the olive grove, where any evening in
the twilight one could see the silver sheen upon their

144
 

OUR LAKE

 

 

breasts as they balanced themselves precariously with
fluttering wings on the highest twigs.

In midsummer wheeling chimney swifts and flocks
of blue-backed swallows make this bay their hunting
ground. Later the gulls arrive but no small bay will
content them for long. If the day is stormy they may
linger for a while, delighting our eyes with their
graceful motions, but richer fishing grounds soon
lure them on. Some years, too, the black terns fly
back and forth uttering their harsh calls. The crows
know where a certain spring in the bay at the end of
the island keeps open water on the coldest day in mid-
winter. Here they congregate and here they fish! I
could not believe my glass at first but distinctly
I perceived Mr. Crow draw from the water a small
fish, carry it to the willow and hold it with one claw
while he calmly devoured it. Whether the fish was
a live one or not only the crows know, but many a
morning I saw them about this bubbly spot drinking
and making merry in true crow fashion.

At certain intervals during the summer various

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craft from the neighboring lakes come to our modest
waters to compare speeds. Twenty or thirty entries
make the prizes well worth winning and the spectacle
an exciting one. What exhilarating pictures these an-
nual regattas bring us when sailboats like white-
winged gulls singly, by twos, and by threes come into
view from behind the willows, emerge into the
open water of the bay, go by the point of the island,
and disappear toward the east end of the lake! Above,
a cool gray sky, below a dancing sea; the outstretched
forms upon the “skimming-dish” appear as tense as
the white sail overhead, while the keel cuts through
the rippling waters or lifts its blunted nose before the
advancing waves. We watch each one eagerly as it
tacks in the head wind careening so far that it seems
impossible that it should ever right again; but just
as we cry, “There she goes!” up it swings in time to
take another tack. The scattered boats pass in pro-
longed procession—‘“46,” “39,” “‘27”—accompanied by
the steam yachts at a respectful distance.

Soon from the village buoy comes the sharp whistle

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which signifies that the first half of the race is won.
Then we look for the return fleet running before the
wind with all sails set. ‘There is something thrilling
in that swelling jib pulling its load so easily and swiftly
toward the goal. How different the attitude of the
crew now! Instead of that tense posture ready to
leap on one side or the other or to hang over the edge
if need be in order to steady the boat, they now stand
at ease on the level deck or sit calmly with up-
raised knees, leaving all to the straining breeze.
They pass at varying distances followed by the gayly
trimmed escort and greeted by waving flags and loud
cheering. I suppose that one should take an interest
in the winner on this great occasion, but to me the joy
is in watching those skimming swallows dipping or
swaying or sailing on level keel straight into the sun-
set sky.

Most people when building a pier on their shore
line expect that pier to remain on that spot to the end
of time,—I mean their time. Imagine my amaze-
ment, then, when one day I caught a remark about

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“moving the pier.” If the Constant Improver had
casually said that he thought of moving the house I
could not have been more surprised.

“Are you really going to move the pier?” I asked.
“Where to? And why?”

“Well, I’m not going to do it right away,” so he
temporized,—this was in September,—‘“but it cer-
tainly would improve the looks of this shore very much
to have the pier away.”

No one could deny that. “But where will you put
it?” I persisted. “We must have one, you know.”
For I am always dreading the moment when the Con-
stant Improver’s strong sense of the beautiful will
overcome his practical ideas.

“T think it will go the other side of the island and
be entirely out of the way.”

“But the distance from the house?” I began.

“Tt is very little longer,” he interrupted, “and that
will bring all guests whether arriving by boat or motor
to the front door.”

As usual he was right. In January the heavy

148
UdId MAN AHL Wout AYOHS UNO

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

OUR HOUSE WAS SLOWLY BECOMING ENCI IN DENSE FOLIAGE

 
 

OUR LAKE

 

 

stones of the cribs were picked up from the bottom
of the lake, carried on the ice to the new location on
our eastern boundary, piled in their cribs again and
the ice cut under them, so that they sank easily into
place. In the spring when the pier was put out, we
found it a much more attractive spot at which to
anchor, and a stone bench under the drooping maples
beside it soon became a favorite resting-place. Where
the pier formerly stood a long seat now commands a
lovely view of rippling water and dented shore.
About this time we began to realize that our house
was slowly but surely becoming enclosed in dense foli-
age, and that our beloved lake was gradually disap-
pearing from our sight; but we had not yet learned
the value of the ax and the saw in landscape gar-
dening; and the old sentiment beginning, ‘Oh,
woodman! spare that tree!” still swayed us. So it was
a momentous day when we finally made up our minds
to open the lake view at the east. In order to keep
up our courage we said over and over again to each
other: ‘We must not get shut in. We must have the
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water views.” And so our choice was made, one by
one five trees were marked for destruction, two of
them walnuts over a hundred feet high! And the day
arrived. While the Constant Improver bravely man-
aged the undertaking, I fled to the farther end
of the place and worked desperately to avoid hearing
those sounds of Fate, those crashing blows. So skill-
fully did the men work taking the huge trees down in
sections that, although in full leaf, none of the sur-
rounding shrubs were hurt and when the débris had
been carried away, the result was really surprising. A
water picture was revealed, framed in quivering
greenery, where white sails danced, where cloud banks
reflected the glory of the setting sun, where round, ma-
jestic, crimson, rose the hunter’s moon.

Encouraged by this procedure, we developed in
hardihood and demanded more openings. A tall
young poplar draped in a toga of wild grape such as
only Nature can arrange had expanded with the years
until it completely blocked our view of the water at

the west.

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“That clump must come down,” quoth the Constant
Improver.

Standing before its luxuriant beauty I shivered, but
turned away without a protest, accepting the decree of
Fate. We freed the big Wisconsin willow from her
neighbor’s too close proximity and disclosed her,
graceful, single-minded, regal, with space in which to
sway her pendent branches unhindered. Our wild
olives planted beside the shore path directly in front
of the house, making a gray mass in company with
the sea-buckthorn and guaranteed not to stretch above
them, have, in this rich earth, grown beyond all scale
and should be removed. I hope it may be done when
I am not at home. I know that the after result will
be a distinct improvement; but how anyone can have
the heart to put an ax to that feathery, fruity refuge
of bird-dom is beyond my understanding.

Is it not fortunate that the world is governed by
a sterner sex whose clear judgment is not influenced
by sentimental considerations! Being myself of a

highly conservative nature and once pleased always

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pleased with the same effect, there have been moments
in my existence when I sympathized with the long-
suffering woman who, after having had her home re-
modeled every other year, finally presented her hus-
band with a carload of bricks and an acre lot begging
him to work off his surplus energy on them. It must
be acknowledged that thus far I have never needed to
provide the bricks, as, after numerous near and far
connections had been safely furnished with homes of
their own, institutions of various kinds utilized the
architectural tastes of the Constant Improver, to their
great advantage.

But one year there seemed to be nothing especial on
hand, and I detected a brooding gaze on the plenty-
good-enough garage, and overheard sentences begin-
ning, “If I were going to build again”—which were
ominous signs. Luckily at this moment the subject of
boathouses came up. Now we had no boat; and if
we had had, the Constant Improver did not approve
of boathouses, as they disfigured the shore. But our
neighbors who had boats did approve of them, and

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there was a good deal of discussion in regard to size,
location, etc. Whereat the Master Mind became in-
terested and finally said, “If you three men are going
to build three boathouses on the shore, do let me think
it over and submit a plan.”

Nothing loath, they consented. Now was the
Laird of the Manor happy again; with paper, pad, and
ruler he made mysterious measurements, he telephoned
for necessary dimensions, he paced off bits of the for-
est, he hung papers on long strings and went out in
a rowboat to judge of the effect. He even
deigned to consult the Friendly Architect about pos-
sible weights and measures. Very busy indeed were
all his spare moments now, and very inscrutable his
countenance. At last his plan was ready and he called
his neighbors together for consultation.

“You know that low piece of ground next to me in
the thick woods?” he began. “Well, that can be
bought, and you can put your three boathouses there
in one building. Each man will own the lot under
his house; there will be no connection between them;

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and yet the general effect will be of one admirable
building.”

“Will they cost more than an ordinary boathouse?”
demanded one cautious neighbor.

“Not a bit,” he was assured.

“Will they be thoroughly practical, light and dry?”
asked another.

“Perfectly,” was the confident reply.

The idea was certainly original, and the effect on
paper very good, and that it would look equally well
finished the neighbors believed; but as to the practical
working of the plan possibly they felt more dubious.
However they rallied loyally to his support in a unan-
imous; “Go ahead, then.” And the work was be-
gun.

Placed sixty feet back from the shore with three
“ways” on which to pull the yachts from the water,
these “ways” covered with portable wooden bridges
for the shore path, the wide trellised structure
of smooth cement blocks presented anything but a
conventional appearance. A broad wooden band dis-

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OUR LAKE

 

 

guised the necessary slope of the roof, the beauti-
fully proportioned brown trellis concealed the awk-
ward doors and divided the length into agreeable
panels; and the cement blocks, put up with heavy
mortar, made so pleasing a surface that the first idea
of vines was abandoned. The middle house was
lighted by a skylight, the other two by windows on
one side as well as by the doors at either end. One
windlass at the rear serves for them all. With bushes
planted thickly in front of this structure, with trees
bending over it, no one can say that it disfigures
the shore line. Indeed it seems to nestle down into
the landscape and become a part of the forest. Of
course, this is partly due to the low ground selected
for its site; but even in winter, when fully exposed to
the gaze of the passer-by, it preserves its stately if un-

usual aspect and serves its purpose perfectly.

155
CHAPTER VIII

THE STORY OF NAN

T was the twenty-eighth of June, I remember, and a
| very hot day, when one of my guests ran into my
room with the news that a bird was lying on the
brick terrace crying vigorously.
“Oh! what is it?” I demanded.
“How can I tell? I guess it’s just hatched, it has n’t
any feathers—hardly.”
“Well, I?ll be right down. Move it out of the sun.”
The telephone rang that minute, the mail came in,
the cook wanted to see me, and I confess I forgot all
about the matter. Two hours later I went down to the
terrace in a conscience-stricken rush. The birdling
was still peeping, lying under the shelter of a geranium
leaf on the moist earth. It was about four inches long,
the body naked, but wings, head and would-be tail cov-
ered with tiny quill-like feathers.
“Of course it can’t live, and I have n’t an idea what

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to give it; but we ’ll try milk,” was my rather pessimis-
tic remark.

So we put the tiny thing into a candy-box lined with
soft paper, took a dropper and proceeded to squeeze a
few drops of milk into his throat every time that he
opened his bill to peep. He was surprised but he was
also hungry, and milk being the only thing offered he
accepted it; then snuggling down under a covering of
cotton he went to sleep with his head upright ready to
expand that yellow gap instantly for further feeding.
After twenty minutes of peace came more peeps which
continued until more milk was forthcoming. In this
manner we gave the baby his bottle every twenty min-
utes for an hour and three-quarters when we began to
feel that food of more staying qualities was demanded.
Looking in the bird-book, we learned that equal parts
of potato, carrot and hard-boiled eggs grated and mixed
together made an ideal diet for young birds; so every
time the youngster cried, which was every time he woke,
this food was pushed down his throat on the blunt end
of a quill toothpick. He always knew when he had

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enough and much appreciated a drop or two of water
with each meal.

‘But where do you suppose it came from?” asked the
guest who found it, “and what is it?”

We searched the tree near-by, but the robin’s nest was
empty; we searched the vines, but no nests were to be
found.

“T have n’t an idea what kind of a bird it is, but we “ll
take it to the Observatory and ask the authority there.”

With perfect serenity the birdling stood his first
motor ride of twenty-five miles and was pronounced by
the authority’s wife, “‘a blue jay.”

“Don’t you see those blue stripes in embryo, two on
each wing?”

We did see them, but were not convinced.

“Tt seems rather small,” she continued hesitatingly ;
“T wish my husband were here.”

We begged a little milk and fed the infant to the
delight of the children, and then went on our way.
Nearing home, we met some friends who knew a
great deal about birds, and when we told them our

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story and took off the box cover, one of them in-
stantly cried,

“Are you actually going to let a blue jay liver”

“Well, he’s so little and so cunning, perhaps just
for a few days.”

The chauffeur in his cockney dialect remarked: “It
looks like a Henglish sparrow, ma’am.” But we de-
murred to that; a blue jay was bad enough, but surely
this wee thing which took so kindly to us and our
ways, this could not be one of that detested breed, the
English sparrow!

Before we reached home, at a quarter before seven,
the birdling was sound asleep and he never peeped
again that night. It had been a strenuous day for him,
and he needed a long rest. Think of the tenacity of
life in the little creature! For on top of his fall of
twenty-five feet he had cried two hours without cessa-
tion; yet after a short night of rest he seemed
a perfectly normal bird, devoting his entire time to
eating and sleeping as a birdling should, and growing
more cunning each passing hour.

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I hesitate to confess that early, very early the next
morming—at a quarter before five in fact—I actually
woke him to see if he was alive! Very much alive he
proved to be and very hungry. Four times before
7:20 he demanded food and then perched on my
finger for more.

How the birdling throve on this artificial diet ad-
ministered every hour from dawn to dark; how we
dared not neglect him, as he could be heard all over
the house; how the window ledge in my own sanctum
became his abode; and how rapidly he changed from
day to day would make a long story. Suffice it to say
that we named our pet “Andy” at first, but afterwards
were obliged to change it to “Nan.”

On the fifth day of her stay with us Nan managed
to climb out of the candy-box, and a deeper one was
procured, then an open basket ten inches high. The
very next day she flew out of the basket and into the
hall. After that in the daytime she was allowed her
liberty, but at night we put a mosquito netting over

the basket. How she hated it!- As soon as it was light

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she attacked this covering with claws and _ beak
getting so tangled that we had to remove it. The bot-
tom of that basket was far too dull a place to suit her
tastes; she wished to perch upon the rim, day or night.
Here she took her daytime naps, and by the twelfth
day she managed to tuck her head under her tiny wing.
Several days before this she had begun to have real
feathers and to preen them.

At my west window the screen is divided horizon-
tally so that the lower part slides upward for placing
food and water on the birds’ table outside. This
ledge where the two screens join Nan adopted as her
own, and on the ninth day began to take short flights
accepting my shoulder as a city of refuge. Gradually
she extended her excursions to my desk, to the big
table, and then across the room to the different pictures.

Now she fluttered her wings at sight of food, and
we varied her diet with chopped pecans and bits of
apple. She would hop across from one of my shoul-
ders to the other, peering up at my lips for the ex-

pected tidbit. I fed her always on my finger or
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shoulder, but birdseed and water were kept in the
cage and the door open all day long. She would
hop in and out at her pleasure. So knowing was she
that I could put my face close to the open door with-
out disturbing her, but if a hand moved toward the
door she was out in a flash. Within three weeks Nan
tired of the cooked food and began to take care of her-
self. Peanuts she would not touch, but almonds and
pecans she liked, also hempseed, lettuce, celery-tops
and grapes. All fruit in the room had to be kept
covered, or she helped herself. She knew perfectly
well the food she liked the best, hempseed and pecans;
if I offered her something else she would shake her
head and gently but decidedly peck at my fingers un-
til I conformed to her desires.

As soon as she could fly, big branches in leaf were
brought in and kept by her window, but she scorned
them, and if placed upon the twigs instantly flew off,
preferring the solid footing afforded by window ledge
or chair rail. Evidently, too, she feared the moving

leaves at first, and even when accustomed to them, she

162
 

 

 

 

NAN NINE DAYS OLD

 

 

 

 

 

NAN TWO WEEKS OLD

 

NAN SEVEN WEEKS OLD
 
 

THE STORY OF NAN

 

 

never really liked them nor went near them of her own
volition.

Her days were short but very full. It was not long
before she lost her querulous, sharp call and developed,
especially at twilight, a gentle rather plaintive note like
a sleepy child who doesn’t want to go to bed. And
this was exactly the case, for she hated the pretty cage
into which we put her every night and never willingly
went there to sleep. In fact she became an adept at
finding new hiding-places to avoid this bedtime capture,
keeping so still, never moving a feather at our call,
that it was almost impossible to find her; but when dis-
covered she would enter the cage peaceably as if that
was part of the game. Once she wriggled herself into
so snug a space behind a candlestick that her tail
did n’t come out of kink for a week. Often she would
get down on the wire behind a large picture; and when
we called “Nan, Nan,” up would bob her head only
to jump back again at our approach. Hiding in the
farthest corner on the lambrequin pole, she would re-

main perfectly quiet until discovered, when she would

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cock her tiny head on one side as much as to say,
“How are you going to get at me now?”

About the first of August Nan shed her baby tail
feathers, and it was the twentieth of September be-
fore they grew out again. With this new dignity she
ceased to flutter her wings for food and began to utter
a curious scolding rattle when opposed. She was now
three months old, for we calculated that she was prob-
ably about a week old when she fell from the eaves of
the house to the brick terrace below, and had developed
a full suit of glossy brown feathers beautifully marked
although all trace of blue had disappeared.

She kept herself immaculate. Never shall I forget
how she made me understand that she wanted a bath.
It was the tenth day of her stay with us when she be-
gan a series of queer antics, squatting on my small
French dictionary and fluffing her feathers with many
wrigglings and twistings, until the Constant Improver
seeing her, said, “She wants a bath.” That given, how
she enjoyed it! From eleven to fifteen times would
she step daintily in and out of the shallow dish, dash-

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ing the water first over her head and then gradually
soaking every feather. Sometimes she would indulge
in two baths a day. However she persisted in her
odd capers on the dictionary, until I procured her a
big bowl of sand. Here she wallowed in delicious con-
tent. Now was her life one continual joy!

Never did Nan care to leave my room, although
the door was always open. Into the dressing-room
she flew often and even the bathroom beyond, but there
her ambition ended. Although the French dictionary
continued to be her favorite, all books had a strange
fascination for her, as she generally managed to de-
tach a string somewhere about them with which to
play. She loved the telephone too, first because it had
a loose end on which she used to hang like a chick-
adee, and secondly because she saw another bird in its
shining base. One picture on the wall reflected her-
self so plainly that she would spend hours fluttering
down before it or hunting down behind it for the bird
she knew was there. When doing my hair before the

triple mirror, she was often on my shoulder, and her
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puzzled and disgusted air when she pecked at a bird
and touched a piece of glass was laughable to see.

At first I placed her cage on the porch a part of each
day so that she should grow accustomed to the many
birds, bees, wasps and flies; but she did not like the
atmosphere, and either stayed on the bottom of the cage
or pecked at any bird that came too near. Twice I
took her on my shoulder to the lawn to have her picture
taken but I had no suitable camera and the results
were very poor. A screened porch downstairs seemed
to be an ideal place for her; but she had her own
notions as to location and did not feel at home there,
so made her way one day back through two big rooms,
upstairs, along a gallery to her own quarters. It was
equal to a long migration for her, and how she fol-
lowed the trail no one could guess.

She would remain on Kate’s shoulder or on mine
as long as we stayed in her room, but the instant we
entered the hall, back she would fly to her window
ledge. Twice she flew out of the window when the

screen blew open and her airs of superiority as she
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strutted along the garden paths were comical to see:
Kate, the maid of whom she was very fond, caught her
in her apron, for the sight of the cage only drove her
deeper into the bushes. We would have given
her liberty now but she had always been so shielded and
taken care of we feared that she would fall a victim
to the first enemy that approached.

From the very beginning Nan was a most fascina-
ting study in so-called animal psychology. All her
tricks were the result of her own invention, for we never
consciously taught her anything. In fact we carefully
refrained from doing so. How much was instinct,
how much imitation, how much, if any, what we call
“reason” I was never able to determine. One of her
tricks that seemed to savor of reasoning was to wait
until she saw me fully absorbed in writing, then light
on my head and pull each hairpin out, flying off with
almost a chuckle as the coiffure came tumbling down!

Leading a life of the utmost quiet and regularity,
she hated the wind and a noise of any kind. The

whistle of the passing boats startled her, the lawn mower
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made her nervous, and the carpet sweeper actually ter-
tified her. Curiously enough she did not mind the
typewriter at all, and would sit on my shoulder when
I was at work and even perch on the carriage
of the machine, not stirring when I pushed it over to
begin a line. She was perfectly at home on my desk,
biting the point of my pencil as I wrote, carrying off
one by one my pens, my pins, my rubber bands, which
she would play with by the hour, scattering them over
the floor. One of her favorite occupations was to lift
the lid of a silver stamp-box and abstract one by one the
red stamps only, carrying them off in her beak,
shaking them and picking them up again to see ap-
parently if they were still sticky!

She was as companionable as a bird could possibly
be, always chirping in answer to my call except when
mischievously hiding; she would play “peek-a-boo”
around a vase on the mantel shelf with an apparent
zest as keen as a child’s, and the instant I stretched
myself lazily on the chatse-longue with the newspaper,

over would come Miss Nan to alight on its precarious
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THE STORY OF NAN

 

 

edges, to nip out small pieces just for the fun of hear-
ing it tear; or when brushed from that perch, fly to
my head and once more gleefully rattle the hairpins
to the floor. To drum on the fire-screen with her bill
was another of her diversions, and to catch a stray fly
on the window pane an unfailing pastime; a dead fly
was no treat to her, but a live one she ate with relish.
She was shy with men but would go to most women,
although she well distinguished the maid Kate and
me. Colors she discerned, white clothes she infinitely
preferred probably because she first became ac-
customed to them. It took me a long time to induce
her to alight on my shoulder after I put on black.
She displayed a fine taste for form, too; well ac-
quainted as she was with my clumsy down wrapper she
loathed it so that she would not come near it. Big
bulky objects frightened her, and when Kate would
enter the room carrying many gowns over her arm or a
petticoat held aloft, Nan would fly to the farthest cor-
ner. The disorder of packing distressed her, she would

dash back and forth across the room in such a panic

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of fear that we had to move the trunks into another
apartment.

But what kind of a bird was this wonder, this sensitive
being, this petted darling of the household? In utter
ignorance the first day or two I had visions of wild
canaries, orioles, or even thrushes, but in this respect
I was doomed to disappointment. A week after Nan
came to us another more developed fledgling fell in
exactly the same spot on the brick terrace. Our sus-
picions grew stronger. Making a more vigilant search
we extracted at last from under the eaves a familiar-
looking mass of hay and feathers; it was the nest, still
full, alas! of English sparrows. ‘Three days after Nan’s
arrival I had noticed at my window the most beauti-
fully marked English sparrow and on the fourteenth
day a female bird also visited the screen. An imagina-
tive person could make quite a tale from these hap-
penings. It really looked as if the birds were
examining the surroundings of their lost child and
asking of her condition. They well might reason:

“FYere are some incomprehensible beings who shoot

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THE STORY OF NAN

 

 

our kind, and yet if a baby bird falls into their care
they cannot do too much for it. If they like one so
much, probably two won’t come amiss.” So they
pushed another one out of the nest. Of course I do
not say they reasoned thus but that is the way it seemed.

“What are you going to do with her?” asked my
friends as the summer waned and autumn winds arose.
Poor Nan who nestled at my throat, who ate daintily
from my lips, who trusted us—could we turn her out
into the cold world? Perhaps in the city, where scores
of her kind lived in the vines about the house, she might
be freed.

So when we closed the country house early in No-
vember, Nan was placed in her cage, carefully
covered and carried to town by motor. How she re-
belled at being confined in the daytime! How she
hated the rushing wind and the noise of the machine!
She cried until exhausted, refusing to eat or stay on
her perch, clinging to the sides of the cage and snap-
ping at any finger or food that came within reach.
At noon, when we stopped by the wayside for luncheon,

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we tried uncovering the cage; but to see us sitting free
in the out-of-doors only added insult to her injured,
feelings and she threw herself from swing to floor and
back again until we were forced to cover the cage.
It took her nearly a week to grow accustomed to
her new room in the city, and although we placed her
bath and food and cage near the open window, she
only went to them when forced to by her needs, al-
ways perching as far from that window as possible. To
be sure it was cold weather but to that she had been
gradually inured; quantities of sparrows were flying
and calling just outside, but she scorned to notice them.
The city noises troubled her, she sat morose and hud-
dled on the gas fixture, responding in almost a timid
manner to our advances. One afternoon before she
was put in her cage for the night, she saw a flame
come from that bright perch which she had chosen
for her own; it is possible she may have brushed it
with her wing, but never again could she be induced
to perch on the brass tube, confining her excursions,

when not on her food table to the tops of the picture

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THE STORY OF NAN

 

 

frames. Could we force this tenderly nurtured crea-
ture to go out and battle for herself? Not in the
winter’s cold, at least.

When the spring sunshine began to warm the earth,
it melted the cold heart of Nan the sparrow, and she
became more sociable with the birds outside, frequent-
ing the window where seed was spread for them, and
finally lifting up her eager voice she chirped soft
nothings to her kind. Day after day she spent upon
the sill, pecking upon the screen and answering the
chattering sparrows outside, until about the middle of
April we opened the barrier, and in an unforgetable
transport of joy our Nan flew away. Not far, how-
ever; for weeks afterward in the early morning she
would come to the windowsill, where food was always
kept for her, and call us in her own way. Once out
in the yard Kate spoke to her, and she answered but
did not come down; she had her own affairs to at-
tend to now and had no time for us.

Her feathers were so glossy and fine and she was
so beautifully marked that at first she was readily

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distinguished from the rank and file of city sparrows.
Has she survived the summer? Has she forgotten us?
Will she return to that familiar window when the
winter winds blow keenly?

Only the future, that mysterious future which we
are ever questioning, that future which holds within
its shrouded depths our pleasures and our pains, that
future which continually gives us new hope from day

to day, holds the sequel to Nan’s youth.

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CHAPTER IX

SLEEPING OUT OF DOORS

():: of the most exhilarating experiences of my

life was that first night under the stars. How

much we conservative people owe to the initi-
ative of our friends! Anything radically new al-
ways presents to me its dark rather than its pleasant
side; and this is true of small as well as large experi-
ments. Many were the dishes which as a child I had
not eaten, consequently I did not touch them now, un-
til one by one the force of example and circumstance
constrained me to recognize them, and in nearly every
case that particular article of food became a favorite.
So it was with that new fad, as the Constant Improver
called it, of sleeping out of doors. I shrank from its
discomforts, the noise, the early light, the cold, all the
vague nothings I could not name. But a friend per-
suaded me to try it for a week—well, for a night, then
—and carefully chose a perfect one in August.

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The upstairs porch had no roof but otherwise was
well adapted to our plan, facing full south, open on
three sides and protected by the house on the north.
We sent down to the village for two folding cots and
mosquito netting; then to the garden for eight tall
bamboo stakes, and with staples and tapes made frames
which could be quickly lifted from the cots in case of
need. On this frame we fastened full curtains of the
net and put a plain piece double for the roof.
Pushing the heads of the cots close to the house, one
on either side of the gable, under eaves which pro-
jected nearly three feet over us although some six feet
above us, we snugly tucked the full curtains under
the mattress, and thus protected against nocturnal in-
sects, not to mention bats, we composed ourselves to
slumber.

At least that is what we were supposed to do. But
the night was too wonderful for me, the air a gentle
caress, warm, yet full of refreshment, and the stillness
was unearthly; for the crickets and locusts had not yet

begun their lullabies. Overhead arched the celestial
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glory of the starry firmament; the southern half of the
heavens stood revealed in all its majesty, the Milky
Way a sparkling, scintillating radiance. From a child
I had loved the stars, but I felt I had never seen them
before. A singular exhilaration, a curious sense of
exaltation took possession of me. Why could I not
float in long, swinging cadences, ever higher and higher
into that far ether? And the sensation was so
exquisite, the dreamy pleasure so intense, that I de-
liberately dropped the cords of reason and launched
forth upon the wings of imagination. That night
brought me far more than sleep. It brought me a
revelation. So it is that the soul of man when released
from the bondage of earth floats upward, ever upward
to become one with the Father.

By the end of the week, the thrilling novelty of the
out-of-doors had partially worn away, leaving a pleas-
ing sense of unreality to refresh the drowsy spirit.
That delicious night air filled with the fragrance of
box and heliotrope, of phlox and petunia, of jasmine
and rose geranium! Is it possible that once on a time

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it was considered dangerous, and carefully excluded
from our homes?

“But I always have my window open at night,” cries
the average person, “and that amounts to the same
thing.”

No, Gentle Reader. No doubt it is an excellent
thing to do; but never make the mistake of thinking
for an instant that it can be the same as sleeping out
of doors. I have slept in my own room when the ink
froze on the desk, and I know that I had fresh air;
but I also knew that it could not be as fresh as the out-
of-doors. Each piece of furniture in the room, each
curtain, rug, and picture, each book and paper, even,
takes something, no matter how small, from the purity
of the air; and this we cannot realize until we sleep
out of doors and enter that room in the morning.

It also seems a waste of time to sleep when the night
is so enlightening. and one form of enchantment suc-
ceeds another. A half-moon hangs in the silent sky,
its rays form a broad sparkling path upon the waves.

Back and forth within this heavenly radiance drifts
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a dark canoe bearing two happy souls; their voices
blend in snatches of folk song; the words come dimly
to my drowsy senses; but the meaning is the old, old
story which is ever new. Far off, the weird call of
a loon, nearer across the lake a tinkling bell, and a
faint “moo” breaks the stillness.

And that brief glory which we call a falling star
thrilling us with its mysterious hint of power, as it
sweeps across the heavens! What is that strange up-
heaval whose pale reflection reaches us? Can the
imagination leap those millions of long miles into the
abode of limitless space and grasp the meaning of that
molten mass? What a fascinating science is astronomy
to young and old alike! It offers that unbridled, riot-
ous scope which one’s imagination demands. Its
mighty numbers, its astounding facts, its inspiring dis-
coveries—but yet in the beginning—bring one nearer
to a realization of the Infinite. Nothing can give one
a more appalling sense of the earth’s speed than to look
through a fixed telescope at the Milky Way. With
incredible swiftness vast fields of stars rush across the

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glass and with a reeling brain, one instinctively puts
forth a hand to steady the toppling earth! Yet it does
not follow that because astronomy is the most romantic
of the sciences, its devotees are sentimental.

“Yes,” I overheard a noted astronomer say to a
startled miss who with clasped hands and parted lips,
was adoring the full, round moon: “Yes, I would
really blot out the moon if I could. It is only in the
way in our business.”

One night the white-flecked sky was apparently on
this side of the moon. How mysterious its depths!
How lowering it curved above me! It was as seamed
and crackled as the surface of the moon itself and looked
as changeless. J wonder whether the Chinese poet Li
Po who wrote in the eighth century was a traveler; I
know he was a nature lover, and I believe he slept

out of doors, for listen to one of his lays;

Athwart the night
I watch the moonbeams cast a trail
So bright, so cold, so frail
That for a space it gleams
Like hoarfrost on the margin of my dreams,

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I raise my head,

The splendid moon I see;
Then droop my head,

And sink to dreams of thee,
My Fatherland, of thee.

Sometimes after the moon has set and just before
the dawn, when the grasshoppers and crickets have
ceased their nocturnal chorus, there comes a period
of stillness so intense that in the distance one can hear
the wind sweeping across the forest, where each tree
bends in graceful salutation at the passing of the god.
Nearer and nearer comes the rushing sound, until the
swaying vines are caught in its embrace; then it is
gone, and the stillness reasserts itself.

Night after night the stars shone; but early one
morning I was awakened by a singular pattering sound.
Yes, it was rain; was it going to continue or was it
merely a passing shower? Sleepily I surveyed the
heavens and pulled up the cravanette spread. Here
was another new experience. The rain had a grateful
scent of ferns in deep woods, of earth and of coolness.

Luckily this cloud passed over before doing any harm,
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but after one or two sudden downpours and one or
two hasty scurryings for shelter, we concluded some-
thing must be arranged for stormy nights.

Some men would have put on a roof and calmly
screened in this upstairs porch, but the face of the
Constant Improver was a study when one of our prac-
tical neighbors made this obvious suggestion. What!
spoil the whole effect of his adored house for this
passing whim? No, indeed! Give him time, he
would think out some solution. And when it was
thought out and carried out, it was the most sensible
and inconspicuous affair possible.

A platform thirteen inches high, five feet four inches
long, and four feet wide was placed on the southeast
corner of the porch, on which was put the long wooden
bench, the Master’s favorite lookout; for here was an
ideal spot to view the sunset, the moonrise over the
lake, and—never failing object of interest—each par-
ticular bush in our extensive shrubbery. From the
house wall slanting to the back of the bench, a frame-

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THE TENT

 

 

 

 

READY FOR THE NIGHT
 

SLEEPING OUT OF DOORS

 

 

work projects, seven feet four inches by five
feet, covered with canvas to match the awnings, and
lined with white oilcloth to keep out the rain. Rods
on either side hold canvas curtains with snap hooks,
generally remaining against the wall but in case of
wind or rain, easily brought forward to the bench and
snapped into staples, thus absolutely protecting the oc-
cupant. Into this Oriental shelter is rolled the light-
est of hospital beds; brass rods hold up the netting
at the four corners, and crossed sticks of bamboo keep
the top taut.

A layer of asbestos in a thin pad, and a paper quilt
beneath the mattress, gave sufficient protection against
the cold as autumn came, and instead of heavy blankets,
wool wadding quilts of silkoline proved light and
warm. From the iron headboard hung a bag for slip-
pers and a smaller one for night light and watch. In
pleasant weather one could sleep under the stars as
the bed could be rolled out from the canopy in a mo-

ment. Insummer this contrivance is almost completely

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hidden from below by the kudzu and trumpet vines,
and in winter is easily taken down by removing the
hinges at the house wall.

The first night that I slept under this shelter through
a shower is another of my pleasurable memories.
Awakening with the first gentle patter, where was I?
Oh, safe and dry with nothing to worry about. With
a chuckle of glee I pulled the curtains across and
snapped them securely, then with a childlike grin
snuggled down to enjoy the increasing storm. The
wind blew in fitful gusts, the rain settled into a steady
downpour, rivers of water ran from the roof to the brick
terrace below and splashed in merry laughter; on the
tin roof the drops danced gayly, and I was out
in it, a part of it all, joining its lively play, yet in
some magical manner, cozy and warm and dry!
Whether it lasted an hour or two or three I have no
recollection; the next thing that I remember is the
crystal clarity of the sunshine as I opened my won-
dering eyes.

How delicious that sense of guilt with which the

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child runs out into the rain, knowing its naughtiness
but unable to resist that call from the heart of nature!

“May I go in swimminge” asks an eager boyish
voice.

“Yes, if it doesn’t rain,” absently assents the preoc-
cupied mother, and neither sees the absurdity of it.

One of the main objections to sleeping out of doors
is the very early light which awakens most people; but
I have learned how to bring back the charm of dusky
night with the simplest of contrivances. I called it
“the morning nap producer’; but a laconic relative
has dubbed it “the blinder,” and by that name it is
known in the family. To the traveler devoted to his
siesta, it is hereby recommended, as it brings dark-
ness even in the lightest room. In the summer of
Scandinavian countries it would be a special blessing,
as that sensation of going to bed by day must remind
one of one’s infancy and all the injured pangs which
that performance brought!

For the tiny baby what comfort this soft dusk might

bring, and the habit formed early in his career would

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unconsciously associate the adjusted band with rest and
sleep.

“The blinder” is made of black silk batiste which
comes twenty-six inches wide and costs forty-five cents
a yard. To make it, fold the material until you have
an oblong piece of six thicknesses, nine by three and
a half inches finished. Sew a black elastic cord to
the middle of each end. Lo! it is ready for use.
Light in weight, cool when placed over the eyes, the
elastic at the back of the head, it is a perfect protection
and guaranteed to bring to the normal spirit that sense
of rest which darkness alone gives, that peace which
follows the advent of night.

One of the greatest boons to the weary is the priv-
ilege of going to bed early; not exactly with the
birds perhaps, for they tuck their heads under their
wings before five o’clock in the autumn, but at least
to sleep when the fancy seizes one. Think of nine or
ten hours of blissful unconsciousness a night, O thou
tired soul! and wonder not at the country’s fascinations.

If the greatest boon which God has given to man
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is Death, then the next is certainly its sister Sleep,
and after that is Stillness. That blessed quiet in which
we may draw long breaths of appreciation, that quiet
which calms the spirit and refreshes the physical body,
that quiet which leads us to contemplation and to
work. For few of us can be happy anywhere in utter
idleness, and the seeker after occupation rarely seeks
in vain.

Arnold Bennett has conceived a heaven of miraculous
light and penned so exquisite a picture that any finite
mind must respond to it; but his heaven is for infinite
beings of airy nothingness, a spiritual manifestation of
will. Here on this earth we need the darkness, we
need clouds, both literally and figuratively. Can we
spare the fleecy grandeur of the thunder-caps or the
weird beauty of the moon in a mackerel sky?

And that other edge of night which we call dawn,
when the sky is pale gray flecked with small darker
clouds; when the sun rises and the cool background
turns to delicate blue and each gray cloud changes to

rose, until the heavens are alive with color, deepening

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in the east into flame against tender beryl tints;
when the air is so still that every shade and form is
repeated in the mirror-like waters of the lake; when
the insect chorus has ceased its roundelay and the
delicious freshness of the early morn is filled with fra-
grance from each opening flower, until the sun itself,
a crimson orb, sparkles into being above the golden
horizon—how can one look at such a scene without
perceiving its precious imagery? Each one of us
must at times live beneath a dull gray cloud, but happy
is he who knows that sometime it will surely be turned
to rose by that same magic hand which so transforms
this physical world.

How exquisite comes the light borne upon the
melodies of enchanted songsters—the pathos of the
whitethroat’s whistle, the merry trill of the wren,
the call of the song sparrow from the shore, and the soul-
ful voice of the thrush from the wood! As the sense
of hearing is the last one to leave us when we sleep
and the first one to awaken in us, so this birth of a

new day is foreshadowed by sounds of refreshment and
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cheer, to prepare the soul of man for the labors before
him, to uplift his heart and give him courage in the
face of possible trials, to symbolize that heavenly
chorus which awaits him at the Great Awakening.
The air is hushed; each jeweled blade of grass, each
bending flower turns slowly toward the coming light;
and as “the trailing garments of the night” sweep noise-
lessly away, the first long rays of the ascending sun

appear above the clear horizon, and a new day is born.
It seems impossible to understand
How joy and sorrow may go hand in hand,

But God created when the world was born
The endless paradox of night and morn.

189
CHAPTER X

OUR GUEST BOOK

OSSIBLY one great reason for the general
p exodus of the American people country-ward is
the realization that we are living at too fast a
pace; that the whirl in which we take our pleasures as
well as our more serious occupations is lacking in some
of the attributes which were dear to our forefathers.
Certainly a country house is a pleasing remedy; for
here the real individuality of the owner may be ex-
pressed, and here he may have time to become really
acquainted with those friends whom he likes the best.
Sometimes I think that the chief charm of a home
in the country is the opportunity its leisure gives to
know one’s friends better, to make friends of mere
acquaintances, to become familiar with the people who
are actually accomplishing things in life whether
through settlement work, church work, educational

work, painting, sculpture, architecture, books, or na-

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tional organizations. These few hours of informality
give one a rare insight into the real being, and often
change one’s estimate of a character formerly known
only from external appearances.

For comfort and freedom from care, a country
house should be so simply furnished that merely turn-
ing the key in the outside door suffices so far as intrinsic
values go, and we have so arranged ours; but there is
one object in it which is very precious. It is not of
silver or gold or any precious stone, not wonderful in
needlework or a relic of the ages, yet it is our one most
cared-for possession. Can you not guess, O Sympa-
thetic Reader? It is our Guest Book. Begun when
we entered the tiny cottage, continued through our
camping in the kitchen-house and our final settlement
in the main house, it bears a complete record
of our different visitors to the present day. It lacks
the whimsical charm of many guest books, it has no
sketches, photographs or comments, it contains only
the autographs of our guests; it goes steadily forward
in methodical order from month to month, from year

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to year with the names of relatives, friends, and
acquaintances.

When we ask a visitor who has not been to our home
before to write in the guest book, a curious, pensive,
not to say haunted, look comes into his face especially
if he is famous with pen or brush. And I have even
known him to say, “May n’t I just wait a little?”

“For an inspiration?”

Then when we explain that the only tribute levied
is the autograph, the relief in his countenance and the
alacrity with which he rises to the occasion are de-
lightful to witness.

When we leave for the winter this beloved book
of white vellum is carefully wrapped’ in its leather
case, placed in a cotton-flannel bag, then in a tin box
which is enveloped in paper to keep out the dampness,
put inside another tin box and carried out of the house.

What a long procession of figures moves before me
as J turn the leaves of our guest book, from the ‘‘mark”
of the tiny tot just toddling across the floor, our first

grandniece, to the fine, firm hand of my dear

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TWO NATURE LOVERS
AONVULNA AHL

aHL LV

Va

S

J

 

 

 

 
 

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lady mother “eighty-two years young!” Here is the
sprawling record of a seven-year-old genius; here, the
close structure of the man of affairs; here, the plain
signature of the old school; here, an undecipherable
rebus which only the initiated know; here, the unformed
hand of youth; here, the well-knit sign of experience;
here, the graceful flowing style; here, the upright,
and beyond, the backhand, with all manner of slight
differences and variations. ‘The ministerial hand, the
medicinal hand, the artistic hand, the archeological
hand, the literary hand, all are here. A chance in-
deed to study individuality as expressed in chirography!
Many of the names occur over and over again; for this
guest book of ours is not only an autograph album
but a chronological record often referred to in de-
bated questions.

Our guests, no matter what sex or condition in life,
what appearance or temperament, married or single,
old, young, or middle-aged (a rapidly disappearing
period!), resolve themselves almost immediately into
two classes; those who do not like the country and

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those who do. The former come out of curiosity, to
escape from boredom, for the social side only or be-
cause it is the correct thing to do in summer; but this
class is growing smaller every year, and to this de-
sirable end the motor car has largely contributed. So
the passion for country life is creeping into the veins
of the American people, our Anglo-Saxon traditions
are asserting themselves, and gradually we are return-
ing to the soil.

Even those who do love the country love it for
divers reasons. ‘To some it is a playground, and that
is all, bounded by the golf links or the tennis court.
To others it is a place for needed rest and respite; to
be let alone is all they ask; a book on the terrace and
three good meals a day satisfies them completely.
Some look upon the country as a series of pictures
with novel effects of light each changing hour; some
prefer the creations of man, and go on architectural
expeditions with zest; some are fishermen, and given
a small boy and some bait, a boat and a rod, are per-

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fectly content; and to each one we seek to give the
kind of recreation that he or she likes the best.

To some just the woods are enough, the freedom of
the place, the liberty of investigation, long mornings
or cool afternoons in which to explore and to discover.
‘I have noticed that one of the keenest pleasures I can
give a nature-lover is to turn her toward a particular
path and then follow quietly behind her. How deli-
cious to my expectant ears are her little shrieks of de-
light as she catches a glimpse of a rare wild flower or
unremembered plant! One morning in early October
I steered my companion, all unconscious, toward the
gravel pit. We were talking busily, at least she was,
and did not happen to raise her eyes until I stopped
as if in interest at her recital, but she never finished
that story; she had discovered the autumn crocuses,
those precious ghost flowers which carry in their trans-
lucent cups all the fragrance of the springtime and
the memories which lie between.

One of our happiest guests was a well-known

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educator who loved the country with a sincere attach-
ment. He appreciated the opportunity given to spend
long hours over his literary labors, but still more he
reveled in the peace and beauty of the place. We
learned to know him well, so that in later years many
of our talks began with “Do you remember?” Never
was a man more devoted to an institution than he to
his beloved university, and naturally he wished to
bring there great men from all over the world. Once
he even had the courage to go to Count Tolstoi, then
over seventy, and beg him to come to America and
lecture there.

The picture remains indelibly fixed on my mem-
ory: the unusual appearance of the small drawing-
room in his Moscow house; the two sons, men of con-
ventional outlook, and the little group of worshiping
strangers all dominated by this blue-bloused figure
with its noble head and piercing eyes. When the re-
quest was gently urged upon him, the bent shoulders
stiffened, the rugged face of the aged enthusiast was a

study for an instant; then he answered slowly: “It is

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impossible. ‘There are three things which I abominate
—talking with women, playing cards, and useless
traveling.” Smiling grimly, he left the inference with
us.

And that great Russian reformer who while in prison
wrote the lectures which he had promised to deliver
at a foreign university, how simple and friendly he
was! How he fitted into our home life! So modest
was he that only by close questioning could we get him
to talk about his experiences. How he finally obtained
permission to go over to England to perfect his speak-
ing knowledge of that tongue, promising to return to
prison on a certain date; how he did return on that
date, and it happened to be Sunday, and they asked
him what he wanted.

“Why I’ve come back to serve out my term,” he
replied.

“But we’re full tonight. Go away, and come back
tomorrow.”

‘‘No,” was his answer, “I am going to stay here, you
must find a place for me.”

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And stay he did. It seems an incredible state of
affairs. Where could such conditions exist except in
Russia, that land of strange contradictions and every
possibility?

“For myself,” continued our interesting guest, “I
do not care. One can die but once; and to do some-
thing for one’s country!” The glow of his eyes belied
the restraint of his words. “But my sons, now fourteen
and sixteen, I shudder for them. They are sure to
get into trouble in the university, and will be marked
for attention.”

“Why don’t you have them educated in some other
country?” demanded the practical American. ‘Why
do you deliberately run this risk?”

“They are Russians,” was the proud reply; “they
must be educated in Russia, they must take their share
in her trials and her development.”

A famous settlement-worker, perhaps I may say
the most famous one in our own country at least, was
persuaded to give us a few days for a real vacation.

Her usual vacation was to travel some thousand miles,

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preparing her remarks en route, be the guest of honor
at a luncheon or dinner or both, and lecture afternoon
or evening! Here, where each guest is implored to
be selfish and please herself only, she chose the chimney
corner when the rest of us went off to the woods. It
was in the cool days of October, and when we returned
laden with woodland treasure, we found her in rest-
ful abandonment to the peace and quiet of the country.

“T feel,” she cried, “like the old woman in Mother
Goose who exclaimed, ‘Can this be I?’ To sit by the
fire at ten in the morning reading the Atlantic Monthly!
It seems incredible.”

Since that day the dear lady has been forced to sit
idle many mornings in order that she might ultimately
accomplish her work in this world. Most of our
American women live at high tension; they may vary
their occupations, but they generally go from one to
the other with a feeling of haste. The old rule of my
swimming teacher impresses me as peculiarly appli-
cable to our modern life. ‘Take a stroke and then
rest.” Isn’t it full of true philosophy? ‘Take a

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stroke and then rest; in the end you will go much far-
ther and more comfortably than if you are making
motions every moment.” Such a little rests one, too.
Five minutes of perfect relaxation banishing all
thought, breathing deeply in pure air, and the whole
system is renewed. To those who sleep out of doors it
is suggested that they utilize their couches for these
bi-daily—at least—refreshments.

An erratic but brilliant American artist, who spends
most of his time in France, had just returned from the
West. He was much impressed with the virility, the
enthusiasm, the codperative spirit, the sense of public
obligation which the young Americans possessed in
marked contrast to the selfish attitude of many modern
Europeans to whom he was accustomed.

“Tf I were young,” he exclaimed, “there is where I
would make my home; there I would live, in those
glorious expanses where nothing petty can exist.”

One evening the conversation had drifted into a dis-
cussion of the merits of stained glass for house decora-

tion.

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“No, I don’t care for stained glass,” he answered,
“except in the dining-room. ‘There it is suitable; for
when a company of people are around a table, they
‘should be shut in away from distractions; they should
each be forced, if necessary, to contribute something
to the zest of the conversation.”

We had been taught that the dining-room of a house
should have the pleasantest outlook, as so much of the
time must necessarily be spent there; but he had ac-
quired the European idea of a repast as a social func-
tion, no matter how simple the food might be. Being
himself a brilliant talker, one could understand his point
of view. Evidently he believed that anyone could
talk if he would, like the accomplished cartoonist who
scorned the word genius and insisted, “It is just keep-
ing at it; anyone can do it with practice.”

We were telling rare experiences around the fire
of great logs a chilly afternoon in October, when a
sunny American painter told us of an entertaining
spectacle which he saw down in Virginia while shoot-
ing.

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“One evening (which is Southern for afternoon)
the mud hens began to gather in the bay until they
covered nearly an acre of water, swimming together as
closely as possible. Overhead soared a bald eagle evi-
dently hunting for his supper.

“““Now watch,’ exclaimed my guide; ‘you’ll see
some fun!’

“Deliberately selecting his prey, the eagle closed his
wings to drop. Instantly and simultaneously every hen
ducked her head and with her feet, splashed the water
into the air. It was an acre of dancing drops, three feet
high! The eagle could distinguish nothing in that
foaming mass, and, as he dislikes to wet his feathers, he
flew up again to wait a new opportunity. The instant
the big bird rose, that instant those intelligent Blue
Peters, as they are called in the South, /ifted up their
heads but they kept their close formation. Three times
did the eagle attempt to get his supper from this flock,
and three times were these tactics repeated. At last
quite discouraged he flew away to less sophisticated

quarters. Athis disappearance, the mud hens dispersed

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into their usual small groups. Wasn’t it something
wonderful?”

Wonderful indeed. How can scientists assert that
birds and other animals are without practical reasoning
faculties?

No one appreciates more keenly the lavishness with
which Nature decks our Western woodlands than the
mountain dweller of the East. A dear friend, who had
spent years of persistent effort in acclimatizing the wild
flowers of the world among her rocks, under her pine
woods and beside her tumbling brook, came to see us
in May, and we went out to walk in the forest. No
leaves were on the trees, but the feeling of life was in
the air, and the birds were already at work building
their homes in absolute faith that food would be pro-
vided for them. The ground was literally covered with
spring beauties, hepaticas in glorious clumps, starry
bloodroot, and anemones, buttercups and violets, both
yellow and blue.

“Oh! don’t step on them,” she cried, as we penetrated

into the wooded depths and began to gather our nose-

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gay, “And oh! please don’t pick them, they are so ex-
quisite there where they grow.”

“Yes, but there are quantities,” we explained, “and
it does not hurt to pick the flowers if we are careful not
to disturb the roots.”

“No, that’s true; but think how many more you’d
have if they were allowed to seed!”

Then with an admiring yet despairing glance at the
gayly flowering acres, she admitted, ‘Well, I don’t
suppose that you really need any more.”

I appreciated her feelings perfectly, for the wanton
picking of wild flowers is so common and most aggra-
vating. ‘Tiny wads of withered blooms scattered along
the path tell their own story of heedlessness and havoc.
However, the spirit of enjoyment in the growing plant
is becoming more general each year, as conservation
in all its branches is being gradually learned.

With what abandon a child takes possession of a
house! With what confiding grace he or she penetrates
to its remotest recesses! What joy to discover the shelf

where the cookies are kept, the corner where the pep-

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“IT AND JACK GOT UP REAL EARLY AND FISHED”

 

AN HOUR’S CATCH
 

 

 

 

 

‘WE LIKE PEANUTS TOO”

 

 

 

BLISSFUL MOMENTS
 

OUR GUEST BOOK

 

 

permints are hidden, the old Italian oil jar filled with
peanuts for the squirrels! After chipmunks and squir-
rels have had their fill, sometimes a wistful voice ob-
serves: “We like peanuts, too.” In the cool of the
late afternoon when little feet have grown weary and
little tongues grown still, sometimes there come bliss-
ful moments of drifting over deep waters where mer-
maids may be lingering and fairies cannot be so very
far away.

How pleased and proud we are to seize occasionally
one who is perhaps our greatest living American sculp-
tor and carry him off to our lair in the country! Here
he enjoys each leaf on each shrub just as we do, and
enters into our bird life with sympathetic comprehen-
sion. At his own beautiful place in the Berkshires he
boasted of a deer who now and then visited his corn
field. The gardener naturally wished to shoot it.

“But,” he protested, “I’d rather have that deer than
fifty corn fields.”

So modest is he that it is next to impossible to per-

suade him to talk about his work, and as unassuming as

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only Genius may be. On being presented to a lady
who was calling, she half tentatively asked, “(Not the
great—”

At his look of real distress, I broke in: “Yes, the great
sculptor. But he is so modest that he blushes at the
word.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” he explained in some con-
fusion, whether referring to his work or to his blushes
was a question. All the evening he took refuge in tell-
ing experiences of a Mr. B—, a college chum and in-
timate friend who, he said, “having had sufficient
means became an ornithologist, while I had to carve
for aliving.” Fortunately for the world!

“Anyone that knows me long always has to hear
about Mr. B—” he quizzically explained. “You know
the flat round baskets that figs come ine Well, my
friend Mr. B— saves them for the robins.” I was so
overcome by this thoughtful act that I forgot to ask if
he tied the baskets securely in the bushes.

“Of course you have heard about Abbott Thayer’s
theory of protective coloring, haven’t your Only the

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combination of a painter and a naturalist could have
produced it. Very ingenious it is and very interesting,
but not everyone agrees with him. This does not
please Mr. Thayer at all. ‘Don’t you think that any
of this bird color was created simply for beauty?’ asked
my friend Mr. B—.

‘“““T am surprised that a man of your intelligence
should believe that there is such a thing as beauty,’ was
the sharp retort.”

Then the Constant Improver and the Modest Genius
began to exchange wondrous tales and the air was filled
with laughter and much encouraging applause.

“You remember the story about the hippopotamus,
don’t your No? Why, that’s one of my stand-bys.
A man began suit against his neighbor for calling him
a hippopotamus; and when the case came up the judge
said, ‘But I find that it’s nearly two years since he called
you a hippopotamus.’

“(Ves was the bitter response ‘but I never saw one
until two weeks ago.’ ”

After listening one morning to an enthusiast upon the

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delights of out-of-door sleeping, our Modest Genius,
who evidently felt strongly upon this subject, broke
out with: “It’s all bosh! It’s against nature! If
people are ill, of course they need all the oxygen they
can get; but I confess I’m a cold creature. I hate
draughts. I like to sleep in a nice, warm, unventilated
room.”

At the horrified expression which this word called
forth upon our faces, the Iconoclast waxed warmer:
“Look at the animals, how do they sleep? They have
to sleep outdoors, poor things! but they seek the shelter
of various holes and nests, and then stick their noses
into their fur; even the birds tuck their heads under
their wings. This idea of breathing fresh air at night,
of inhaling oxygen when you’re asleep is a mistaken
one. At night we ought to rest, to hibernate as it were.
The brain should n’t be stimulated or excited. Say
what you will, no one can sleep as soundly out of doors
as in a tightly closed room.”

At this the Fresh Air Fiend, being also hostess,

pinched her lips tight shut, maintaining a heroic, and

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to her, painful silence; but the Constant Improver felt
that he had won an ally.

What an ideal guest was that genial and learned
Scotsman, divine and author, who had so rare a sym-
pathy, so perfect a combination of childlike frankness
tempered with manifold experience! How from his
playful anecdotes we learned to know his children and
his delightful home life! Pleased and proud indeed
were we to hear that his wife wished him to buy for her,
from our favorite shop in the city, various personal
articles, including, if [ remember rightly, a hat! It
seemed to us a very daring commission.

A well-known geologist is occasionally inveigled into
our neighborhood, when we always take advantage of
his presence to explore the surrounding country, learn-
ing from him its origin and formation in language our
own ignorant eyes could not read. He is an expert in
botany too, and is tireless in seeking new wild flowers
and sending us strange plants to naturalize in our
woods.

His colleague knows naught of country life except

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on Oriental shores; there he really lives, and there his
thoughts abide although his body may be with us here.
We never tire hearing of his adventures in those far
African lands, for they are told with the keen vigor of
the enthusiast; and we enter into his own feelings when
severe disappointment faces him or great discoveries are
granted to him.

Another being, splendid, boyish, enthusiastic in an-
other way, finds an eager welcome here. His phenom-
enally brilliant intellect, his gay and rapid speech, his
sympathetic outlook on life makes him a general favor-
ite. As toastmaster he is unexcelled, and his faculty of
reeling off pat and diverting stories by the hour makes
him a much sought-for guest in many a circle. But
apart from these gifts he owns a serious side. A tremen-
dous worker, executive and systematic, after much ex-
perience in large undertakings, he has now accepted
the presidency of a Western university, where his talents
will have full scope, and where he is sure to achieve
lasting fame.

Perhaps two of the most democratic guests whom

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we have ever entertained were the representative of his
great nation to our country, and his gifted helpmeet.
What an interesting atmosphere they lived in! He
seemed to possess accurate and detailed knowledge up-
on every topic up for discussion, from astronomy to
forestry and from Adam to Dreyfus; withal a homey
man, one who could never grow old, with a sympathetic
heart and a twinkle in his eye. Rarely does one see
such camaraderie as existed between this intellectual
pair.

A talented novelist, whimsical and shy, yet when in
the mood brilliant in conversation, is at times induced
to spend a few days with us. ‘When no one else is
there!” he stipulates; and we, highly flattered, al-
though feeling rather selfish, accede to his condition.

Vividly alive to color and picturesqueness, his
sympathies are rather with the Old World than with
the New. “My ideal of life is to have no hampering
luxuries,” he confessed. “If I could limit my pos-
sessions to one umbrella then I should be perfectly

content.”
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

Like most reserved persons, when he lets himself go,
he is a delightful companion, gay, debonair, casting
discretion to the winds. His comments on country life
are unique: “What a noisy crew these country crea-
tures are!” It happened to be August. “They actually
kept me awake last night. I shall have to return to
my quiet city home.” And he awaited half seriously
our protests.

“You should be here in June if you think this is
noisy,” we hasten to retort; “then the birds make the
most frightful racket all day long.”

“Indeed? Well, I’ve never believed in the so-
called joys of a country life. Give me the peace of
well-built blocks of houses—”

“With the music of the street car, and the elevated
and the motors not too far away!”

“Why, that’s not nearly so disturbing as this noc-
turnal uproar.”

I must confess to feeling somewhat embarrassed one
May during an especially active mating season when

I was forced to ask my guests whether they would pre-

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fer the room where the mourning dove was nesting on
the transom shelf, or the chamber over whose window
the wren’s box hung! I did not choose to have a
mourning dove adopt a disused robin’s nest for her own
two white eggs. Jam not very fond of mourning doves
anyway on account of their melancholy call. But when
one threw herself so completely on our mercy, what
could we do but succor her? As to the wrens, noisy
they are but so happy and gay that the nearer they
come the better we like it. It is a case of love us, love
our wrens!

When during the cool evenings of June and July
we are driven to the dining-room or hall for our open
fire as the living-room chimney has been preémpted
by the swifts, a wonder sometimes creeps into my mind
if we are not being overindulgent toward our feathered
friends. But their graceful flight in the stormiest days
as well as their fondness for destructive insects prevents
any measures being taken to discourage them.

A great musician, composer, and conductor honored

our rooftree one spring before his own beloved moun-

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tain home was ready to receive him. A comfortable
guest he proved to be, with pleasant memories of a
varied life to unfold.

And that famous Dublin scholar whom we laugh-

?

ingly called ‘‘a professional visitor,’ whose convivial

qualities were in demand from the court to the humblest
cottage! With what dramatic skill he related his
humorous contretemps, and how many there were!
His knowledge of Greece and of human nature were
equally profound.

A bright young ten-year-old in the privacy of his
own journal thus recorded unaided the impressions of
his brief visit:

Sept. 10. Bright and fair. I won’t tell what I did all morning.
Mama and Papa and Jack and I are going to Lake Geneva. We
went down town and over to the North Western station. We are
going to stay at Mr. Huchsen’s house. He is going on the train
with us. We road in a parlor car and almost all the way we were
in back on the platform. You know how it is whising by farm
houses and cattle and whising over little streams and going slow
over big rivers. It seemed to take us an awfly long time to get
there a carage was waighting for us. We got in and drove down
the street a little ways. We stopped and got soda and then went
on. It was a dandy drive. You could feel the brees from the lake.
Jack and I went in swimming. After our swim we paddled around

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in the boat till supper. The next day we paddled around in the
boat a little and went in twice. There are two little chipmunkys
that live under the porch. They were wild once and now they are
so tame that they will come and take peanuts from your pockets.
The next day I and Jack got up real early and fished. I caught
four and Jack caught nowne. Jack had a steel pole and a real. I
had a bamboo pole with a string tied on the end. We went home
right after breakfast. ‘We got in the carage and drove to the station.

It is a favorite custom of ours to take newly ar-
rived guests out on the south terrace, where they get
the first view of the shrubbery, the ancient willows,
and the lake beyond. As one turns, the shell-pink
geraniums greet the eye from the low window-boxes
and we leisurely continue on to the dog-trot, and so
enter the house. One active little fellow, on arriving,
had broken away from his elders and had made the en-
tire circuit of the house while his mother was still
politely listening to her host’s explanation of the place.

“Tt is beautiful. Isn’t it, dearie?” she added to
her small son, who raced up to her evidently over-
flowing with speech.

“Yes, mother,” he gasped, “but you ought to see the

??

back-yard

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He had a true urban idea of correctness, and his
bent was so logical that it was difficult for his mother
to impress upon him the fact that the other side of
front was not necessarily back.

Very flattering to our self-esteem is the appeal of
the inexperienced to our small degree of knowledge.
When a man has just bought a country place or
is thinking of taking up country life and comes to see
what we have done, with what keen pleasure we in-
form him! We extend to him young or old, our hearty
greeting and share with him to the minutest detail our
lately acquired wisdom. We spread before him maps
of the place at various stages, lists of formidable
length, names of plants so scientific as to induce a
feeling of helplessness in the novice; then when we have
reduced him to this condition of utter bewilderment,
we ask gently, “Is there anything else you would like
to knowr” If he is brave and persistent, he gathers
himself together, looks up and says, “Yes, I want to
ask questions; will you please answer them as plainly

and as simply as you can?” ‘This is a hopeful sign;

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the man is beginning to understand that he must learn
little by little, that increasing his knowledge gradually
day by day, he will in time be able to do his share to-
ward enlightening the next newcomer into this blessed
country life.

Of those dear ones who are the nearest to us; those
who know each corner, each remote recess of our be-
loved wood, to whom this haven is a second home;
of those who share in all our sorrows and double all
our joys; of them this is not the place to speak. With-
in our hearts their names are graven far more deeply

than in the book of guests.

217
CHAPTER XI

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

\ ' JE live in a beautiful section of the country,
in the midst of undulating hills around
whose bases flow gentle rivulets forming

pools and lakes of various shapes and sizes. "The roads

are fair whenever the rain keeps away, and many are
the interesting excursions within a radius of sixty miles.

It is difficult to persuade the Constant Improver to
leave his small estate for a mere ride, but if the object
is a worthy one his enthusiasm rises. The latter part
of July or the first of August, according to the season,
we always look forward to a particular day, the Feéte
of the Lotus. In the motor it takes us a little over an
hour through a charming landscape. Passing four or
five hamlets, by comfortable, well-kept farmhouses
with their fields of corn and alfalfa, crossing great
swamps in flower where redwings and bobolinks gather,

climbing through forests of hardwood with ravishing

218
 

 

 

 

 

KINGFISHERS’ NESTS
 

 

THE LITTLE GRAND-DAUGHTER
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

views from the summits, at last we turn in at a gate-
way and behold at the foot of a steep hill sparkling
water covered with acres of flowers.

In the foreground are water-lilies, their tinted pads
moving with the ripples; beyond rise the blue stalks
of the pickerel weed from among the lotus blossoms.
And those blossoms,—creamy with a tinge of green
on the outside of the petals,—each of them holds in
its rich yellow stamens so powerful a perfume that
the still air is heavy with its breath. The large round
leaves with their exquisite coloring stand out more than
a foot above the water, while the buds and blossoms
just o’ertop them, making an extraordinary picture. In
Japan this would be a place of yearly pilgrimage; in
Europe one of the noted attractions; here it is be-
ginning to be well known, and hundreds of visitors
come in small boats and launches to exclaim over its
beauty and, alas! to carry away as much of it as they
can. This is a fruitless although tempting procedure,
as the buds rarely open well; and if the expanded

flower is picked it closes at once and does not revive.

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Where did this curious plant come from? They
call it the Egyptian lotus, but in Egypt the lotus has
practically disappeared. How did it come here? and
why is it found only in this one grassy lake when in
the surrounding country the conditions appear iden-
tical? ‘To these questions there are various solutions, .
none of which are particularly satisfactory. Why not
be content with this as a wonderful spectacle, a miracle
of Nature, a joy to the senses? To be sure I have
heard that near Detroit more acres of lotus have been
found, and in the olden days the Calumet River boasted
blossoms; but civilization has successfully destroyed
the latter. Let us hope that this particular lotus bed
at Grass Lake may be spared to afford joy to future
generations.

One season we went to the lotus fields so late that
many of the flowers had gone, but there was a new
and remarkable effect as of acres of blue blossoms above
the broad green leaves.

“What can it be?” I cried. “Do the flowers turn

blue in fading?”

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“Come and see,” said the smiling guardian, and
pushing off in the tiny flat-bottomed boat we silently
punted into the midst of the parting leaves.

“They are birds!” I exclaimed, for when we came
too close the swallows sluggishly rose only to seek the
nearest perch again. “Birds! There must be hun-
dreds of them.”

“Yes, they love to drink from the lotus pods,” an-
swered the guardian. “It must make them feel queer
for a while, but it doesn’t hurt ’em any.”

When the petals of the lotus drop away the cup-
like seed-pod stands exposed, offering its contents to
the blue-winged swallows who, sweeping in great cir-
cles over these Elysian fields, with reckless self-in-
dulgence drink the sleep-producing liquid and on the
upright perches rest, dreaming rapturously.

These wild water plants are difficult to cultivate;
the guardian told us that for fifteen years he had ex-
perimented and had only just succeeded in making some
of the lotus plants live in another section of the lake.

What a beautiful addition they would be to any water

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garden, and how effective their splendid foliage on
the edges of protected bays in the larger lakes!

Another of our favorite rides is to a neighboring
college famous for its Indian mounds. Fifteen of
these enrich its campus, some of which have been ex-
plored; but as investigations have now been forbidden,
those yet unviolated must exercise a curious fascina-
tion upon the imaginative student. This was a part
of the country well populated by the first Americans,
and in the Museum here is many a trophy of their life
and customs.

The distance, thirty-three miles over a good road,
and the excellent inn for luncheon, make this an at-
tractive excursion at almost any time of year; but in
September, when the second growth of sweet clover
perfumes the highway and an occasional sumach glows
brilliant in the sunshine; when not only the late golden-
rods are in bloom, but dainty asters, purple, lavender,
and white, nod graciously from hill and hollow; when
the hazel and dogwood are turning to crimson, and in

the swamps the sneezeweed and coreopsis vie with each

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other in glory; when the Virginia creeper trails its
scarlet banners over high fences and up lofty tree-
trunks, and an infrequent maple branch flames in
autumnal coloring—then indeed is the mere motion
through this region a delight, and we need no other
reward.

The cattle are grazing in friendly groups or gather
under sheltering trees; huge golden stacks of straw
are outlined against red barns; a child in gingham
frock beside the well dances as she pumps; a white-
washed schoolhouse at the crossroads turns out its
tumultuous flock; an avenue of fine old maples, for
which we must thank some early nature-lover, borders
the road; a stately farmhouse built of matched cobble-
stones half hides within its grove of elms, its orchard
and kitchen garden standing in proud prominence be-
side the highway. Small villages of neatly kept houses
shaded by excellent trees follow each other every ten
miles or so in this undulating country, while a dim,
neglected cemetery beneath huge firs seems to indicate
a particularly healthy community.

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We aim to have on our place all the wild flowers
that will flourish there, especially those natural to this
region; so when we heard that the beautiful large
anemone patens could be had for the gathering, we
made every inquiry possible about the location and
started out full of hope one morning in May to dis-
cover its whereabouts. We were able to obtain only
vague information.

“Yes, up near Whitewater, in those gravelly hills,
there used to be lots of them. Of course, it’s years
since we were there,” acknowledged our informant;
and with this as our only clue we set forth. Now
Whitewater was about twenty-four miles from us; so
after an early luncheon, provided with trowel and
newspapers, baskets and an old tarpaulin to protect
the fragile flowers from the wind, we set out a party
of three. It was arranged that each one must be on
the lookout and the instant an anemone was sighted give
a signal to stop. It was one of those heavenly days in
early May when all nature seems happy in the coming

of the springtime, when the air is full of promise, and

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wild flowers open to the sunshine from every field
and pasture. Gayly chatting, we bowled along the
familiar road to the Observatory and on to Delevan
Lake, then to the town itself; and after that we began
to study guideboards. Almost due north with right-
angled jogs, over a creek and through marshes, catch-
ing a glimpse of a lake or two we began to climb, and
before long were in the midst of the “gravelly hills”
so well described by our informant.

“Tt does seem like hunting for a needle in a hay-
stack,” suggested the youngest member of the party, as
mound after mound rose before us, beside us, and all
around us.

“Tn that case we might as well begin here,” I an-
nounced. So the car was stopped, and out we all
jumped, including the chauffeur, who by this time
was an experienced wild-flower hunter. In order to
cover as much ground as possible we scattered in dif-
ferent directions and searched diligently.

“T have one,” cried the youngest member of the

arty almost at once; “at least I’ve found something.”
party ) g

15 225
 

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We rushed to her, standing on guard over her treas-
ure. It seemed almost uncanny so soon to come across
the much desired small flower in these acres of sparse
underbrush, for it really was an anemone patens, and by
going carefully over the neighboring ground we dis-
covered a few more plants; but this did not satisfy us.
By this time we had tasted blood, figuratively speak-
ing, and the fury of the hunt was upon us. Old and
young we scoured the hills, but possibly the plants were
past blossoming, for we found no more. On our re-
turn homewards, when in a narrow lane, we met a farm-
er’s cart driven by a woman with a baby in her arms;
but what each one of us saw as we turned out to allow
her to pass was a bunch of our longed-for anemones
in one of her hands.

We looked at each other with but one thought. Then
without a word I sprang out and ran after her.

“Oh! would you mind,” I cried a bit breathlessly,
“would you mind telling me where you found those

flowers?”
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OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

She looked at me in a dazed way and then deliberately
pulled up her nag.

“Theme” she asked. “You can have ’em.”

“No,” I protested, “I want so much to get some of
the plants for my garden. What do you call them?
They are so lovely.”

“Them ’s wild crocus,” she kindly explained. “Take
em if you want’em; they ain’t no treat tome. There’s
lots of ’em down yander in the medder.”

“Oh! do tell me where,” I begged, accepting her
posies as she still held them out to me.

“Down there, ’bout half a mile you come to a school-
house on the corner, and then there’s a cow pasture
back of it; there’s where you ll find ’em, lots of ’em.
It’s pretty wet,” she warned us in leaving.

Thanking her profusely, to her evident surprise, we
followed her directions and found the precious plants
as she had said in quantities. With glee we bundled
a big basket of them into the waiting car, and before

they could wither had safely transplanted them to a

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

propitiously gravelly spot in the wild garden. Here
they greet us every springtime, a lovely mass of
delicate bloom, and sometimes in September a flower
or two opens to remind us of our May outing.

The uninitiated might imagine that hunting wild
flowers from a motor car would be a useless expendi-
ture of energy as far as the flowers are concerned, but
we never go too fast to see the wayside blossoms nor
ever hesitate to stop for anything whatever. If the
road leads through a gravel pit whose steep sides are
honeycombed with swallows’ and kingfishers’ nests,
who could resist such an opportunity to get a glimpse
of the little ones? It is so easy to pull up at a field of
bloom and hunt for one’s particular quarry there, often
stumbling upon other treasures, none of which are dis-
regarded.

The road maps sent out by the U. S. Geological Sur-
vey at ridiculously low prices are a great comfort to
him who wishes to explore the country; by learning

their conventional signs, one can see the whole region

228
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

pictured as if on canvas. To be sure the condition of
the road bed is carefully omitted, and it is necessary
to judge for oneself at each corner which is the best
route. For all highways we depend on the maps pre-
pared for the touring car.

About twelve miles to the west of us are extensive
marshes where the blackbirds build their nests, not only
the red-winged but the brilliant yellow-headed black-
bird. Here in June is a mine of satisfaction to the
bird-lover. What do we care if the sun is hot. Did
you see the false nest of the marsh wren on those tall
reeds?

“But the mosquitoes—”

‘Yes, they are in the marshes too. The larve are
a favorite delicacy on the blackbird’s menu.”

“But they say the gnats there bite worse than the
mosquitoes.”

‘Yes, they’re pretty troublesome at times, but we
protect ourselves the best we can with long gloves and

a veil.”
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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

“But is n’t it tiresome to poke about in a small boat
all day?”

“Yes, indeed; it would be deadly if one’s every sense
were not on the alert to catch something of the
mysterious life hidden within those moving grasses, be-
yond those boggy hillocks, beside that bank of willows.
To sit motionless with poised glasses as the boat creeps
silently through tiny channels, pushing aside the rank
water weeds, seeking for who-knows-what rare secrets
—could any adventure be more absorbing?”

Whatever you “go out for to see” is generally what
you will not find; it is the unexpected which gives us
the keenest gratification. The bobolinks are curtsying
on the cat-tail’s sheaths; their liquid song is gay as their
bright coats. ‘The marsh wrens trill and dive into the
shade, where their round balls of nests hang tied aS
cleverly.

“TLook!’ my companion indicates with eager eyes
rather than by speech.

And I look but see nothing new.

230
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

“There! By the water, that brown thing, tall, like
a stick,” she barely breathes.

Yes, I see that, of course, another bit of the marsh
vegetation. J wonder at her excitement and search
again for the cause.

“It’s a bittern!” she whispers.

“A bittern? Where?” Even then I fail to see un-
til, still motionless, upright, with head thrown back,
the posing bird permits us to approach within fifteen
feet!

This ability to recognize the marvels of nature is al-
most like acquiring another sense, it so sharpens those
with which we are endowed; and each new acquisition
prepares us to see and hear more of that wonder world
which surrounds us.

“T believe there’s a heron’s nest on that tree,” ex-
claims my companion after some moments of study with
the glass. “Can we get near it, do you think?”

“The little green heron?” I ask, as we glide slowly,

by narrow windings, through the marshy grass.

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“Yes, and I’ve wanted for such a long time to photo-
graph some young herons.”

How we came close enough to watch the mother
bird go to the nest and leave again, how we slid over
slippery hummocks to reach the desired tree, how with
infinite pains we took out those two herons, kodaked
them, and replaced them in the dilapidated nest, how
the mother watched us from a neighboring branch and
comforted her recovered darlings with choice bits of
fish—all this forms an experience long to be re-
membered. So whenever this enthusiastic nature-
lover comes to us we always try to reserve one day for
the marshes; and sometime we hope not only to see the
bittern again in his haunts but also to hear his far-
famed “love-song,” a curious sort of noise that gives
him his name of ‘““Thunder-pumper.”

Beside a clear bit of water about twenty-five miles
away lives a colony of boys learning by self-government
to be able men and honorable citizens. The drive over
is through upland and meadow with enchanting pic-

tures at each fresh turn; but the encouragement and in-

232
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

spiration which accompany us on our homeward way
is not due wholly to the landscape.
If we have a whole day at our disposal we are often

, for there the far-famed

 

tempted to go as far as W
Hull House has its Country Club given by one of its
most ardent supporters in memory of her husband.
Seventy-two acres of undulating woodland traversed by
a deep, winding ravine nearly a mile in extent, with a
spring and a swimming pool and a trickling brook;
—what could mortal wish for more? Here tired
mothers find refreshment and here the convalescent
finds a cure. Here also the music school carries for-
ward its wonderful work under strict surveillance of
many feathered songsters.

In quite another direction lies a famous pottery
whose owner makes visitors welcome. It is an un-
usual experience to see in all its details the making of
one’s favorite vase! Each member of the family takes
a personal pleasure in this work; it is like the old Flor-
entine ateliers, even a little granddaughter shyly enter-
tains us with the assistance of a cherished cat.

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A region of utter wildness lies about seven miles to
the south of us, a tract of land consisting of some two
hundred acres on which the hand of civilization has
never set its seal. Rich land it is and fertile beyond
words, but no man has ventured yet to curb its native
growths. To its borders extend fields of corn and
grain; to its edges wander grazing cattle; but within
its dark recesses no highway penetrates, no path is cut.
For this is the tamarack swamp, and even in the driest
season here stands water bathing the feet of the
feathery larches. From the outside it is always allur-
ing, this tamarack swamp. In the dull days of No-
vember its brown interlaced twigs are blurred and
misty against the sky; when the snow comes, it is like
a vast garden of Christmas trees; and in the early spring
when the delicate needles first appear, a lovely
evanescent green, it is indeed a fairy forest; in Septem-
ber, too, above radiant fields of wild coreopsis it is
filled with a mysterious charm, and facing the glory
of the setting sun its dark pointed tree-tops gain a new
beauty.

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OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

But within its silent aisles the stillness is oppressive;
only the song sparrow refuses to be downcast or even
frightened by the sinister hiss of the tiny snake; the
frogs, too, form a cheery company, and the profusion
of flowers surrounding the forest does its best to enliven
the somberness. This tract of marsh land is a paradise
to the courageous nature-lover: in its deep retreats,
protected from wind and sun, the cinnamon fern, the
royal fern, and the sensitive fern flourish with a
prodigality and lavishness undreamed of by the out-
side world.

These, then, are the objects of our pilgrimage, here
is our June rendezvous, but not by the motor car!
Preferably on a dark, even a rainy, day—what differ-
ence does a little more water makeP—with the flattest,
broadest hayrack we can borrow, and two strong horses,
we sally forth dressed as for wading; for wading it
will be, either in treacherous mud or holes of water or
grassy pools. This is no woman’s undertaking, this is
a man’s job; but if she is willing to prepare herself
properly she may be allowed to join the party, to share

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in its fascinating discoveries and to divide its curious
experiences.

We make an early start and have ample time to ap-
preciate the country sights en route, for caravaning is
a leisurely sport, and this is doubtless as near caravan-
ing as we shall ever get. Occasionally the driver
speaks to his big nags and at times even flicks his whip,
but both he and they know that it is a mere figure of
speech. They jog along in their own free way, and in
due time we arrive.

That is, we arrive at the place where the wagon must
be left; whether a mile or half a mile from the grove
depends upon the amount of water in the marsh.
Rapidly the ground is reconnoitered. Among such a
wealth of material decision is dificult. We find dense
clumps of the sensitive fern with its rich, heavy leaves;
then we are tempted by a strange intertwisted combina-
tion of the royal fern’s airy fronds with the brake-
like fronds of the cinnamon fern. This certainly we
cannot leave, although its size is enormous. Carefully

the chosen plants are marked,—then with sharp spades

236
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

the clumps are separated from the tangle of growth
around them. The men work busily but cautiously,
protecting the roots with balls of earth and carrying
the clumps when excavated to the waiting wagon.
There they are placed as close together as possible;
and with the exception of a short intermission at noon-
time this proceeding is repeated until dusk.

It is impossible for the woman in the party to sit idle
in the midst of so much industry. She may assist in
the selection of desirable booty, or pick armfuls of
pitcher plants to carry away for home study, or she
may wander cautiously among the closely growing
larches, standing quiet for long intervals the better to
observe the strange life of the morass; she may even
venture into the more open spaces whose quaking bogs
are half hidden under a wealth of heavenly bloom;
for blue is the wild flag, and blue is the swamp lobelia,
and blue is the blue-eyed grass in tones of magical
beauty. Hundreds of shooting stars nod their heads
gently, and the anemone-like flowers of the swamp
galium unfold from their stalks of clasping leaves.

237
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

The bewitching blossoms of the cotton grass sway in
fleecy waves above the showy lady’s slippers; stoop-
ing to gather these, the greenish white flowers of the
poison ivy warn one to beware, danger is near. Pro-
tected by tall rushes, the winged moccasin flower
thrives and the yellow lady’s-slipper and that spike of
fragrant creamy petals known as the grass orchid in
common parlance, but to the scientific mind as
Spiranthes Romanzofhana! Sometimes I wonder if
scientists who label have any sense of humor. By this
time my enthusiasm for gathering is abating and my
arms are growing weary with the burden, yet the fields
of bloom show no decrease. Many flowers of the marsh
droop and wither when brought into a house; but these
orchids if provided with fresh water and fresh air will
keep their beauty for nearly two weeks.

It is a long day and a hard one, this day at the tama-
rack swamp, for seven miles in a hayrack is a very
lengthy proceeding, particularly when returning at
night. But think of the reward! We are so con-

stituted as to prize most what we work the hardest to
238
 

OUR FAVORITE JAUNTS

 

 

get, and our ferns and orchids thus become very precious
in our eyes.

As soon as we reach home our “treasure trove” is
planted in the holes already prepared for it and given
plenty of water, so that none of the plants have time
to wither. To bring these denizens of the forest to
our own woodland, to be able to watch over and care
for them, to foster their growth and increase their

production, what an unmitigated joy!

O dweller in the haunts of man, have you ever tried
to turn back the wheel of time and to become a child
again thrilled with anticipation of the County Fair?
Not the modern Exposition, but the real old-fashioned
genuine article with horse races, big pumpkins and
beets, prize cattle and prize chickens, prize patchwork
and prize cakes; with candy booths and lemonade and
lunches served by ladies of the church, with merry-go-
rounds of course, and side shows each more wonderful
than the other,—the Flying Lady, the High Diver, the
Sphinx! It is an astonishing spectacle and attracts the

239
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

whole countryside. Would anything induce us to miss
this annual diversion, the half concealed pride of our
farmer neighbors, the sauntering, bantering crowd, the

d

ancient jokes of the “barkers,” and then—the delicious

tide home in the September twilight?

240
CHAPTER XII

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

r ‘AO most of us swept along in the mad rush of
city life the idea of the country in winter comes
as an impossibility, unless presented under the

guise of a large house party up for a week of sport. It

seems to indicate a certain queerness, this desire to go
up to a forlorn house in January, sometimes alone.

“What in the world do you do with yourself?” ask
my inquisitive friends. “You certainly can’t work in
the garden at this time of the year. Aren’t the
days awfully long? Confess, don’t you get lonesome?”
Some of them even add, “‘Aren’t you afraidr”

I wonder if it is the contrariness of human nature
that makes another’s lot in life look so much more at-
tractive than one’s own. Or is it the mere fact that
one can have all the diversions incidental to a gay so-
cial life that makes the peace of the country so desir-

able. I cannot tell, [ have given up guessing, I merely

16 241
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

state facts. I know that the thought of that silent
house hidden away in the heart of the woods gives me
longings unspeakable; that my spirit fairly sings with-
in me through all the discomforts of the dirty station
and the ill-smelling, overheated trains; that the ride in
the darkness on wheels or runners is filled with happy
anticipations, and that once in the beloved home, all
and more than my imagination could compass of peace
and felicity has come to me.

The days, instead of being long, pass like a flying
shuttle, and the early evening gives one more apprecia-
tion of the flames upon the hearthstone, the glowing
light behind one, the cushioned chaise-longue, and an
interesting tale. For in order fully to enjoy all one’s
pleasures one must not be prodigal, so I save my novels
for the evening.

The simple fact of awakening in the morning at no
especial time, with no appointments, is in itself so pleas-
ing a feature of country life that I should think it
would commend itself to all city folk. The utter
ignoring of time, the scorn of man’s invention, the

242
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

obliteration of the passing moment, does it not bring
us to a keener realization of the eternal? For it gives
one an indescribable sense of restfulness with which to
begin the day’s doings.

“But in the middle of winter when the ground is
covered with snow, surely you can’t find anything to
do in the country then?” I look pityingly at my tri-
umphant inquisitor. Shall I try to explain the daily
changing beauty of the winter landscape, from the
hoar frost which transforms my world into fairy-land,
through brilliant sunrises and more gorgeous sunsets,
through cloud effects of startling grandeur to that first
wet snow which, clinging to every crevice, gives a
new contour to my familiar scenes?-—when, after melt-
ing days of a singular softness, follow fierce gales and
silent nights of severe cold, until one day the heavens
open and let down myriads of starry crystals to cover
the earth as with a garment. The long struggle of
the lake against the ice king is over, with the ther-
mometer at ten below zero for three nights; the ice is
thick enough for sleighs and boats.

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

Now, indeed, is the country divine! In a cloudless
sky without a breath of wind the sun rises, a globe of
fire. Is this our sober, tangible, prosaic earth, this rich
tangle of white-draped branches, this iridescent ex-
panse of unsullied purity? Not a brown leaf stirs, not
a sign of life anywhere. But wait! Is it a flutter of
wings under that bush by the terrace? Is it “dee,
dee” I hear close to my window?

I must hasten to spread my table, for I have left
the withered geraniums in my window box to serve as
a natural shelter against the rain or snow, and on the
earth beneath I sprinkle the food for the birds—
cracked corn and oats, crumbs and suet, birdseed and
chopped nuts, to please all tastes. Nor do they need
a second invitation. The chickadees look at me stead-
ily and help themselves with dainty gusto, the nut-
hatches are a bit more selfish, perhaps, but not terrify-
ing to the juncos, who calmly stand their ground.
When the nuthatch is storing his bit in the tree trunk,
back comes Mr. Chickadee with his bewitching little

244
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

song and eats his fill. As I sit at my desk, ostensibly
writing, my eyes are within a foot of these exquisite
creatures; and I may as well acknowledge here that
their interesting actions do form a large part of my
daily diversion. When the thermometer gets to zero
and below, the nuthatch squats down, so that his feathers
protect his feet; but the chickadee pecks away uncon-
cernedly at the food held in his claw, no matter if the
gale does blow his tiny feathers all awry.

A gorgeous blue jay at times appears on my south
maple. He has doubtless noticed birds coming and
going from my window: is n’t there something for him
too? I have carefully refrained from putting whole
nuts on this table, so as not to invite his lordly presence,
but on the floor of the upstairs porch he spies his favor-
ite food and darts to the jar, then to the railing with a
peanut in his beak. ‘Tucking it into a corner of the
vine he is back for more; presently his mate follows
him, and they take turns at their breakfast until the
supply is exhausted. His blue coat with square in-

245
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

sertions of white is dazzlingly bright against the snow;
with his bayadere-striped tail, his black collar, and his
haughty crest, he certainly cuts a dashing figure.

As the sun climbs higher the blueness of the snow
remains in the long shadows, but the rest of the world
has turned to rose. Each moment brings a different
gradation of color. One cannot say more lovely, when
all is so enchanting. Now the whole earth is spar-
kling with diamond dust. Of what use are words?

The temptation to gather a few of these snow ef-
fects is irresistible, and I sally forth with my kodak.
In order to enjoy walking in the snow or rain a woman
must have a special costume, so I have evolved one
consisting of a very short skirt, high leggings, and old-
fashioned “‘Arctic” overshoes; adding a long fur coat,
a woolen hood, and gloves, I am absolutely protected
and comfortable even with the thermometer below
zero. Now I am free to tramp in the deepest drifts.
How delicious this freedom, no one but an emancipated
victim of fashion’s whims can appreciate!

Not all the pleasure of kodaking consists in snap-

246
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

ping the pictures; there is also that breathless moment
when you unroll the film from the hidden tank and
gaze anxiously at the results. Have you succeeded in
getting what you wished? Has the whimsical lens
preserved the charm of the picture which so fascinated
your This is generally a matter of degree and often
gives you an opportunity to try again. The printing
of these same square scenes furnishes employment for
many an afternoon; and the cutting, pasting into
albums, and dating keep one busy during many an
evening. Then, in this systematic household the films
are also carefully indexed and put away in books
especially prepared for them, so that at any time one
can find a desired negative from the four or five thou-
sand already taken by the “kodak fiend.”

Not having yet attained to the level of that sub-
limated being, “Elizabeth,” content with an apple and
a few nuts, my contempt for time does not include the
obliteration of the luncheon hour or, as we country
people call it, the dinner hour. To this function one
comes indeed with a glad heart, for by this time the

247
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

morning paper from the near-by city and the mail
have arrived. Before the open fire, a tiny table is
spread, and one feeds the body and the mind at the
same time. Just outside the window the hairy and the
downy woodpeckers come to feast on the suet tied to
the nearest tree, and the little brown creeper keeps up
his interminable perambulations. Luncheon over, I
sit down at my desk to write, for never is one so in-
clined to answer a letter as when it is first received.
After business notes have been attended to, checks sent,
invitations acknowledged, then the mind is free, and we
turn to the absent friend. That record of experiences
and interchange of thoughts between congenial minds
which our modern methods of life tend to discourage
—what a comfort to find leisure for their indulgence!

I have drawn my desk close to the window and am
on guard over the birds’ table; for those fat rascals, the
squirrels, have discovered its attractions, and the mo-
ment I leave, one of them takes possession, sitting
contentedly munching the cracked corn while his com-

panions await their turn with more or less patience.

248
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

How like children they act, peering from their coign of
vantage on the gable, ignoring my menacing gestures!
Leave the window box? Yes, if I insist; but the roof
and the trees are theirs; and they leap from swaying
branch to slippery shingles in conscious superiority.
Why can they not be contented with the peanuts on their
own table on the other side of the house? I shake my
pen warningly at the gray scout on the maple tree wink-
ing his bead-like eyes, but the chickadees on the sill
within two feet of that weapon go on placidly snatching
their bit of nut one after another; even the nuthatch
seems to understand that this violent language is not for
him and whirs away only after securing the biggest
piece on the table.

Of course, all days are not bright. Infinite variety is
one of the charms of the country. In the city the
weather is of small importance and scarcely influences
our daily life, but in the country it decides it. An-
other phase of the world appears when the sky is gray
after a warm night and much of the snow has vanished,
when after an hour or two of fine rain the air grows

249
 

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cold and frosty so that each trunk and twig and withered
leaf is wrapped in a shining coat of ice. A soft haze
blurs the opposite shore, and in this strange atmosphere
distant objects acquire a curiously exaggerated aspect:
two crows drinking at a spring near the island loom
large as eagles, and the children’s pony drawing their
small cart schoolwards resembles a Normandy draft
horse. The red Siberian dogwoods gleam like rubies,
the orange-tinted willow becomes a topaz rare, and the
drooping Forsythias are strung with diamond drops.
And now the wind is rising to a gale. The thermom-
eter drops to zero, the open water becomes ice, and the
birds hide themselves in sheltered corners. The thrifty
housewife devotes her fuel to keeping a few rooms com-
fortable, and even calks those blessed casements with
cotton batting!

.»

“Magnificent weather for ice-boating!” suggests the
optimistic gardener. But I am content with less ex-
citing pastimes. I feed the shivering birds, I feed the
saucy squirrels, I feed the open fires, and between blasts

I reflect on the beneficent qualities of this same Master

250
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

Wind. From the ice-bound water come curious un-
earthly sounds, weird moanings, deep sighs, faint far-
off groans and heavy boomings. Suddenly a distant
sharp report comes nearer and nearer until with a roar
the fissure splits almost at our feet and the ice edges turn
up in a double ridge. This ice is fully seven inches
thick. What tremendous power thus disturbs it?

On such days I usually draw up a big chair in front
of the fire and knit. Knitting seems to be such an ap-
propriate work for the country—so old-fashioned and
domestic, don’t you know? One simply cannot imagine
a modern club woman with a knitting bag on her arm!
But in the country there is always a demand for mufflers,
hoods, and little shawls for the use of guests—as oc-
casionally friends do break away to spend a week-end
with us, and my knitting bag is a resource when other
pursuits might seem impolite. These little interrup-
tions made by visitors are always welcome and are quite
possibly the reason why I am so contented and do not
have a chance to get lonely. At intervals, when abso-

lute necessity arises, I do go to town.

251
 

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Now the chief pleasure in going to town is the very
early start one must make to catch the train. Those
early rides across the ice by the light of the rising sun,
the clean, crisp air in our faces, the musical bells
a-tinkle, the swift, smooth motion over the level track—
almost I am reconciled to the city journey. Even from
the cars one may lose oneself in delighted contempla-
tion of the landscape; for through the pale light of a
fierce snowstorm, the undulating fields of stubble, the
misty marsh grasses with here and there a muskrat’s
hummock, the clustered haystacks beside the silo towers,
the tiny villages and country roads, the long reaches of
prairie are all transfigured.

Everywhere the trees show their real form; the fine
curving young willows, the knotted and twisted oaks,
the splendid sweep of the great elms, and the trim young
fruit trees in even rows sharply contrasting with their
older sisters farther on, who have developed each one
according to her own individual and picturesque fash-
ion. The slim Lombardy poplar looks like a visitor

among the lindens and the maples. Here and there a

252
 

 

 

 

 

NOW INDEED IS THE COUNTRY DIVINE

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE TO THE ISLAND
 

ems,

 

CISCOVILLE

 

 

THE WAITING ICE-BOAT
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

few evergreens, pine and spruce, stand guard over a cozy
farmhouse where an ancient apple tree still bears the
rope swing of summer. The small water ways are
frozen over, and the only signs of life are in the com-
panies of sociable crows spreading their wide wings
and cawing cheerfully.

And then the return at night! How wonderful the
ride through the blackness of unlighted country high-
ways, the horses trotting briskly until we turn into our
own almost unbroken road. Here they feel their way
through the deep snow more slowly, for the windings
are only outlined here and there by heaps of half-sawn
timber and bundles of fagots ready for the carrier’s

‘cart. How long it seems before the lights of the big
house shine forth a cheery welcome and we are home
again!

Next morning the delicate tracery of the forest is
blurred by the finest of gently falling snows, the wind
is still sleeping and we are enclosed in a white, soft
world. This is the snow which our grandfathers loved,
the sticky, persistent snow; the good old-fashioned snow

253
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

which covers the earth with a blanket, protecting pre-
cious wild growths and filtering through the ground,
replenishes hidden springs, thus ensuring us a prosper-
ous summer. Does one ever outgrow the fun of being
outinasnowstorme NotI!

Who loveth the snow

The jolly old heart of winter shall know.

Who braveth the wind

A savor of life in its breath shall find.

Who cherisheth neither fear nor grudge
Right merrily on his way shall trudge.

Bundled up in our comfortable old “togs” we set out
to visit “Ciscoville.” This is the collection of huts on
the ice where each ardent fisherman sits in solitary state
beside his tiny stove and watches two lines in a watery
trench cut in the floor of his abode. Perch also may be
caught here during the winter and even now and then a
pickerel ; but the main industry is securing that formerly
rare and dainty morsel, the cisco. Deep down in the
very depths of the lake lingers this species of herring,
and to lure him to the surface a pail of minnows is
thrown into the water; attracted by their gleaming

254
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

bodies the cisco rises lazily, but instead of pursuing the
minnow, stupidly seizes the bright bead on the end of a
line and eagerly swallows it. The lines vary in length
from ten to forty feet, and by law only two are allowed
in each house. Besides a door these tar-paper dwell-
ings have two windows, also prescribed by law, in order
that the inspector may be able to investigate at his pleas-
ure. Some days the catch will amount to three hun-
dred fish, at others only a dozen or so. Formerly the
cisco could be caught only in June, when the gnat known
as the ‘‘cisco fly” abounded; the fish coming to the sur-
face to indulge in this luxury were caught in quantities,
but now owing to the winter sport the supply in June is
limited.

Sometimes this little village of “Ciscoville” consists of
forty houses huddled at picturesque angles about the
desirable localities with a stray sentry or two some dis-
tance away. I rubbed my eyes one morning as I looked
out on the lake. Where was my fishing village? Had
the ice opened in the night and swallowed it? Or was
the mischievous snow-squall hiding it? Or had I only

255
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

dreamed that a curious industry once flourished there?
None of these things. The school of fish had departed,
and the whole village after it. By man power and by
horse power the small houses had been pulled along on
their wooden runners to a more auspicious camp be-
hind a projecting point. A forest of upstanding stakes
marked the deserted openings already coating over with
thin ice, and the noise of sawing was heard in the dis-
tance where the blocks of ice were being turned over,
thereby opening a way for the fisherman’s lines in the
floor of his hut.

Even in winter many and various are the pictures
framed in the upright panels of my windows. To be
sure the mise en scéne remains the same, but the effects
are always altering. Besides the changing lights there
is usually enough of life to bring a sensation of pleas-
ure. It is the small things, after all, which stand ever
ready to interest us if we only can perceive them.

That muscular figure skating in long easy strides
across the bay, pushing before him a sled heaped with

bulging bags, little recks he of my appreciation. He is
256
 

THE COUNTRY IN WINTER

 

 

carrying provisions to the fisherman’s hut just off the
shore. But the result reminds one of an old Dutch
painting in cool grays. What is that curious mode of
locomotion just appearing out of the haze from the op-
posite shore? A man is standing on a low sled and
pushing himself along by means of a stake furnished
with a spike in the end. It would seem like slow work,
but he gets over the ice at quite a good pace, and I sup-
pose it must be easier than walking on that slippery
surface. Another inventive genius sits upon his sled
and propels it with ¢wo spiked broomsticks.

Flashing across the landscape with dazzling sail and
shining spars, glides a small ice boat with its merry
crew of two. Back and forth it tacks and turns, keep-
ing a keen outlook for the water holes. From my cozy
corner I contemplate it with delight, and am grateful
to the unconscious merrymakers for giving me so agree-
able a prospect.

Who without experience could believe that the small
wooden triangle with its steel runners and its two sails,

could hold within its narrow quarters such possibilities
17 257
 

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of pleasure, such keen delight, such excitement, and
such dangere The first day that we had our new ice
boat, the air came in mild, irregular puffs, which made
it doubtful whether we could go out at all; and when we
did venture in sheer inability to wait longer, a large
part of the going was furnished by the long legs of our
skipper!

‘Perhaps tomorrow,” he encouraged us. And when
the wild geese passed in the early twilight, chattering
with the same effect as an afternoon tea, our one thought
was the country saying, “That means a storm.”

Sure enough, before the dawn came, not a rain storm,
nor a snowstorm, but a windstorm of terrific violence.

The wind was not cold, as it came from the south; the
"trees oozed moisture, the eaves dripped, and the surface
of the lake shone as if with water. The skaters re-
joiced in this change, for it meant a smooth glare when
the frost came; and the hockey-players shook their sticks
gleefully, and the ice-boat enthusiast felt herself aquiver
with the coming sport.

Clothing for ice-boating resembles an aeroplane cos-

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tume, for every garment must be warm and close, with
no loose ends for the wind to seize. Gingerly we step
on the “deck” of the shivering craft, quickly we lie at
full length, the fur robes tucked snugly about us; with
cushions under elbows and with heads lightly raised we
must bear likeness to turtles. ‘‘Ready?” sings out the
captain, and “Ready,” comes our muffled response.
Then a moment of suspense as the sail swings into the
breeze; we are off, whizzing away to the end of the lake.
I confess I ducked and shut my eyes tight in that first
breathless moment, the rushing ice is close to one’s
clasping fingers, the fierce gale is humming in one’s
ears, the taut sail is snapping; but when at last I dare
to look, the speed seems less terrifying, and I begin to
enjoy the thrill of rapid motion. ‘What are we going
todonowe” JI gasp as the shore looms threateningly be-
fore us. Nearer and nearer comes that sandy bluff,
larger and larger grow those forest trees, and still our
speed continues. ‘Shall we crash headlong into it?”
Even beneath my close-fitting aviator’s cap my hair be-
gins to stand on end. “Is there anybody at the helm?
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Where is the captain? Why doesn’t he turn around?”
I hold my breath for the crash which seems unescapable,
when—lightly as a bird the boat swings around on the
homeward tack for further races with the startled crows.

Now comes the January thaw, that singular interval
of warmth when the air is hushed and the sky is gray,
and when the whole feeling of the atmosphere is one of
expectancy. Will it snow? Will it rain? Will the
sun shine? Will the north wind blow? But for days
the aspect does not vary, the thermometer lingering be-
tween 25 and 35. At night the trees are black against
the remnants of melting snow and the grass is positively
green in spots where it peeps through. But in the
morning another world appears. That dew of winter,
the hoar frost, has not only outlined every living thing
with its white fingers, but changed the most sordid and
ugly objects into things of beauty. The brown burlap
over the terrace wall is transformed into cloth of silver;
and even the straw of the fertilizer has become a fine
metallic network.

An enchanted forest! Under a gray sky in absolute

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stillness the rain of the night has frozen in drops on each
horizontal spray. One fears to move lest the illusion
vanish. The ground undulates beneath the mystic
trees, seeming to rise imperceptibly almost as the forest
deepens. Faint purples and brownish pinks are in the
depths all lightly touched with silver. Here is another
unexpected picture. Did someone say that the winter
landscape was monotonous? Did I hear that the winter
sights were always about the same? So I supposed in
my ignorance, and this joy of discovery fills me with new
appreciation. I must get nearer, I must go out into that
mysterious woodland and look up through those shining
branches and feel the crusted tree trunks and hear the
birds a-calling.

In every country house there should be at least one
bedroom with a fireplace; if a big one, so much the bet-
ter. There is so much companionship, so much room
for the imagination, so much soothing diversion in
watching’a wood fire. Each log has its individuality,
its responsibility, each one can so plainly help or hinder

the good work. We have even evolved a new way to

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build our open fires. The back log must of course be in
its proper position close against the bricks with the ashes
piled up underneath it making a bed only an inch or two
below the andirons. This ash bed is an important point
and often difficult to carry out on account of the slowness
with which the ashes accumulate and their desirability
for the garden. After the back log and the front log
have been separated some three inches and a newspaper
crushed into the space, a block house of twelve-inch
sticks is laid upon the paper, topped by a story of kin-
dling. Instead of the kindling a huge bundle of fagots
may be used greatly to the onlooker’s delight. Now
we are ready for the match. A line of smoke curls up-
ward at either end and almost instantaneously bursts into
flame, which, rising, catches the upper kindling, and
the whole construction is alight. As the small sticks are
consumed, their hot ashes fall upon the bigger sticks,
which in their turn heat and light the logs, so that there
is always a red bed of coals, and consequently no smok-
ing or lack of flame.

How pleasing to the eye as well as to our other senses

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is this glowing picture! Here is the beauty of unceas-
ing transmutation. What is this flame that dazzles us
with its nameless colors, its fantastic forms, its quiver-
ing variations? We watch it hovering above the wood
and lo! it is not. Where has it gone, this gaseous bit
of vapor, this part of the sun which cheers us when
that mighty orb is hidden? Have you not noticed how
feebly a fire burns if the sun’s rays strike the flame?
Now the backlog has assumed a mottled, soft gray
surface edged with a darker hue, against which lean
crackling, red-streaked fragments. The fore log is a
jagged bar of black against the bed of coals; and grow-
ing thinner as the fire progresses, at last it splits and falls
apart. Leaping across the breach thus made, the play-
ful flames rise in a burst of joy as if released from long
imprisonment. But the minutes pass, and the back log
begins to glow in shimmering waves of light, tipped by
ghostly violet fingers. Now the helpful friend who has
been shelling nuts for the chickadees rises and shakes
her apron into the warm gray mass. Instantly a merry
flame lights up the farthest corner of the room, and
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within its warm embrace a log is placed. ‘Tiny fiery
sprites run up and down the smooth birch-bark emitting
little cries of glee, showers of sparks fly up the chimney
breast, and all the soft gray coals are once more molten
gold.

As the day draws to its close and the shadows of twi-
light deepen, the glow of light upon the hearth becomes
more precious. Now is the time for a back log fresh
from the forest with all its sap intact. No dashing dis-
play here, but a steady attention to the important task of
keeping those smoldering ashes alive and sending out
friendly heat. For hours it will last, gently simmering
and sizzling with a low, contented murmur which leads

one from tranquillity to sleep.

264
CHAPTER XIII

SOMETIME

T is always gratifying to contemplate what good we
| have done and what benefits we have received in

the past; it is a joy to experience each day our quota
of pleasures; but the future—what roseate hues sur-
round it, what nameless joys attend it, what glorious
schemes are conjured by that magical word ‘“some-
time”!

Sometime we are going to have a series of small
gardens, a succession of shut-in spaces with their sense
of intimacy and seclusion, providing a wealth of
flowers for each month in the year; lovely nooks en-
closed by high walls, with a barred wooden gate at the
entrance and steps leading down, so that one can get the
full effect of the spreading bloom as one enters.

Seven of these gardens are partly planned, their loca-
tion almost decided on, in a hollow where few trees will
have to be sacrificed. I can see in my mind’s eye the

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winding path stopping abruptly at the closed door, over
which some vine must fall, and the look of expectancy
in the eyes of my companion as we pause before it. I
must try to remember always to pause before it, that is
such a spur to the imagination. And then, the door
must push open slowly. This will be the wall and
water garden hidden away in the shade of deep woods.
A narrow pool half covered with cress, Quaker ladies
and forget-me-nots will extend its entire length ir-
regularly outlined with sunken bowlders and heaped-up
rocks. Long fronds of cool, green ferns will shelter
the Alpine plants nestling in the crevices especially pre-
pared for them with fibrous, moisture-holding earth.
‘Tiny paths will meander over and through the miniature
defiles, and from the walls green vines will fall in
picturesque confusion. Pampas with eulalia grass and
arundos will wave their feathery plumes, and emerald
mosses will cover damp corners in this delectable re-
treat.

Of course, one of these gardens must be devoted to

roses; we can never have too many of them, and in this
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sheltered yet open space they should flourish exceed-
ingly. Roses more than any other flowers should have
a corner to themselves. When in bloom they are an ex-
quisite sight, but after June in order to get the best
results they should have plenty of air, food, and water—
especially food. The ground beneath them must be
kept free for cultivation and each plant must be easily
accessible for inspection. No flower repays one better
for loving care, but this care must be constant. The
least relaxed vigilance will probably bring disastrous
results. In this garden the Dorothy Perkins shall cover
one wall, and the crimson rambler another, with the
gardenia and the memorial roses at one end; the other
end shall be left bare as a background for so much color.
Bon Silenes and Killarneys, Frau Karl Druschki and
the Blanc Double de Coubert, the Arnold and the Al-
taica, the Jaqueminot and the La France, the Hermosa
and Cecil Brunner, the Prince Camille de Rohan, the
John Hopper, and the Grus an Teplitz in quantities
shall here gladden the eyes. Generally the idea of a

rose garden seems to be to see how many varieties you

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can grow; I must have at least ten plants of each kind,
and of course I expect each one to be healthy and to
bear profusely! At the end where the wall is bare,
must be the fountain with water flowing into two semi-
circular basins, the smaller one about three feet above
the other and made shallow by rocks so that the birds
may frequent it. This will be a useful as well as beau-
tiful feature, for close by will be a bench whose cover
will lift, disclosing watering cans and sprayers, shears
and various tools, even a basket or two in case of need.

In the winter garden would be dwarf evergreens,
hemlocks and cedars and spruces, with the ground
juniper where the lingering robin may find a refuge.
At intervals must rise a Japanese yew, straight and tall
like an exclamation point. Bushes with berries must
line the paths of this enclosure—buckthorn and bay-
berry, high-bush cranberry and the Christmas berry
with barberries both native and Japanese. Here also
those flowers whose seeds persist during the winter must
find a lodgment, for this garden is to be especially fitted

up for the birds. Food bells and bird boxes, pieces of
268
 

SOMETIME

 

suet and protected shelters of all kinds can be arranged
so that in severe weather our feathered friends may
know that we are mindful of their interests. In my
dream above the snowy landscape I see the chickadees
and juncos, even the downy woodpecker and the nut-
hatch with an occasional visitor of another species, en-
livening this winter garden with their merry calls.

And I am quite determined to have a yellow garden.
We are always saying, I wish we had more of this or
that particularly welcome flower. Now, here I shall
have big masses of each plant, and yet all must be yel-
low, so that in the dull days, even the misty ones, on
entering this enclosure a burst of sunshine will greet
us. In April hundreds of daffodils will invite us to this
sweet spot, nodding to their reflections in the still water
of the pool. Later the tulips will make a gay parterre,
then come the golden alyssum, two species of cory-
dalis so freely flowering, with that gracious beauty the
golden-spurred columbine, and the Iceland poppy—all
many shades of the same glorious hue. With the dor-

onicums and coreopsis, the helinium, helianthus, and

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

heliopsis, with the calliopsis and marigolds—both Afri-
can and French—and sanvitalia for borders, with
calendula and California poppies, with the cenothera
from Missouri, and nasturtiums to fill in each empty
corner, this open, sunny, happy garden must be a favor-
ite refuge until frost.

Imagine an oblong space entirely surrounded with
bridal wreath, our May garden, and clumps of gay
peonies in every hue in front of them; what a fragrant,
exquisite hiding place it would be! This could also
be a September garden with Japanese clematis trained
on the walls and allowed to run riot over the spirea
bushes; and lilies, the Japanese, the pink speciosum,
and the white rising above the peony leaves. Again a
bower of beauty, yet nothing could be more different.

Think of a garden all blue and white flowers! A tan-
gle of Japanese morning-glory and Jackmani clematis
over the walls, white hollyhocks behind the varied blues
of larkspur, bachelor’s buttons with white double bal-
sams, and giant hyacinths in the corners; blue flag about

the pool, and later candytuft, lobelia and sweet alyssum

270
 

SOMETIME

 

for the borders, white poppies near Carpathian hare-
bells, the delicate beauty of love-in-a-mist beneath fra-
grant sprays of salvia farinacea and the ever blooming
violas for a ground covering. White dahlias, asters,
and stock could be placed where needed, and spikes of
the deep blue larkspur (formosum) would appear more
brilliant against white phlox; while in every possible
spot we would put the meadow sage (salvia pratensis)
the richest, purest blue flower that we know. This may
sound monotonous in the telling, but by keeping care-
fully to the true blues I am sure that a wonderful effect
could be produced. Would it present a cold appear-
ancee As this would be an August garden what could
be more desirable?

Of course there must be a bench in each garden and a
fountain, if only a single jet of water, which falling will
break into drops and plash gently on the pool below. I
sometimes question which is the greater pleasure, this
planning for the garden by the fire in winter with the
north wind roaring and the snow covering the ground,

with the scent of narcissus and hyacinth about us and

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the call of the chickadee on the sill—or the actual plant-
ing and seeing that long thought-of experiment materi-
alize!

And then I want an evening garden—not a shut-in
space with walls, but a bit of the side hill facing south,
a wide path in an open glade which the moon would
flood and the stars explore. Over the entrance a trellis
covered with the moon flower from Japan; within heli-
otrope and lovely Lady Nicotine should fill the air with
fragrance; and at the edge of the woods a rustic seat
overhung with masses of snowy jessamine should tempt
the guest to linger. Here would be a favorite spot on
summer evenings, and here once a year we’d hold the
festival of the night-blooming cereus!

“In your care of the garden don’t forget to enjoy it,
will your” quizzically insisted a valued friend one day;
and there was so much truth in the warning that it
should be passed on to other caretakers. I found that I
was searching for the faults of my garden rather than
for its beauties, and seeing only its imperfections instead
of pausing at times to let its exquisite fairness sink into

272
 

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my soul. And yet constant vigilance is the price of a
garden, and procrastination may steal one’s choicest ef-
fects.

As for instance; one warm morning in middle August,
glancing at the green lawn on my way down to break-
fast, I detected a strange drapery of tossing white
plumes above a lilac bush some ten feet high. The wild
clematis (Virginiana) was now flinging its fleecy mantle
in graceful folds over the Indian currants and rose
bushes, the aromatic sumac and bayberries, the dog-
woods and milkweed stalks, until the whole shrubbery
was again in flower; but this spiky efflorescence bore na
resemblance to the stars of our Virgin’s bower. With
a mental memorandum to look into the matter at once
I went down to my guests, and it was not until late after-
noon that I found a moment to take my bag of imple-
ments and don my sun hat and sally forth on a tour of
investigation, to the small grove known as the lilac bed.

Yes, high above my head, completely enveloping a
mammoth shrub, flaunted that particular dislike of mine,

the wild cucumber. This disagreeable weed may have

18 253
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

its uses, but not here! I stop to consider how to enter
this green tangle without disturbing a leaf or leaving
any trace—not an easy task; but with manly strides I am
finally beneath the lilac and searching for the small
twining stem and its rootlet before tearing away the
snowy spikes. On two separate sides the vines have
taken root joining their forces in beautiful harmony
upon the seed pods of the lilac; if left to themselves, the
effect would be quite charming for a week or two, but
later a blackened mass of twisted stems would bend or
break down my proud young lilac branches; so I am
ruthless and leave no trace of vine among them. With
care as I make my exit, I replace a disturbed stalk of
phlox, a bowed spray of cassia, and lift up any flattened
leaves. No sign of entrance to that leafy heart is to be
seen; the birds settle themselves again on the rosy vi-
burnum berries, and I turn away content.

Well do I remember our very first visit to this en-
chanting lake, when we two couples were housed in a
guest cottage furnished with every imaginable comfort
and convenience, and then left to ourselves. It gave us

27%
 

SOMETIME

 

 

such a delightful sense of being at home. We knew
that we were disturbing no one; we talked, we laughed,
we even darted out in the moonlight and were strongly
tempted to take a midnight plunge. That sense of free-
dom is the greatest compliment a hostess can receive,
and is the one feeling most appreciated by her guests.
I wonder if one ever builds a country house large
enough; or do our hospitable intentions grow as the
years progress? We are perfectly satisfied with our
house, but I have always wanted a guest cottage. It
could be hidden somewhere in the woods not too far
away, and would, I am sure, be welcomed by our bach-
elor friends, our nephews and their associates, who
would then feel a liberty as to hours and plans which
perhaps they would not feel in the big house. My de-
mands are few; four rooms with a bath and a screened-in
porch. It sounds simplicity itself. And sometime
when the hour arrives I hope that the Friendly Archi-
tect will design for us some such a tiny dwelling, and
we will find a suitable spot in which to build it.

“T am trying to find a place for a gazebo,” the Con-

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

stant Improver broke out, after a long silence one even-
ing, a silence broken only at intervals by deep sounds
of muttered content.

“For what?” I asked in amazement. “Is it an an-
imal? For I really think that we have all we can look
after already.”

“No, it’s not an animal,” he reassured me, “it’s a
lookout. From ‘gaze about’ I suppose; perhaps it’s
Scotch.”

‘Well,’ I commented, seeing I was expected to say
something, “those observatories as the country people
call them are anything but picturesque.”

“Yes. I know. But mine will be all right. From
that big maple on top of the hill you can see the whole
length of the lake and the prairies on the other side.”

“How are you going to get there? To the top I
mean?”

“Oh! steps. I’m not going to build it right away.
I’m just trying to decide which tree has the most ex-
tended view.”

Steps rarely appeal to a woman; neither had I then
276
 

 

A WINTER CONSERVATORY

 

 

 

THE OLD WELL OF ST. FRANCIS
 

 

A WATER PICTURE WAS REVEALED
 

SOMETIME

 

 

beheld the view; so my enthusiasm was halting. But
some day I presume we shall run to the “gazebo” at
the first indication of a sunset and on moonlight even-
ings find its lofty eminence a cool retreat.

In the old parks surrounding Italian villas, whether
the grounds are laid out in the formal or what is known
as the natural fashion, the walks whether winding or
straight always lead to some definite object—either a
view, a hilltop fountain, a pavilion for tea, an open
space where seats are placed, or a carefully arranged
shrine. After securing our long straight paths my de-
sire was and is for some beauty spot in the deep woods
as a fitting finish. I have even gone so far as to select
an almost perfect circular opening standing cleared
ready for my design. Not too formal must it be, nor
too rustic; in the center a table instead of a fountain,
low and broad, say five feet across, made of cement in
a good woodsy tone, with four long curving benches of
cement outlining the circle. Before many years, time
and the weather would remove the crude new look,
and they would become a part of the forest. The fall-

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ing leaves would linger upon them, the passing show-
ers would discover small hollows, the snow and the frost
would crumble the edges; and I know that the squir-
rels would soon find them convenient for their store of
acorns. At the far end of the entering path I would
erect a shrine. Why not? A shrine, for want of a
better name, supporting some lovely replica of Della
Robbia’s children, some quaint conceit suited to the
forest—a dryad floating in the breeze, the ever youthful
spirit of the woodland. I know a genius who could
evolve just what is needed for this shaded nook. The
frame must be of big timbers with iron hoops inserted
for flowerpots, just as they have them in the Old World;
the table-like base must include a cupboard for small
tools, a watering can, a store of nuts and birdseed, a
book, and even a tea-basket.

On a lonely mountain-side in the Casentino where
St. Francis retreated to commune with Nature, where
he preached his sermons to the birds, and where now
his followers guard his relics, there are to be seen some

very wonderful reliefs by the Della Robbias well
278
 

SOMETIME

 

 

worth the dificult journey; but after visiting the three
churches, wandering through the holy grottoes and ad-
miring the extensive prospect, on the steep descent my
perverse mind would hold but one picture, the old
well-curb. Whether actually built during his lifetime
or not, it has an admirable feeling of age and solidity.
Sometime I want to reproduce it on our own estate.
Its rugged timbers, its rough supports, its picturesque
curb will not only fit into our scheme of living, but
will remind us often of that holy man, the patron saint
of all true nature-lovers, St. Francis of Assisi.

If we lived here all the year round we would cer-
tainly turn the dog-trot into a conservatory for the win-
ter. It would be an easy undertaking, the glass remov-
able in summer must merely be extended on the south
to the terrace wall and so enclosed with proper ventila-
tion, heat and light; then it could be filled with those
tender plants which now go into the glasshouse. Here,
with long boxes of ferns and trays of flowering bulbs,
with rose geranium slips and jasmine trained on the
walls, what an altogether fascinating bower we could

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

make! Why could we not bring our lounging chairs
to this sunny nook and spread books and papers on a con-
venient table? Is there any reason why a hanging book-
shelf would be forbidden or even a writing desk? And
here we would have our luncheons, with only glass sep-
arating us from the squirrels disporting in the snow and
the chickadees pecking at the balls of nuts hung against
the windows. What matter if the north wind blew?
What should we know of the frosty air? Here would
be perpetual summertime.

In the heart of the deep woods, about twelve hundred
feet back from the shore, is a circular hollow which
would make an ideal summer theater. The banks slope
down to the center on three sides at just the proper angle
for about four rows of seats, and tall trees shade them
perfectly; big buttonbushes outline the stage, and a shal-
low pool of clear water some thirty feet in diameter
reflects each dancing leaf. Only one serious fault might
be found with this sylvan glade. It is carpeted with
poison ivy! But to get rid of that is a mere matter of

persistence; and there is a certain forest grass which

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would cover the “seats” and make a natural floor for the
stage. More bushes could be easily planted in an ap-
parently careless fashion to conceal dressing rooms, and
the long vistas through the trees with the floating clouds
overhead would provide ample amusement for the audi-
ence even when the stage was empty. If the practical-
minded person should assert that possibly the audience
might be sufficiently diverted by the attentions of the
ubiquitous mosquito, I should inform them of the vir-
tues of sulphate of copper, which destroys the larve and
turns the water a glorious blue. Of course, this pool
could be drained if desired. It is only a question of
putting in pipes through the hill to the brook about 600
feet distant. Why could n’t the hole for the pipes be
made with a big augur so as to disturb but slightly the
trees and shrubs? We have no rocks in that vicinity.

In dreams all things are possible.

281
CHAPTER XIV

THE SECOND BEST

\ " J HEN the world is glorious with the harvest;
when the flowering corn is straight and tall;
when the freshly-cut grain fields glisten in

the sun, and the emerald of the new alfalfa awaits the

greedy herd; when the woods are deep, still, and mys-
terious; when the swamps are gorgeous with purple
ironweed and yellow sneezeweed, with dull white
thoroughwort and blue lobelia, with starry spurge and
the fragrant milkweed rising from among the cat-tail
leaves; when the sun rises in the rosy glow of Egypt
and sets under rich masses of illumined clouds; when
the August skies glitter with untold millions of bright
stars or flash in pyrotechnics inconceivable,—is this the
time to think of anything as second best?

But what about the human being at this lavish feast
of beauty? Is the farmer sitting through the long days

in Buddhistic contemplation, saturating his soul with

282
 

THE SECOND BEST

 

 

sweetness and light? Hardly. He is working from
dawn to dark, working as he never works at any other
time, hurrying the men with the harvest and pressing
into service everyone who passes by. If he dreams
dreams, it is not at this season; and when he does, they
usually take the form of prosaic figures.

His wife, then, does she wander out in the early dew
to get the effect of the sparkling sun? Does she take
her camera and attempt to preserve some of these won-
derful scenes for the long winter’s refreshment? Does
she flit like a rosy vision in her pink gingham, across
the fields and down the brook, to dream long hours
away beside its rippling water? Only in poetry or,
possibly, on the planet Mars, does this happy condition
prevail; here the lot of the farmer’s wife is too well
known to recapitulate; and although labor-saving ma-
chinery has revolutionized the man’s work on the farm,
in the kitchen the same old routine goes forever round
and round. Not until washing machines have been
supplemented by ironing machines, and both with the

dish-washing machine are run by electricity, and all

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meals are prepared in a fireless cooker will the lady
farmer have leisure to keep up with the latest novels,
to say nothing of dreaming dreams.

But the children? Ah! the children, that is another
matter. Great as is his joy and pride in the old place,
the farmer has a feeling that his children must not be
content with doing as he has done, but must rise in
the world. It has been all very well for him but it
is not the best life. Huis sons shall not labor in the
fields as he has, they shall go to college and learn to
be business men or lawyers, doctors or maybe minis-
ters; they shall lead a life of ease in the city. His
daughters, too, shall have the advantage of a higher
education, which will unfit them also for the farm life.
And he sighs as he looks at his broad acres and thinks
of the many plantings, the many harvests, the saplings
that have grown into big trees, the twigs spread into
twining thickets. What will become of it when he is
gone?

Curiously enough, by the inscrutable ways of Provi-
dence this has been beautifully arranged. For as the

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city life dances in dazzling colors before the eyes of
the country boy, so does the country life allure the city
boy with singular fascination. Our agricultural col-
leges have never been so crowded as now; serious and
able boys, recognizing the advantages of the outdoor
life, wish to learn scientific farming, intending to make
it their life study. They and their wives, perhaps even
their children, will love the farm; but their grandchil-
dren will probably migrate to the city to make room
for another reversal of conditions. So one man’s sec-
ond best becomes his neighbor’s best.

But the man of the present day who lives in the

’ who is not

country, the so-called “‘gentleman farmer,’
¢ farmer at all, the man whose agriculture is confined
to experiments with his own vegetable garden—and
weeds; surely he has long leisure hours in which to
dream and rest and play. If tramping through the
forest in rain or summer heat is rest; if pruning over-
grown paths, or weeding beds of iris is play; if poring
over blue-prints for contemplated improvements is
dreaming, then indeed he does lead a life of ease. And
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it is a life of ease, though not of idleness; because
all these things are what he wishes to do, not what he
is compelled to do. Is he ever satisfied with the result
of his labors? Is his place ever in perfect condition?
Never. His ideals change with each new year, and
no mere combination of matter ever overtake them.
Does this discourage him? Not at all. If his imag-
ination failed to picture something beyond what he
actually had, his interest would soon flag and he would
turn to a new toy.

So we are made. “Life is a train of moods like a
string of beads,” Emerson says, ‘‘and as we pass through
them they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint
the world their own hue, and each shows only what
lies in its focus. Nature and books belong to the eyes
that see them. It depends on the mood of the man
whether he shall see the sunset or the fine poem. Tem-
perament is the iron wire on which the beads are
strung.”

Lucky indeed is the possessor of a happy nature, a
sanguine temperament; his ideals hover so nearly

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within reach, he is so sure of final success; no amount
of disappointment ever discourages him, no amount of
misadventure ever dismays him, next time his star will
win. As a people, we Americans have that buoyant
temperament, that undaunted courage, that love of in-
itiative, and the idea of being second best is peculiarly
distasteful to us. We wish to be first in all matters
fortunate or unfortunate, as witness our boast of the
biggest telescope in the world or the greatest fire of
history. The remark of the old farmer who happened
to read some extracts from Plato, is characteristic of
our attitude: “Did you ever read Plato, Frank? He
was a mighty smart man. Do you know he had a lot
of my ideas?”

Our ideals grow as we climb toward them. They
are like the nearest hilltop to the child, for on reaching
that he expects to see the end of the world. Instead
he finds more hilltops, each one of which proves to be
but a stepping-stone to farther heights, until as he as-
cends, huge mountains loom before him, ending in

great snow-peaks glistening in the sun. It is curious

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that the nearer he approaches those lofty peaks of per-
fection, the more humble-minded he grows; the more
stmpatica, as the Italians say, he becomes toward his
fellow-man; the more charitable with regard to the
weaknesses of mankind. Is it because he has, like Bun-
yan’s pilgrim, met and fought so many of the demons
besetting his way through life, that he feels he has
barely escaped from their clutches, and so knows and
appreciates the temptation of others?

I wonder whether I dare tell an experience of the
Rev. Mr. M—’s which he related at our dinner table.
When returning to his house in Dublin late one even-
ing, a Salvation Army lass accosted him, “Man, is your
soul saved?” ‘The reverend gentleman, surprised by
this abrupt descent into the sacred recesses of his being,
hesitated, when the question was repeated, “Man, is
your soul saved?” By this time the Irish humor of
the good professor came to his rescue and he answered,
“Tt is, my lass, it is; but it was such a close shave that
I’m not going around bragging much about it.”

We are taught from our earliest infancy that we
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should excel. The little boy who always behaves is
held up to our wide-opened eyes as a worthy example.
Do we love him and long to beat him in his own field?
Not at all. We long to beat him in a much more
material way, for some of us have a feeling that his
airs of superiority really need correction. The little
girl who never disobeys her parents, who never tears
her frock, who never asks for a second piece of cake
or forgets to say, “Yes, Mrs. Brown” or “Thank you,
Mrs. Jones”—is she the general favorite? Quite the
contrary. Isolated on her spotless throne she surveys
the world about her and has no sympathy with our
convulsive struggles, our futile attempts which only
reach the level of second best.

A faint wonder sometimes drops into the youthful
mind as to whether or no it is desirable to be perfect.
Does he see perfection in the objects around him? Is
every tree perfect, symmetrical, without a flaw?
Every shrub and plant, every leaf and blade of grass?
To his surprise, each he discovers has some slight im-
perfection, which makes it more beautiful. The sting

19 289
 

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of an insect gives more vivid color to that spot in the
leaf; the fringe-winged thrips eat the green substance
from the fern, and lo! a fairy texture sways beneath
the cricket’s leap.

If it were possible for us to select the gifts with
which the fairy godmother endows each one of us at
birth, perhaps no one of us would choose to be the
second best. And yet the world would be a weary
place without those helpful souls. To be willing to
be of use to others, to be ready at a moment’s- notice to
fly where duty awaits one, to give loving service with-
out thought of self—many women there are who follow
along these lines, but particularly the maiden aunt.

I am sorry for any family who has not a maiden
aunt. Ours used to come to us often, but especially
in time of need. Was one of the children ill? The
dear aunt looked after the rest of us. Was the mother
worn out by long service? The dear aunt came to
take her place fora while. Must the parents go away?
The dear aunt invited us to visit her, and great was the

rejoicing thereat. Illumined by a halo of romance, she

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told us tales of her youth, and of our mather’s court-
ship; she beguiled our convalescent hours with fairy
stories and inspired us with a desire for far-off places.
Were we homesick as darkness came on? We were
encouraged by promises that the morrow should cer-
tainly see us at home again; and if with the brightness
of day we concluded to postpone our departure, we
were cuddled and made much of; even a pan of cookies
was baked for us, heart-shaped ones! Only the other
day I heard of two self-supporting women who
adopted the three orphaned babies of their brother and
divided their own scanty store joyfully with them.
Dare we say that the maiden aunt has missed her vo-
cation in this world? She herself would insist that
she had fallen far below her ideals, but for the good of
the race shall we not concede that she occupies at least
the second-best place?

In the early days of my first housekeeping, ambitious
to celebrate a particular anniversary with an especially
entertaining and delightful company, I invited the
most gifted talkers, the cleverest after-dinner speak-

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ers, the best story-tellers of all our acquaintances and
looked forward myself with real pleasure to that no-
table evening. Such a bubbling over of good spirits
as I anticipated, such a battle of repartee, such a scin-
tillating fire of bon mots! All I should have to do
would be to look pleasant and applaud at the right mo-
ment. I could not help noticing that as each fresh
genius arrived, instead of the company becoming gayer,
a slight chill fell upon the room, but I thought, It is
probably the awkward quarter of an hour before din-
ner; once at the table all will go well. But alas! all
went much worse. An atmosphere of vague distrust,
almost of antagonism, seemed to prevail. Nobody
wanted to be audience; if one ventured a story, the
others, full of their own anecdotes, gave but slight at-
tention, were restive for their turn and crumbled their
bread nervously or said, “Very good, very good,” in
a hurried sort of way. After several interruptions and
polite excuses, all conversation resolved itself into a
monologue of the person with the loudest voice and the

most persistence. As a dinner it was a total failure.

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How gladly would I have exchanged most of those
highly sensitive, brilliant minds for a few sympathetic
listeners willing to be second best.

Why should we not be content to be one of a mass,
to do our tiny share toward enriching the world with
goodness or beauty or truth? Do you know the Skokie
when it is blue with the wild flag? Each individual
flower may not be as rich, as gorgeous, as perfect in
every part as the carefully tended Japanese iris. But
the glory of that waving field under the wind’s caress,
the bending grass, the heaven-reflecting flower, as the
white clouds cast flying shadows over the marsh!

Suppose that the song sparrow should say, “I am not
as beautiful as the oriole nor do my notes equal those
of the thrush, therefore I have no part to play in life.”
How different the world would be without that cheery
song! J am sure each one of us can call to mind some
friend who occupies the same place in the world of hu-
manity as the song sparrow does in the bird world; a
modest, active little body with a sweet, contented nature,
accepting her lot without question, making the best of

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her share of this world’s goods, listening to the troubles
of others and ignoring her own, always cheerful!
Think of it! Always, even on the rainy days, singing

her small sweet song.

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, but she to her nest.

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

But for the ambitious, talented person, those fatal
words “second best” have no comforting glow; they
represent failure. Thoreau went through life misun-
derstood and laughed at. You remember the verdict
of one of his farmer neighbors: ‘William Henry,”
he asked, “what you ben doin’ all mornin’ settin’ on
that there log?”

“T ve been looking at the bullfrog, Mr. Farnham.”

“Well, I vum, William Henry, I don’ know which is
the biggest fool, you or the bullfrog.”

Thoreau was too far in advance of his time. His
precious volumes are now fully appreciated. But lis-
ten to his quaint remarks on the way the public re-

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ceived his first book; more than anything else they
show the real Master Soul sure of itself—and itself its

only possible judge.

Oct. 28, 1853. For a year or two past, my publisher, falsely so-
called, has been writing from time to time, to ask what disposition
should be made of the copies of ‘““A Week on the Concord and
Merrimac Rivers” still on hand, and at last suggesting that he had
use for the room they occupied in his cellar. So I had them all
sent to me here, and they have arrived to-day by express, filling the
man’s wagon, 766 copies out of an edition of 1,000. I have now
a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over 700 of which I
wrote myself. Is it not well that the author should behold the
fruits of his labor? My works are piled up on one side of my
chamber half as high as my head, my opera omnia. "This was
authorship, these are the works of my brain. I can see now what
I write for, the result of my labors! Nevertheless in spite of this
result, sitting beside the inert mass of my works, I take up my pen
tonight to record what thought or experience I may have had with
as much satisfaction as ever.

What marvelous sureness of vision! What a grace-
ful yielding to circumstances! No bitterness, no rail-
ing against Fate or the bad taste of his contemporaries!
Content for the moment to seem merely second best,
undaunted and undismayed, he continued to follow his
ideals.

As we grow older and the cares of the household

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descend upon us, where do we fly for respite or relief?
When the pie-crust is heavy and the biscuits are burnt,
is there any place nearer than Europe which will bring
us peace? Certainly, there is always the next-best
place—the garden. When the children are fractious
and the opinion of the head of the house differs from
ours, where do we retire to think it all over but to the
gardener Even in real sorrow it offers its soothing
balm, and for irritation it’s a sure cure. Is this be-

cause, as Burroughs says:

We are rooted to the air through our lungs and to the soil through
our stomachs. We are walking trees and floating plants. ‘The
trembling gold of the pond lily’s heart, and its petals like carved
snow, are no more a transformation of a little black muck and ooze
by the chemistry of the sunbeam than our bodies and minds, too,
are a transformation of the soil underfoot. This story of the soil

appeals to the imagination. To have a bit of earth to plant, to hoe,
to delve in, is a rare privilege.

When the days dance merrily down the vista of time,
and the months change swiftly into seasons, and the
seasons into years, then one may be sure that he has
really entered upon that delectable period known as

middle age. Now is he or she, and especially she, free

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as she has never been before. Now, as she opens the gate
of her Garden of Eden and takes possession thereof,
she is glad. For nothing can surpass that intense sat-
isfaction which comes from the power to make things
grow, to create beautiful effects, to produce exquisite
harmonies. The mere fact of breathing in such an en-
vironment fills one with hitherto undreamed-of bliss;
and the art of acquiring knowledge not from books
written by man, but from the beguiling pages of Na-
ture’s folios, becomes a passion.

In autumn the leaves scattered over the lawn call for
the rhythmic swing of the long-handled rake; in winter
the brick paths covered with powdery snow are ever
ready for the vigorous sweep of the broom. What
better panacea for tired nerves?

But perhaps it is after the discomfort of a day’s
shopping in the summer heat that we appreciate the
most our out-of-door privileges. What bliss in the
cool of sunset to seize the scissors and go out to the de-
licious scents and sounds of one’s own particular patch
of ground! By the time the calendulas have been

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snipped and the superfluous seed-pods of the snapdrag-
ons removed, a fragrance from the freshly opened nico-
tine calls us to admire its starry flower until the phlox’s
honey-sweet perfume distracts our lingering gaze.
We lift up the dahlia’s modest, drooping head (who
ever in the olden time heard of a dahlia being modest?
It must be a modern evolution), or we stoop to hunt
for the long threads of the yellow dodder among the
petunias. Someway before the helplessness and re-
sponse of much loved flowers and the self-will and de-
termination of much despised weeds, our thoughts are
distracted. All at once we are conscious that the dark
cloud which hung over us has vanished; and in this
present rosy atmosphere our troubles have assumed
their proper proportions, and we can almost be amused
at them. Could a trip to Europe be more efficacious
than this?

Have you ever tried to cut off every single seed-pod
from a flourishing circular bed in your garden? Some-
times I have spent hours without success, for in the
very middle three or four wou/d stand defiantly erect,

298
 

 

“BUT THE CHILDREN—THAT IS ANOTHER MATTER”

 

THE POWER TO MAKE THINGS GROW
 

 

 

 

 

 

WEEDING LONG BEDS OF IRIS

 

 

 

MUCH-LOVED FLOWERS

THE HELPLESSNESS AND RESPONSE OF
 

THE SECOND BEST

 

 

evading my outstretched fingers. What does the first ©
person see that comes along the path? The neat and
proper condition of maost of the bed and give due credit
for the work done? Not at all. He sees those three
or four conspicuous examples of neglect, and he sees
nothing else. Perhaps that is one difference between
our finite point of view and that of the All-seeing
Father. We perceive only the looming sins of the
world, and say, “Can it be love that permits this?”
He sees the whole scheme of the universe and patiently
awaits the fulfillment of his prophecy, when all things
shall work together for good.

299
CHAPTER XV

HOURS IN OTHER GARDENS

\ , Y HEN one has a hobby it is extraordinary how
it pursues one, how it appears and claims
one’s interest in the most unexpected places!

Perhaps this is particularly true of gardens, which were

from the beginning and always have been and always

will be. Some of our happiest moments when travel-
ing have been in “discovering” them. Not only fa-
mous gardens such as those around Rome, the moss-
grown villas at Frascati and Tivoli, the Villa Lante
near Viterbo, the Villa Caprarola, and Cesarini on the

Lake of Nemi (what enchanting pictures the mere

names bring to mind!), but the others less known and

even more charming in various parts of the world; the
overflowing cottage gardens of England, the parks
of France and Germany, the miniature landscapes of

Japan, the botanical curiosities of Cairo and Ceylon,

the precious turf of Rangoon kept drenched from the

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rising to the setting of the burning sun, those treasures
of exquisite beauty on the hills of Florence, the Villas
Incontri, Gamberaia, and Palmieri of happy memories,
the cloisters of church and convent dotting the land of
Italy!

Yet, though we rejoice in the French and Italian
ideals, it is largely to the English people scattered
throughout the globe that we owe our successful gar-
dens, and from this kaleidoscopic picture three won-
derful creations of man stand forth preéminent; La
Mortola on the Riviera, Lord Kitchener’s Island at
Assouan, and the Garden of Eden at Venice. One a
rock promontory on the sea, one a sandbar in a tropi-
cal stream, one a salt marsh; the problems were very
different, but each one was solved by an English mind.

The most extensive and the most important by far is
La Mortola. What art was required to compose any-
thing so scientific and complete yet so wholly beautiful!
Scientists and artists alike worship at its shrine. In
May the whole country of Italy is indeed one varied
garden, as England is in June. But in February—to

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discover a wonderful expanse of fragrance and bloom
in February, that is an achievement—that is La Mor-
tola. Not tucked away in an inaccessible corner of
Europe, but on the great highway between France and
Italy, close to that nightmare of the tourist, Ventimig-
lia, is the most attractive bit of landscape on the Med-
iterranean. And we knew nothing of it except possi-
bly its name, for Baedeker conscientiously recommends
it to the traveler.

One year however we were fortunate enough to find
ourselves on the French Riviera during February, bask-
ing in the glowing sunlight of that sheltered coast. On
the heights above the closely built streets of Nice, away
from the shops, the clang of motor cars, the thronging
multitude, rises the pleasant suburb of Cimiez, a col-
lection of villas and hotels, each in its graceful garden.
From here in two short hours, over the famed Cornice
one may arrive at a stone gatehouse in the middle of a
long iron fence banked with bamboo and pepper trees,
carob and wild olive.

Opposite it small houses rise one above another in

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lofty terraces, and the air is heavy with dust; for in
the narrow highway a long line of horses is tugging a
single cart up the steep grade under the encouraging
calls of the walking teamster.

“Can this be La Mortola?” cries the Enthusiast, as
the motor stops.

Indeed, neither entrance nor environment gives us any
hint that beyond the conventional gateway lies a para-
dise. But passing through we turn seaward down the
rock-hewn terrace and leave the dusty outer world be-
hind us. Before us lies the most wonderful feat of
landscape gardening to be found in Italy—possibly
even in Europe. Forty years ago this spot was a bleak
promontory rising abruptly from the sea, to a height of
three hundred feet; its hundred acres were bare of all
vegetation save a few olive trees scattered here and there.
Sir Thomas Hanbury must have possessed the imagina-
tion of a genius to choose so unpromising a site for his
horticultural experiments.

Hither he has brought all manner of curious trees,
shrubs and plants from all known parts of the globe,

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and by giving to each its own peculiar environment
coaxed them to flourish as though native here. From
South America and India, from Madagascar and Cali-
fornia, from Australia and Ceylon he has gathered
them, placing them among the native flora in so charm-
ing a fashion that there is no stiffness or formality,
merely a delightful luxuriance. Here one may become
acquainted with more than fifty-five hundred species,
yet never have the fact thrust upon him, so charmingly
natural is their arrangement among the water gardens
and mossy fountains, the ferny glens and pine forests.
Tangles of Banksia roses fall over terrace walls,
trellises of a honeysuckle from Japan (Lonicera Japon-
ica), whose white sprays measure three feet in length,
tumble about the scarlet spikes of an agave. The
Linum tricynum bushes fill in many an otherwise
shadowy corner, their brilliant yellow flowers as large
as morning-glories. Anemones in all shades spring
up through the grass in fields of bloom with hyacinths
and jonquils, and iris in the moist places. Great flat
bunches of yellow senecio make effective backgrounds

304
 

HOURS IN OTHER ‘GARDENS

 

 

for jasmine sprays; a strange holly with horned leaves
bears its red berries riotously, and the Christmas rose
both white and pink turns its loveliness shyly away
from our too eager glances. A wonderful develop-
ment of our common mustard is the Brassica insularia
with its tufts of big white flowers. Overlooking the
sea a whole hillside of yellow genista glows under strag-
gly pines. Sixty varieties of acacia, or mimosa as it is
called here, are successfully cultivated and are over-
poweringly beautiful, hanging in feathery yellow tas-
sels over rocky walls or massed in small plantations be-
neath lofty terraces. Special attention has been paid
to succulent plants; there are sixty different kinds of
agaves and about forty kinds of aloes cultivated here
with opuntias and fourcroyas and yuccas and euphor-
bias in endless variety. ‘The huge sheaths of the cen-
tury plants about to flower have been likened to gigan-
tic asparagus, and indeed the simile is a good one.

Just below the platform that supports the house a
stately avenue of cypresses leads to the agrumi planta-

tion consisting of orange and lemon, grapefruit and

20 305
 

OUR COUNTRY LIFE

 

 

mandarin, citron and bergamot trees, some twenty
species. The perfumed air rises deliciously from the
flowers and fruit of this resplendent orchard, and in
my heart I think that this must be the choicest part of
the place.

“fave you seen the pergola?” a pleasant voice asks
in English, and I wonder if I have been thinking
aloud.

“Not yet, but if you will kindly tell me in which
direction—”

“The first path to the right; mount the steps and you
are there,” answers the gardener. Evidently he sees
my deep enjoyment and does not wish me to miss what
he considers his chef-d’euvre.

One of the joys of La Mortola lies in the confidence
with which its owners entrust it to the visitor. No
guides are provided; a man busy at his task here and
there is always ready to give necessary information
and a small notice begs one not to go within a certain
distance of the house. Otherwise the place is at the
disposition of the nature-lover and it is so extensive that

306
 

HOURS IN OTHER GARDENS

 

 

even with over fifty people roaming through its leafy
mazes, one has the feeling of being alone, left to wander
where one’s fancy leads.

Very slowly I follow the path indicated, toward
those mossy steps, for there is so much to see at every
turn; at the top I pause entranced, for this is indeed an
ideal pergola in a perfect state of tangled flowering
vines. Primroses and violets cover the ground on the
sunny side, vying with strange cacti for our admiration;
and as the pergola curves, following the convolutions
of the hillside, at the farther end framed in the long
yellow sprays of the buddleia, appears the sea, blue
as only the Mediterranean can be. At the foot of
creamy cliffs far below us lies Bordighera, and beyond,
the medieval strongholds of Castello d’Appio and
Ponte Canarda.

While we sit in rapturous contemplation of this
lovely scene, our senses steeped in beauty of every kind,
suddenly a nightingale bursts into song! The entran-
cing melody moves us to tears. Then follows silence.
Will he sing again? The soft lap of the waves on the

307
 

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rocks below, the hum of the bees at this feast of flowers,
the half-heard soughing of the breeze in the pine woods
are the only sounds. Again comes that exquisite song
bubbling ever as if in sheer exuberance of joy. At
the end of the pergola is this inscription in Latin:
‘““They heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the

garden.”

A stretch of sand above the Nile’s wide stream,
A mass of broken rock to anchor it,

An English soldier with a yearning heart,

And lo! a garden in the wilderness.

For close to Assouan lies the “Island of the Sirdar”
where many years ago Lord Kitchener laid out a gar-
den. How refreshing its cool green above the muddy
waters! From far away its palm trees sway against
the sun-baked bluffs beyond. No one had told us that
here at Assouan, in March, when weary with long days
of tombs and temples, one might step into a garden and
forget all else. No one had breathed a word of this
low sand bar transformed by patience and by love into
a green retreat.

In the comparative coolness of the late afternoon we

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HOURS IN OTHER GARDENS

 

 

left the dahabeah anchored beside Elephantine Island,
and slipped over in the felucca to this charming spot.
The harbor les half hidden by rich vines, which trail
down rocky walls to the swift-flowing stream. There
is no house here, only open pavilions with seats, as
shelters from the burning sun. Hedges and thick
copses so subdivide the space that the area seems more
than it really is and the planting has been so skillfully
planned that surprises greet one at every turn: here is a
cluster of dom palms of remarkable size and beauty;
there, a grove of orange trees fragrant and fruitful;
beyond, oleanders big as apple trees and pomegranates
crimson with bloom; while rare specimens of tropical
vegetation abound.

Long paths bordered with English flowers lead from
end to end of the island under avenues of splendid
palms. And roses—such a wealth of lavish blossoms!
Such expanse of thriving shrub!

“Yes, you may have as many as you like,” says the
attendant, seeing our covetous glances.

Part of this Island of the Sirdar is left in its wild-

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OUR COUNTRY LIFE

—

ness; that is, after planting the trees and bushes, the
natural undergrowth has not been disturbed ; this ensures
an indescribably lovely tangle especially at blossom-
ing time. Trees bearing long sprays of lilac-colored
flowers are particularly attractive, and I remem-
ber having seen them in Madeira and Ceylon, in India
and Mexico. The botanical name is Melia azede-
rach, in our own country it is called the umbrella tree
or China berry, and since its introduction about a hun-
dred years ago, it has spread throughout the Southern
States.

“What is this delicious fragrance?” asks a member
of the party as we simultaneously pause to look about.
“Tt’s not orange or rose—or any leaf?”

“Tt’s this same tree,” exclaims another. ‘You know
it is called the Indian lilac here.” And we linger to
look up at its flowery expanse.

“Tet me cut some for you, it goes well with the
roses,” remarks the experienced gardener, and plucks
great bunches of exquisite sprays to add to our big

bouquets.

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Shell pink bougainvilleas clamber over trellises
vying with other vines luxuriant, brilliant, but alas!
to me nameless. From benches shaded by feathery
acacias one looks out on the Nile with its many islets
and feels the mysterious peace of old Egypt soothe his
restless New-World spirit. How can we be grateful
enough to the distinguished General who in the midst
of his heavy burdens, his grave problems, his signifi-
cant reforms, found time to conceive and carry out this

ideal gardene

Quite another problem faced an English couple
bearing the prophetic name of Eden, who more than
twenty years ago set about to make a garden in Venice.
At that time no such thing existed in that city of the
sea. Does not the old proverb say, “Venezia, tomba
det fori?”

But hidden away beyond the Redentore was found
a piece of land, four acres in extent; later two more
acres were added. It was once a monastery orchard,
later a gentleman’s playground, but at this time in a

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sad state of disrepair. How the boundary wall against
the sea was made good, the worthless trees felled and
young ones planted, light pergolas constructed over
the paths to support rose and grape, sea-shells by the
boatload brought from the Lido to make paths, which
were then bordered with box or bricks—all this
foundation work is most entertainingly set forth in a
volume modestly called, 4 Garden in Venice. Here
also are related the experiences of this pleasant pair
with different kinds of helpers, their difficulties in
obtaining proper water, their curious discoveries
(among others that the salt soil absolutely forbade any
deep-rooted trees or plants), their blending of features
from many much loved places, and their acceptance of

traditions and ancient customs. For example:

These mulberries are a source of income. We have five trees
large and widespreading. In their season, July, they are purple-
black with delicious fruit, their branches so laden that they are
sometimes broken with the weight. When IJ bought the garden I
found that a family of Furlani (men who live in the mountains in
summer and come down in winter to Venice and the neighboring
towns to earn money) came yearly from the mountains of Friuli,
paying a rent of seventy lire for the right to pick and sell the fruit;

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BARBARY FIGS AT LA MORTOLA

 

 

 

 

THE LODGE HAS DISAPPEARED UNDER A TANGLE OF ROSE AND
WISTERIA—A VENICE GARDEN
 

 

LANDING AT THE ISLAND OF THE SIDAR

 

 

 

 

DOM PALMS ON THE ISLAND OF THE SIDAR
 

HOURS IN OTHER GARDENS

 

 

first, however, providing a supply for the master’s use. In addition to
money they bring—a relic perhaps of the old payment in kind—two
mountain cheeses, bound up in green-leaved boughs, one of fresh, hard,
creamy curd that is generally eaten with sugar, the other smoked
and seasoned. I would not disturb their tenancy, and the children
of those days now carry on the trade their father is no longer fit for.
. . . The Feast of the Redentore is the mulberry sacrifice or triumph.
It is held on the third Saturday and following Sunday of July... .
On the Saturday, the eve of the Redentore festa, all Venice, poor
and rich, gentle and simple, spend their night abroad. From dark
to dawn the Giudecca quays, called Fondamente, are crowded with
sightseers and pleasure wooers of every age and size and sex. Among
them the Furlani have a ready sale for their fruit. For there are
few on bank or boat who do not eat that night of mulberries.

To the present-day visitor alighting from the gondola
beside a graceful bridge, where a green gate opens in
a wall smothered with creepers and overhung with
tamarask, the effect is delightfully wild. The lodge,
a remnant of monastic reign, has disappeared beneath
a tangle of rose and wistaria, a dome-like pink May
dominates the corti/e and in the midst of the garden
four cypresses straight and strong, towering above a
mass of greenery, beckon the nature-lover on from

one beauty to another.

For this estate is really a series of small gardens

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divided by pergolas and arbors, each with some special
feature; for instance, two ancient mulberries boasting
four hundred years above a grassy court, an oblong
pool reflecting rosy oleanders and pomegranates, a
playful fountain in the midst of hyacinths and straw-
berries, a tiny marsh for iris and Canterbury bells!
Imagine a hedge of cabbage roses on either side of a
vine pergola one hundred and fifty yards long, with
Madonna lilies blooming as the roses fade! Fancy
“a dozen rose gardens carpeted with tulips and
anemones! ... From April to Christmas we can cut
from thousands of plants of hundreds of varieties.” It
is overwhelming! Think of a walk more than a hun-
dred yards long leading through masses of iris, purple,
pale-blue, white, bronze, and yellow to the square of
a cherry orchard in full bloom! English primroses
star box-edged spaces, meadows of daisies and butter-
cups, jonquils and narcissus, flourish under peach and
apricot, apple and pear trees, each splendid with
blossom.

This garden is so individual, so filled with thoughts ;

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a bit of merry England, a hint of the Alhambra, a
touch of medieval Italy, all blended into an exquisite
home-like whole. How the founders must have en-
joyed its planning and its development! “There is
no other soil or climate so full of whim and fantasy.”
Their very failures led them to discoveries of value;
and when the soil did respond, it was with an in-
credible profusion: “Small islets of foxgloves or
columbines or larkspurs spread themselves into con-
tinents, and a splash of love-in-the-mist flowed over in-
to a sea of blue.”

The radiant color of this enclosure is intensified by
the brilliant Venetian sunshine, by the white dome of
the Redentore above the cypresses, and by the orange
and brown sails drifting lazily along in the lagoon.
Is it surprising, then, that to the visitor in Venice this
captivating place has come to be known as “The Gar-
den of Eden?”

As the year swings to its close and the evenings grow
longer, we turn from the contemplation of our own
problems to relive the refreshing hours spent in those

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other gardens. What happiness we found in them!
What lessons of courage, patience, devotion, triumph!
What pictures for our memory book! Sitting in front
of our open fire, we turn its pages joyously and find

in it our spring of perpetual youth.

THE END

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