"We have an old country place," he was saying; "it belonged to my

grandfather. My grandfather came by it when the little town was very

small indeed, so he built an old-fashioned stone house and surrounded

it with large grounds." He was seeing the stone house and the large

grounds with that new inner observation which he had just discovered,

and he was trying to the best of his ability to tell what he saw. After

a little he spoke more rhythmically. Many might have thought he spoke

sentimentally, because with feeling; but in reality he was merely

trying with great earnestness for expression. A jarring word would have

brought him back to his everyday mood, but for the time being he was

wrapt in what he saw. This is a condition which all writers, and some

lovers, will recognise. "Now the place is empty--except in

summer--except that we have an old woman who lives tucked away in one

corner of it. I lived there one summer just after I finished college.

Outside my window there was an apple tree that just brushed against

the ledge; there were rose vines, the climbing sort, on the wall; and

then, too, there was a hickory tree that towered 'way over the roof. In

the front yard is what is known all over town as the 'big tree,' a

silver maple, at least twice as tall as the house. It is so broad that

its shade falls over the whole front of the place. In the back is an

orchard of old apple trees, and trellises of big blue grapes. On one

side is a broad lawn, at the back of which is one of the good

old-fashioned flower gardens that does one good to look at. There are

little pink primroses dotting the sod, sweet-william, lavender,

nasturtiums, sweet peas, hollyhocks, bachelor's buttons, portulaca, and

a row of tall sunflowers, the delight of a sleepy colony of hens. I

learned all the flowers that summer." He clasped his hands comfortably

back of his head and looked at her. She was gazing out over the Bad

Lands to the East. "In the very centre, as a sort of protecting nurse

to all the littler flowers," he went on, "is a big lilac bush, and

there the bees and humming birds are thick on a warm spring day. There

are plenty of birds too, but I didn't know so many of them. They

nested everywhere--in the 'big tree,' the orchard, the evergreens, the

hedges, and in the long row of maple trees with trunks as big as a

barrel and limbs that touch across the street."

"It must be beautiful!" said the girl quietly without looking around.

Then he began to "suppose." This, as every woman knows, is dangerous

business.

"It was beautiful," said he. "I can't tell you about it. The words

don't seem to fit some way. I wish you could see it for yourself. I

know you'd enjoy it. I always wanted some one with me to enjoy it too.

Suppose some way we were placed so we could watch the year go by in

those deep windows. First there is the spring and the birds and the

flowers, all of which I've been talking about. Then there is the

summer, when the shades are drawn, when the shadows of the roses wave

slowly across the curtains, when the air outside quivers with heat, and

the air inside tastes like a draught of cool water. All the bird songs

are stilled except that one little fellow still warbles, swaying in

the breeze on the tiptop of the 'big tree,' his notes sliding down the

long sunbeams like beads on a golden thread. Then we would read

together, in the half-darkened 'parlour,' something not very deep, but

beautiful, like Hawthorne's stories; or we would together seek for

these perfect lines of poetry which haunt the memory. In the evening we

would go out to hear the crickets and the tree toads, to see the night

breeze toss the leaves across the calm face of the moon, to be silenced

in spirit by the peace of the stars. Then the autumn would come. We

would taste the 'Concords' and the little red grapes and the big red

grapes. We would take our choice of the yellow sweetings, the hard

white snow apples, or the little red-cheeked fellows from the west

tree. And then, of course, there are the russets! Then there are the

pears, and all the hickory nuts which rattle down on us every time the

wind blows. The leaves are everywhere. We would rake them up into big

piles, and jump into them, and 'swish' about in them. How bracing the

air is! How silvery the sun! How red your cheeks would get! And think

of the bonfires!"




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