they continue all the year round. Climbing
vines storm the walls, and toss their green
ladders all over it, for beauty to walk up and
down. Huge jars, standing on the verandas,
emit volcanoes of lovely blossoms; and
vases swung from the roof drip and overflow
with others, as if water had turned to flowers.
In the garden, which extends over several
acres at the front of the house, and, as it
were, makes it an island in a gorgeous sea of
petals, there are roses, almonds, oranges,
vines, pomegranates, and a hundred rivals
whose names are unknown to the present
historian, marching joyfully and triumphantly
through the seasons, as the symphony
moves through changes along its central
theme.

Everything that is not an animal or a
mineral seems to be a flower. There are too
many flowers,--or, rather, there is not
enough of anything else. The faculty of
appreciation wearies, and at last ceases to
take note. It is like conversing with a
person whose every word is an epigram. The
senses have their limitations, and
imagination and expectation are half of beauty and
delight, and the better half; otherwise we
should have no souls. A single violet,
discovered by chance in the by-ways of an