And shining clear and true through the mist I see her who was the Spirit
of the Garden. There she stands, on the broad step beside the bed where
the Lilies of the Valley grew, leaning firmly upon her one crutch,
looking out across her garden to each loved group of her flower-friends -
smiling out upon them as she did each day through fifty years -
turning at last into the house and taking with her, in her heart, the
glory of the Hollyhocks against the brick wall, the perfume of the
Narcissus in the border, the wing-song of the humming-bird among, the
Honey-suckle, and the warmth of the glad June sunshine.



The River



The river wasn't a big river as I look back at it now, yet it was wide
and wandering and deep, and flowed quietly along through a wonderful
Middle West valley, dividing the Little Old Town geographically and
socially. Its shores furnished such a boy playground as never was known
anywhere else in all the world - for it was a gentle river, a kindly
playfellow, an understanding friend; and it seemed fairly to thrill in
responsive glee when I plunged, naked and untamed, beneath the eddying
waters of the swimming-hole under the overhanging wild-plum tree.

Its banks, curving in a semi-circle around the village, marked the
borders of the whole wide world. There were other rivers, other
villages, other lands somewhere - all with strange, queer names -
existing only in the geographies to worry little children. The real
world, and all the really, truly folks and things, were along the