Chapter 9 THE GARDENS OF MEMORY

Each of us has his own way of classifying humanity. To me, as a child, men and women fell naturally into two great divisions: those who had gardens and those who had only houses.

Brick walls and pavements hemmed me in and robbed me of one of my birthrights; and to the fancy of childhood a garden was a paradise, and the people who had gardens were happy Adams and Eves walking in a golden mist of sunshine and showers, with green leaves and blue sky overhead, and blossoms springing at their feet; while those others, dispossessed of life's springs, summers, and autumns, appeared darkly entombed in shops and parlors where the year might as well have been a perpetual winter.

As I grew older I learned that there was a small subclass composed of people who not only possessed gardens, but whose gardens possessed them, and it is the spots sown and tended by these that blossom eternally in one's remembrance as veritable vailimas-"gardens of dreams."

In every one's mind there is a lonely space, almost abandoned of consciousness, the time between infancy and childhood. It is like that period when the earth was "without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep." Here, like lost stars floating in the firmament of mind, will be found two or three faint memories, remote and disconnected. With me one of these memories is of a garden. I was riding with my father along a pleasant country road. There were sunshine and a gentle wind, and white clouds in a blue sky. We stopped at a gate. My father opened it, and I walked up a grassy path to the ruins of a house. The chimney was still standing, but all the rest was a heap of blackened, half-burned rubbish which spring and summer were covering with wild vines and weeds, and around the ruins of the house lay the ruins of the garden. The honeysuckle, bereft of its trellis, wandered helplessly over the ground, and amid a rank growth of weeds sprang a host of yellow snapdragons. I remember the feeling of rapture that was mine at the thought that I had found a garden where flowers could be gathered without asking permission of any one. And as long as I live, the sight of a yellow snapdragon on a sunny day will bring back my father from his grave and make me a little child again gathering flowers in that deserted garden, which is seemingly in another world than this.

A later memory than this is of a place that was scarcely more than a paved court lying between high brick walls. But because we children wanted a garden so much, we called it by that name; and here and there a little of Mother Earth's bosom, left uncovered, gave us some warrant for the misnomer. Yet the spot was not without its beauties, and a less exacting child might have found content within its boundaries.

Here was the Indian peach tree, whose pink blossoms told us that spring had come. Its fruit in the late summer was like the pomegranate in its rich color, "blood-tinctured with a veined humanity;" and its friendly limbs held a swing in which we cleft the air like the birds. Yet even now the sight of an Indian peach brings melancholy thoughts. A yellow honeysuckle clambered over a wall. But this flower has no perfume, and a honeysuckle without perfume is a base pretender, to be cast out of the family of the real sweet-scented honeysuckle. There were two roses of similar quality, one that detestable mockery known as the burr-rose. I have for this flower the feeling of repulsion that one has for certain disagreeable human beings,-people with cold, clammy hands, for instance. I hated its feeble pink color, its rough calyx, and its odor always made me think of vast fields of snow, and icicles hanging from snow-covered roofs under leaden wintry skies. Unhappy mistake to call such a thing a rose, and plant it in a child's garden! The only place where it might fitly grow is by the side of the road that led Childe Roland to the Dark Tower: between the bit of "stubbed ground" and the marsh near to the "palsied oak," with its roots set in the "bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth."

The other rose I recall with the same dislike, though it was pleasing to the eye. The bush was tall, and had the nature of a climber; for it drooped in a lackadaisical way, and had to be tied to a stout post. I think it could have stood upright, had it chosen to do so; and its drooping seemed only an ugly habit, without grace. The cream-white flowers grew in clusters, and the buds were really beautiful, but color and form are only the body of the rose; the soul, the real self, is the rose odor, and no rose-soul was incarnated in its petals. Again and again, deceived by its beauty, I would hold it close to my face to breathe its fragrance, and always its faint sickening-sweet odor brought me only disappointment and disgust. It was a Lamia among roses. Another peculiarity was that it had very few thorns, and those few were small and weak. Yet the thorn is as much a part of the true rose as its sweetness; and lacking the rose thorn and the rose perfume, what claim had it to the rose name? I never saw this false rose elsewhere than in the false garden, and because it grew there, and because it dishonored its royal family, I would not willingly meet it face to face again.

We children cultivated sweet-scented geraniums in pots, but a flower in a pot was to me like a bird in a cage, and the fragrant geraniums gave me no more pleasure than did the scentless many-hued lady's-slippers that we planted in tiny borders, and the purple flowering beans and white blossoms of the madeira vines that grew on a tall trellis by the cistern's grassy mound. There was nothing here to satisfy my longing, and I turned hungrily to other gardens whose gates were open to me in those early days. In one of these was a vast bed of purple heartsease, flower of the beautiful name. Year after year they had blossomed and gone to seed till the harvest of flowers in their season was past gathering, and any child in the neighborhood was at liberty to pluck them by handfuls, while the wicked ones played at "chicken fighting" and littered the ground with decapitated bodies. There is no heartsease nowadays, only the magnificent pansy of which it was the modest forerunner. But one little cluster of dark, spicy blooms like those I used to gather in that old garden would be more to me than the most splendid pansy created by the florist's art.

The lily of the valley calls to mind a garden, almost in the heart of town, where this flower went forth to possess the land and spread itself in so reckless a growth that at intervals it had to be uprooted to protect the landed rights of the rest of the community. Never were there such beds of lilies! And when they pierced the black loam with their long sheath-like leaves, and broke their alabaster boxes of perfume on the feet of spring, the most careless passer-by was forced to stay his steps for one ecstatic moment to look and to breathe, to forget and to remember. The shadow of the owner's house lay on this garden at the morning hour, and a tall brick building intercepted its share of the afternoon sunshine; but the love and care of the wrinkled old woman who tended it took the place of real sunshine, and everything planted here grew with a luxuriance not seen in sunnier and more favored spots. The mistress of the garden, when questioned as to this, would say it was because she gave her flowers to all who asked, and the God of gardens loved the cheerful giver and blessed her with an abundance of bud and blossom. The highest philosophy of human life she used in her management of this little plant world; for, burying the weeds at the roots of the flowers, the evil was made to minister to the good; and the nettle, the plantain and all their kind were transmuted by nature's fine chemistry into pinks, lilies, and roses.

The purple splendor of the wisteria recalls the garden that I always entered with a fearful joy, for here a French gardener reigned absolute, and the flowers might be looked at, but not pulled. How different from those wild gardens of the neighboring woods where we children roamed at will, shouting rapturously over the finding of a bed of scentless blue violets or delicate anemones that withered and were thrown away before we reached home,-an allegory, alas! of our later lives.

There was one garden that I coveted in those days as Ahab coveted his neighbor's vineyard. After many years, so many that my childish longing was almost forgotten, I had it, I and my children. Together we played under the bee-haunted lindens, and looked at the sunset through the scarlet and yellow leaves of the sugar maples, and I learned that "every desire is the prophecy of its own fulfilment;" and if the fulfilment is long delayed, it is only that it may be richer and deeper when it does come.

All these were gardens of the South; but before childhood was over I watched the quick, luxuriant growth of flowers through the brief summer of a northern clime. The Canterbury-bell, so like a prim, pretty maiden, the dahlia, that stately dame always in court costume of gorgeous velvet, remind me of those well-kept beds where not a leaf or flower was allowed to grow awry; and in one ancient garden the imagination of a child found wings for many an airy flight. The town itself bore the name of the English nobleman, well known in Revolutionary days. Not far away his mansion sturdily defied the touch of time and decay, and admonished the men of a degenerate present to remember their glorious past. The house that sheltered me that summer was known in colonial days as the Black-Horse Tavern. Its walls had echoed to the tread of patriot and tory, who gathered here to drink a health to General Washington or to King George; and patriot, and tory, too, had trod the paths of the garden and plucked its flowers and its fruit in the times that tried men's souls. By the back gate grew a strawberry apple tree, and every morning the dewy grass held a night's windfall of the tiny red apples that were the reward of the child who rose earliest. A wonderful grafted tree that bore two kinds of fruit gave the place a touch of fairyland's magic, and no explanation of the process of grafting ever diminished the awe I felt when I stood under this tree and saw ripe spice apples growing on one limb and green winter pearmains on all the others. The pound sweeting, the spitzenberg, and many sister apples were there; and I stayed long enough to see them ripen into perfection. While they ripened I gathered the jewel-like clusters of red and white currants and a certain rare English gooseberry which English hands had brought from beyond the seas and planted here when the sign of the Black-Horse swung over the tavern door. The ordinary gooseberry is a plebeian fruit, but this one was more patrician than its name, and its name was "the King George." Twice as large as the common kind, translucent and yellowish white when fully ripe, and of an incomparable sweetness and flavor, it could have graced a king's table and held its own with the delicate strawberry or the regal grape. And then, best of all, it was a forbidden fruit, whereof we children ate by stealth, and solemnly declared that we had not eaten. Could the Garden of the Hesperides have held more charms?

At the end of the long Dutch "stoop" I found the wands of the snowberry, whose tiny flowers have the odor and color of the trailing arbutus, and whose waxen berries reminded me of the crimson "buckberry" of Southern fields. Fuchsias and dark-red clove pinks grew in a peculiarly rich and sunny spot by the back fence, and over a pot of the musk-plant I used to hang as Isabella hung over her pot of basil. I had never seen it before, and have never seen it since, but by the witchery of perfume one of its yellow flowers, one of its soft pale green leaves could place me again in that garden of the old inn, a child walking among the ghosts and memories of a past century.

In all these flowery closes there are rich aftermaths; but when Memory goes a-gleaning, she dwells longest on the evenings and mornings once spent in Aunt Jane's garden.

"I don't reckon Solomon was thinkin' about flower gyardens when he said there was a time for all things," Aunt Jane was wont to say, "but anyhow it's so. You know the Bible says that the Lord God walked in the gyarden of Eden in 'the cool of the day,' and that's the best time for seein' flowers,-the cool of the mornin' and the cool of the evenin'. There's jest as much difference between a flower with the dew on it at sun-up and a flower in the middle o' the day as there is between a woman when she's fresh from a good night's sleep and when she's cookin' a twelve-o'clock dinner in a hot kitchen. You think them poppies are mighty pretty with the sun shinin' on 'em, but the poppy ain't a sun flower; it's a sunrise flower."

And so I found them when I saw them in the faint light of a summer dawn, delicate and tremulous, like lovely apparitions of the night that an hour of sun will dispel. With other flowers the miracle of blossoming is performed so slowly that we have not time to watch its every stage. There is no precise moment when the rose leaves become a bud, or when the bud turns to a full-blown flower. But at dawn by a bed of poppies you may watch the birth of a flower as it slips from the calyx, casting it to the ground as a soul casts aside its outgrown body, and smoothing the wrinkles from its silken petals, it faces the day in serene beauty, though the night of death be but a few hours away.

"And some evenin' when the moon's full and there's a dew fallin'," continued Aunt Jane, "that's the time to see roses, and to smell roses, too. And chrysanthemums, they're sundown flowers. You come into my gyarden about the first o' next November, child, some evenin' when the sun's goin' down, and you'll see the white ones lookin' like stars, and the yeller ones shinin' like big gold lamps in the dusk; and when the last light o' the sun strikes the red ones, they look like cups o' wine, and some of 'em turn to colors that there ain't any names for. Chrysanthemums jest match the red and yeller leaves on the trees, and the colors you see in the sky after the first frosts when the cold weather begins to set in. Yes, honey, there's a time and a season for everything; flowers, too, jest as Solomon said."

An old garden is like an old life. Who plants from youth to age writes a record of the years in leaf and blossom, and the spot becomes as sacred as old wine, old books, and old friends. Here in the garden of Aunt Jane's planting I found that flowers were also memories; that reminiscences were folded in the petals of roses and lilies; that a rose's perfume might be a voice from a vanished summer; and even the snake gliding across our path might prove a messenger bearing a story of other days. Aunt Jane made a pass at it with her hoe, and laughed as the little creature disappeared on the other side of the fence.

"I never see a striped snake," she said, "that I don't think o' Sam Amos and the time he saw snakes. It wasn't often we got a joke on Sam, but his t'u'nament and his snake kept us laughin' for many a day.

"Sam was one o' them big, blunderin' men, always givin' Milly trouble, and havin' trouble himself, jest through pure keerlessness. He meant well; and Milly used to say that if what Sam did was even half as good as what Sam intended to do, there'd be one perfect man on God's earth. One of his keerless ways was scatterin' his clothes all over the house. Milly'd scold and fuss about it, but Sam got worse instead o' better up to the day he saw the snake, and after that Milly said there wasn't a more orderly man in the state. The way of it was this: Sam was raisin' an embankment 'round one of his ponds, and Uncle Jim Matthews and Amos Crawford was helpin' him. It was one Monday mornin', about the first of April, and the weather was warm and sunny, jest the kind to bring out snakes. I reckon there never was anybody hated a snake as much as Sam did. He'd been skeered by one when he was a child, and never got over it. He used to say there was jest two things he was afraid of: Milly and a snake. That mornin' Uncle Jim and Amos got to the pond before Sam did, and Uncle Jim hollered out, 'Well, Sam, we beat you this time.' Uncle Jim never got tired tellin' what happened next. He said Sam run up the embankment with his spade, and set it in the ground and put his foot on it to push it down. The next minute he give a yell that you could 'a' heard half a mile, slung the spade over in the middle o' the pond, jumped three feet in the air, and run down the embankment yellin' and kickin' and throwin' his arms about in every direction, and at last he fell down on the ground a good distance from the pond.

"Amos and Uncle Jim was so taken by surprise at first that they jest stood still and looked. Amos says, says he: 'The man's gone crazy all at once.' Uncle Jim says: 'He's havin' a spell. His father and grandfather before him used to have them spells.'

"They run up to him and found him shakin' like a leaf, the cold sweat streamin' out of every pore, and gaspin' and sayin', 'Take it away! Take it away!' and all the time he was throwin' out his left foot in every direction. Finally Uncle Jim grabbed hold of his foot and there was a red and black necktie stickin' out o' the leg of his pants. He pulled it out and says he: 'Why, Sam, what's your Sunday necktie doin' up your pants leg?'

"They said Sam looked at it in a foolish sort o' way and then he fell back laughin' and cryin' at the same time, jest like a woman, and it was five minutes or more before they could stop him. Uncle Jim brought water and put on his head, and Amos fanned him with his hat, and at last they got him in such a fix that he could sit up and talk, and says he:

"'I took off my necktie last night and slung it down on a chair where my everyday pants was layin'. When I put my foot in my pants this mornin' I must 'a' carried the necktie inside, and by the time I got to the pond it'd worked down, and I thought it was a black snake with red stripes.'

"He started to git up, but his ankle was sprained, and Uncle Jim says: 'No wonder, Sam; you jumped about six feet when you saw that snake crawlin' out o' your pants leg.'

"And Sam says: 'Six feet? I know I jumped six hundred feet, Uncle Jim.'

"Well, they got him to the house and told Milly about it, and she says: 'Well, Sam, I'm too sorry for you to laugh at you like Uncle Jim, but I must say this wouldn't 'a' happened if you'd folded up that necktie and put it away in the top drawer.'

"Sam was settin' on the side of the bed rubbin' his ankle, and he give a groan and says he: 'Things has come to a fine pass in Kentucky when a sober, God-fearin' man like me has to put his necktie in the top drawer to keep from seein' snakes.'

"I declare to goodness!" laughed Aunt Jane, as she laid down her trowel and pushed back her calico sunbonnet, "if I never heard anything funny again in this world, I could keep on laughin' till I died jest over things I ricollect. The trouble is there ain't always anybody around to laugh with me. Sam Amos ain't nothin' but a name to you, child, but to me he's jest as real as if he hadn't been dead these many years, and I can laugh over the things he used to do the same as if they happened yesterday."

Only a name! And I had read it on a lichen-covered stone in the old burying-ground; but as I walked home through the twilight I would hardly have been startled if Sam Amos, in the pride of life, had come riding past me on his bay mare, or if Uncle Jim Matthews' voice of cheerful discord had mingled with the spring song of the frogs sounding from every marsh and pond.

It was Aunt Jane's motto that wherever a weed would grow a flower would grow; and carrying out this principle of planting, her garden was continually extending its boundaries; and denizens of the garden proper were to be found in every nook and corner of her domain. In the spring you looked for grass only; and lo! starting up at your feet, like the unexpected joys of life, came the golden daffodil, the paler narcissus, the purple iris, and the red and yellow tulip, flourishing as bravely as in the soil of its native Holland; and for a few sunny weeks the front yard would be a great flower garden. Then blossom and leaf would fade, and you might walk all summer over the velvet grass, never knowing how much beauty and fragrance lay hidden in the darkness of the earth. But when I go back to Aunt Jane's garden, I pass through the front yard and the back yard between rows of lilac, syringas, calycanthus, and honeysuckle; I open the rickety gate, and find myself in a genuine old-fashioned garden, the homely, inclusive spot that welcomed all growing things to its hospitable bounds, type of the days when there were no impassable barriers of gold and caste between man and his brother man. In the middle of the garden stood a "summer-house," or arbor, whose crumbling timbers were knit together by interlacing branches of honeysuckle and running roses. The summer-house had four entrances, opening on four paths that divided the ground into quarter-sections occupied by vegetables and small fruits, and around these, like costly embroidery on the hem of a homespun garment, ran a wide border of flowers that blossomed from early April to late November, shifting from one beauty to another as each flower had its little day.

There are flower-lovers who love some flowers and other flower-lovers who love all flowers. Aunt Jane was of the latter class. The commonest plant, striving in its own humble way to be sweet and beautiful, was sure of a place here, and the haughtiest aristocrat who sought admission had to lay aside all pride of place or birth and acknowledge her kinship with common humanity. The Bourbon rose could not hold aside her skirts from contact with the cabbage-rose; the lavender could not disdain the companionship of sage and thyme. All must live together in the concord of a perfect democracy. Then if the great Gardener bestowed rain and sunshine when they were needed, mid-summer days would show a glorious symphony of color around the gray farmhouse, and through the enchantment of bloom and fragrance flitted an old woman, whose dark eyes glowed with the joy of living, and the joy of remembering all life's other summers.

To Aunt Jane every flower in the garden was a human thing with a life story, and close to the summer-house grew one historic rose, heroine of an old romance, to which I listened one day as we sat in the arbor, where hundreds of honeysuckle blooms were trumpeting their fragrance on the air.

"Grandmother's rose, child, that's all the name it's got," she said, in answer to my question. "I reckon you think a fine-lookin' rose like that ought to have a fine-soundin' name. But I never saw anybody yet that knew enough about roses to tell what its right name is. Maybe when I'm dead and gone somebody'll tack a French name on to it, but as long as it grows in my gyarden it'll be jest grandmother's rose, and this is how it come by the name:

"My grandfather and grandmother was amongst the first settlers of Kentucky. They come from the Old Dominion over the Wilderness Road way back yonder, goodness knows when. Did you ever think, child, how curious it was for them men to leave their homes and risk their own lives and the lives of their little children and their wives jest to git to a new country? It appears to me they must 'a' been led jest like Columbus was when he crossed the big ocean in his little ships. I reckon if the women and children had had their way about it, the bears and wildcats and Indians would be here yet. But a man goes where he pleases, and a woman's got to foller, and that's the way it was with grandfather and grandmother. I've heard mother say that grandmother cried for a week when she found she had to go, and every now and then she'd sob out, 'I wouldn't mind it so much if I could take my gyarden.' When they began packin' up their things, grandmother took up this rose and put it in an iron kittle and laid plenty of good rich earth around the roots. Grandfather said the load they had to carry was heavy enough without puttin' in any useless things. But grandmother says, says she: 'If you leave this rose behind, you can leave me, too.' So the kittle and the rose went. Four weeks they was on their way, and every time they come to a creek or a river or a spring, grandmother'd water her rose, and when they got to their journey's end, before they'd ever chopped a tree or laid a stone or broke ground, she cut the sod with an axe, and then she took grandfather's huntin' knife and dug a hole and planted her rose. Grandfather cut some limbs off a beech tree and drove 'em into the ground all around it to keep it from bein' tramped down, and when that was done, grandmother says: 'Now build the house so's this rose'll stand on the right-hand side o' the front walk. Maybe I won't die of homesickness if I can set on my front door-step and see one flower from my old Virginia gyarden.'

"Well, grandmother didn't die of homesickness, nor the rose either. The transplantin' was good for both of 'em. She lived to be ninety years old, and when she died the house wouldn't hold the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren that come to the funeral. And here's her rose growin' and bloomin' yet, like there wasn't any such things in the world as old age and death. And every spring I gether a basketful o' these pink roses and lay 'em on her grave over yonder in the old buryin'-ground.

"Some folks has family china and family silver that they're mighty proud of. Martha Crawford used to have a big blue and white bowl that belonged to her great-grandmother, and she thought more o' that bowl than she did of everything else in the house. Milly Amos had a set o' spoons that'd been in her family for four generations and was too precious to use; and I've got my family rose, and it's jest as dear to me as china and silver are to other folks. I ricollect after father died and the estate had to be divided up, and sister Mary and brother Joe and the rest of 'em was layin' claim to the claw-footed mahogany table and the old secretary and mother's cherry sideboard and such things as that, and brother Joe turned around and says to me, says he:

"'Is there anything you want, Jane? If there is, speak up and make it known.' And I says: 'The rest of you can take what you want of the furniture, and if there's anything left, that can be my part. If there ain't anything left, there'll be no quarrelin'; for there's jest one thing I want, and that's grandmother's rose.'

"They all laughed, and sister Mary says, 'Ain't that jest like Jane?' and brother Joe says, says he:

"'You shall have it, Jane, and further than that, I'll see to the transplantin'.'

"That very evenin' he come over, and I showed him where I wanted the rose to stand. He dug 'way down into the clay-there's nothin' a rose likes better, child, than good red clay-and got a wheelbarrer load o' soil from the woods, and we put that in first and set the roots in it and packed 'em good and firm, first with woods' soil, then with clay, waterin' it all the time. When we got through, I says: 'Now, you pretty thing you, if you could come all the way from Virginia in a old iron kittle, you surely won't mind bein' moved from father's place to mine. Now you've got to live and bloom for me same as you did for mother.'

"You needn't laugh, child. That rose knew jest what I said, and did jest what I told it to do. It looked like everything favored us, for it was early in the spring, things was beginnin' to put out leaves, and the next day was cloudy and cool. Then it began to rain, and rained for thirty-six hours right along. And when the sun come out, grandmother's rose come out, too. Not a leaf on it ever withered, and me and my children and my children's children have gethered flowers from it all these years. Folks say I'm foolish about it, and I reckon I am. I've outlived most o' the people I love, but I don't want to outlive this rose. We've both weathered many a hard winter, and two or three times it's been winter-killed clean to the ground, and I thought I'd lost it. Honey, it was like losin' a child. But there's never been a winter yet hard enough to kill the life in that rose's root, and I trust there never will be while I live, for spring wouldn't be spring to me without grandmother's rose."

Tall, straight, and strong it stood, this oft transplanted pilgrim rose; and whether in bloom or clothed only in its rich green foliage, you saw at a glance that it was a flower of royal lineage. When spring covered it with buds and full blown blossoms of pink, the true rose color, it spoke of queens' gardens and kings' palaces, and every satiny petal was a palimpsest of song and legend. Its perfume was the attar-of-rose scent, like that of the roses of India. It satisfied and satiated with its rich potency. And breathing this odor and gazing into its deep wells of color, you had strange dreams of those other pilgrims who left home and friends, and journeyed through the perils of a trackless wilderness to plant still farther westward the rose of civilization.

To Aunt Jane there were three epochs in a garden's life, "daffodil time," "rose time," and "chrysanthemum time"; and the blossoming of all other flowers would be chronicled under one of these periods, just as we say of historical events that they happened in the reign of this or that queen or empress. But this garden had all seasons for its own, and even in winter there was a deep pleasure in walking its paths and noting how bravely life struggled against death in the frozen bosom of the earth.

I once asked her which flower she loved best. It was "daffodil time," and every gold cup held nepenthe for the nightmare dream of winter. She glanced reprovingly at me over her spectacles.

"It appears to me, child, you ought to know that without askin'," she said. "Did you ever see as many daffydils in one place before? No; and you never will. I've been plantin' that flower every spring for sixty years, and I've never got too many of 'em yet. I used to call 'em Johnny-jump-ups, till Henrietta told me that their right name was daffydil. But Johnny-jump-up suits 'em best, for it kind o' tells how they come up in the spring. The hyacinths and tulips, they hang back till they know it'll be warm and comfortable outside, but these daffydils don't wait for anything. Before the snow's gone you'll see their leaves pushin' up through the cold ground, and the buds come hurryin' along tryin' to keep up with the leaves, jest like they knew that little children and old women like me was waitin' and longin' for 'em. Why, I've seen these flowers bloomin' and the snow fallin' over 'em in March, and they didn't mind it a bit. I got my start o' daffydils from mother's gyarden, and every fall I'd divide the roots up and scatter 'em out till I got the whole place pretty well sprinkled with 'em, but the biggest part of 'em come from the old Harris farm, three or four miles down the pike. Forty years ago that farm was sold, and the man that bought it tore things up scandalous. He called it remodelin', I ricollect, but it looked more like ruinin' to me. Old Lady Harris was like myself; she couldn't git enough of these yeller flowers. She had a double row of 'em all around her gyarden, and they'd even gone through the fence and come up in the cornfield, and who ever plowed that field had to be careful not to touch them daffydils.

"Well, as soon as the new man got possession he begun plowin' up the gyarden, and one evenin' the news come to me that he was throwin' away Johnny-jump-ups by the wagon-load. I put on my sunbonnet and went out where Abram was at work in the field, and says I, 'Abram, you've got to stop plowin' and put the horse to the spring wagon and take me over to the old Harris place.' And Abram says, says he, 'Why, Jane, I'd like mighty well to finish this field before night, for it looks like it might rain to-morrow. Is it anything particular you want to go for?'

"Says I, 'Yes; I never was so particular about anything in my life as I am about this. I hear they're plowin' up Old Lady Harris' gyarden and throwin' the flowers away, and I want to go over and git a wagon-load o' Johnny-jump-ups.'

"Abram looked at me a minute like he thought I was losin' my senses, and then he burst out laughin', and says he: 'Jane, who ever heard of a farmer stoppin' plowin' to go after Johnny-jump-ups? And who ever heard of a farmer's wife askin' him to do such a thing?'

"I walked up to the plow and begun to unfasten the trace chains, and says I: 'Business before pleasure, Abram. If it's goin' to rain to-morrow that's all the more reason why I ought to have my Johnny-jump-ups set out to-day. The plowin' can wait till we come back.'

"Of course Abram give in when he saw how I wanted the flowers. But he broke out laughin' two or three times while he was hitchin' up and says he: 'Don't tell any o' the neighbors, Jane, that I stopped plowin' to go after a load of Johnny-jump-ups.'

"When we got to the Harris place we found the Johnny-jump-ups lyin' in a gully by the side o' the road, a pitiful sight to anybody that loves flowers and understands their feelin's. We loaded up the wagon with the pore things, and as soon as we got home, Abram took his hoe and made a little trench all around the gyarden, and I set out the Johnny-jump-ups while Abram finished his plowin', and the next day the rain fell on Abram's cornfield and on my flowers.

"Do you see that row o' daffydils over yonder by the front fence, child-all leaves and no blossoms?"

I looked in the direction of her pointing finger and saw a long line of flowerless plants, standing like sad and silent guests at the festival of spring.

"It's been six years since I set 'em out there," said Aunt Jane impressively, "and not a flower have they had in all that time. Some folks say it's because I moved 'em at the wrong time o' the year. But the same week I moved these I moved some from my yard to Elizabeth Crawford's, and Elizabeth's bloom every year, so it can't be that. Some folks said the place I had 'em in was too shady, and I put 'em right out there where the sun strikes on 'em till it sets, and still they won't bloom. It's my opinion, honey, that they're jest homesick. I believe if I was to take them daffydils back to Aunt Matilda's and plant 'em in the border where they used to grow, alongside o' the sage and lavender and thyme, that they'd go to bloomin' again jest like they used to. You know how the children of Israel pined and mourned when they was carried into captivity. Well, every time I look at my daffydils I think o' them homesick Israelites askin', 'How can we sing the songs o' Zion in a strange land?'

"You needn't laugh, child. A flower is jest as human as you and me. Look at that vine yonder, takin' hold of everything that comes in its way like a little child learnin' to walk. And calycanthus buds, see how you've got to hold 'em in your hands and warm 'em before they'll give out their sweetness, jest like children that you've got to love and pet, before they'll let you git acquainted with 'em. You see that pink rose over by the fence?" pointing to a La France heavy with blossoms. "Well, that rose didn't do anything but put out leaves the first two years I had it. A bud might come once in a while, but it would blast before it was half open. And at last I says to it, says I, 'What is it you want, honey? There's somethin' that don't please you, I know. Don't you like the place you're planted in, and the hollyhocks and lilies for neighbors?' And one day I took it up and set it between that white tea and another La France, and it went to bloomin' right away. It didn't like the neighborhood it was in, you see. And did you ever hear o' people disappearin' from their homes and never bein' found any more? Well, flowers can disappear the same way. The year before I was married there was a big bed o' pink chrysanthemums growin' under the dinin'-room windows at old Dr. Pendleton's. It wasn't a common magenta pink, it was as clear, pretty a pink as that La France rose. Well, I saw 'em that fall for the first time and the last. The next year there wasn't any, and when I asked where they'd gone to, nobody could tell anything about 'em. And ever since then I've been searchin' in every old gyarden in the county, but I've never found 'em, and I don't reckon I ever will.

"And there's my roses! Just look at 'em! Every color a rose could be, and pretty near every kind there is. Wouldn't you think I'd be satisfied? But there's a rose I lost sixty years ago, and the ricollection o' that rose keeps me from bein' satisfied with all I've got. It grew in Old Lady Elrod's gyarden and nowhere else, and there ain't a rose here except grandmother's that I wouldn't give up forever if I could jest find that rose again.

"I've tried many a time to tell folks about that rose, but I can't somehow get hold of the words. I reckon an old woman like me, with little or no learnin', couldn't be expected to tell how that rose looked, any more'n she could be expected to draw it and paint it. I can say it was yeller, but that word 'yeller' don't tell the color the rose was. I've got all the shades of yeller in my garden, but nothin' like the color o' that rose. It got deeper and deeper towards the middle, and lookin' at one of them roses half-opened was like lookin' down into a gold mine. The leaves crinkled and curled back towards the stem as fast as it opened, and the more it opened the prettier it was, like some women that grow better lookin' the older they grow,-Mary Andrews was one o'that kind,-and when it comes to tellin' you how it smelt, I'll jest have to stop. There never was anything like it for sweetness, and it was a different sweetness from any other rose God ever made.

"I ricollect seein' Miss Penelope come in church one Sunday, dressed in white, with a black velvet gyirdle 'round her waist, and a bunch o' these roses, buds and half-blown ones and full-blown ones, fastened in the gyirdle, and that bunch o' yeller roses was song and sermon and prayer to me that day. I couldn't take my eyes off 'em; and I thought that if Christ had seen that rose growin' in the fields around Palestine, he wouldn't 'a' mentioned lilies when he said Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

"I always intended to ask for a slip of it, but I waited too long. It got lost one winter, and when I asked Old Lady Elrod about it she said, 'Mistress Parrish, I cannot tell you whence it came nor whither it went.' The old lady always used mighty pretty language.

"Well, honey, them two lost flowers jest haunt me. They're like dead children. You know a house may be full o' livin' children, but if there's one dead, a mother'll see its face and hear its voice above all the others, and that's the way with my lost flowers. No matter how many roses and chrysanthemums I have, I keep seein' Old Lady Elrod's yeller roses danglin' from Miss Penelope's gyirdle, and that bed o' pink chrysanthemums under Dr. Pendleton's dinin'-room windows."

"Each mortal has his Carcassonne!" Here was Aunt Jane's, but it was no matter for a tear or even a sigh. And I thought how the sting of life would lose its venom, if for every soul the unattainable were embodied in nothing more embittering than two exquisite lost flowers.

One afternoon in early June I stood with Aunt Jane in her garden. It was the time of roses; and in the midst of their opulent bloom stood the tall white lilies, handmaidens to the queen. Here and there over the warm earth old-fashioned pinks spread their prayer-rugs, on which a worshiper might kneel and offer thanks for life and spring; and towering over all, rows of many-colored hollyhocks flamed and glowed in the light of the setting sun like the stained glass windows of some old cathedral.

Across the flowery expanse Aunt Jane looked wistfully toward the evening skies, beyond whose stars and clouds we place that other world called heaven.

"I'm like my grandmother, child," she said presently. "I know I've got to leave this country some day soon, and journey to another one, and the only thing I mind about it is givin' up my gyarden. When John looked into heaven he saw gold streets and gates of pearl, but he don't say anything about gyardens. I like what he says about no sorrer, nor cryin', nor pain, and God wipin' away all tears from their eyes. That's pure comfort. But if I could jest have Abram and the children again, and my old home and my old gyarden, I'd be willin' to give up the gold streets and glass sea and pearl gates."

The loves of earth and the homes of earth! No apocalyptic vision can come between these and the earth-born human heart.

Life is said to have begun in a garden; and if here was our lost paradise, may not the paradise we hope to gain through death be, to the lover of nature, another garden in a new earth, girdled by four soft-flowing rivers, and watered by mists that arise in the night to fall on the face of the sleeping world, where all we plant shall grow unblighted through winterless years, and they who inherit it go with white garments and shining faces, and say at morn and noon and eve: My soul is like a watered garden?

* * *

Popular Copyright Books

AT MODERATE PRICES

Ask your dealer for a complete list of

A. L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction.

Abner Daniel. By Will N. Harben.

Adventures of A Modest Man. By Robert W. Chambers.

Adventures of Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle.

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.

Alisa Page. By Robert W. Chambers.

Alternative, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Ancient Law, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Angel of Forgiveness, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Angel of Pain, The. By E. F. Benson.

Annals of Ann, The. By Kate Trumble Sharber.

Anna the Adventuress. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Ann Boyd. By Will N. Harben.

As the Sparks Fly Upward. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.

At the Age of Eve. By Kate Trumble Sharber.

At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

At the Moorings. By Rosa N. Carey.

Awakening of Helen Richie, The. By Margaret Deland.

Barrier, The. By Rex Beach.

Bar 20. By Clarence E. Mulford.

Bar-20 Days. By Clarence E. Mulford.

Battle Ground, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Beau Brocade. By Baroness Orczy.

Beechy. By Bettina von Hutten.

Bella Donna. By Robert Hichens.

Beloved Vagabond, The. By William J. Locke.

Ben Blair. By Will Lillibridge.

Best Man, The. By Harold McGrath.

Beth Norvell. By Randall Parrish.

Betrayal, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Better Man, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.

Beulah. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Bill Toppers, The. By Andre Castaigne.

Blaze Derringer. By Eugene P. Lyle, Jr.

Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish.

Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Ollivant.

Brass Bowl, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Bronze Bell, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Butterfly Man, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

By Right of Purchase. By Harold Bindloss.

Cab No. 44. By R. F. Foster.

Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright.

Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Hichens.

Cape Cod Stories. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Cap'n Erl. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Captain Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Caravaners, The. By the author of "Elizabeth and Her German Garden."

Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers.

Carlton Case, The. By Ellery H. Clark.

Car of Destiny, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Carpet From Bagdad, The. By Harold McGrath.

Cash Intrigue, The. By George Randolph Chester.

Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. By Frank S. Stockton.

Castle by the Sea, The. By H. B. Marriot Watson.

Challoners, The. By E. F. Benson.

Chaperon, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

City of Six, The. By C. L. Canfield.

Circle, The. By Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader," "The Gambler.")

Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.

Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington.

Conspirators, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

Cynthia of the Minute. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Dan Merrithew. By Lawrence Perry.

Day of the Dog, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Derelicts. By William J. Locke.

Diamond Master, The. By Jacques Futrelle.

Diamonds Cut Paste. By Agnes and Egerton Castle.

Divine Fire, The. By May Sinclair.

Dixie Hart. By Will N. Harben.

Dr. David. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.

Early Bird, The. By George Randolph Chester.

Eleventh Hour, The. By David Potter.

Elizabeth in Rugen. (By the author of "Elizabeth and Her German Garden.")

Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle.

Elusive Pimpernel, The. By Baroness Orczy.

Enchanted Hat, The. By Harold McGrath.

Excuse Me. By Rupert Hughes.

54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.

Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Waller.

Flying Mercury, The. By Eleanor M. Ingram.

For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.

Four Million, The. By O. Henry.

Four Pool's Mystery, The. By Jean Webster.

Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens.

Ganton & Co. By Arthur J. Eddy.

Gentleman of France, A. By Stanley Weyman.

Gentleman, The. By Alfred Ollivant.

Get-Rich-Quick-Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester.

Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben.

Girl and the Bill, The. By Bannister Merwin.

Girl from His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst.

Girl Who Won, The. By Beth Ellis.

Glory of Clementina, The. By William J. Locke.

Glory of the Conquered, The. By Susan Glaspell.

God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli.

Going Some. By Rex Beach.

Golden Web, The. By Anthony Partridge.

Green Patch, The. By Bettina von Hutten.

Happy Island (sequel to "Uncle William"). By Jennette Lee.

Hearts and the Highway. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.

Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman.

Hidden Water. By Dane Coolidge.

Highway of Fate, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Homesteaders, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.

Honor of the Big Snows, The. By James Oliver Curwood.

Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford.

Household of Peter, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

House of Mystery, The. By Will Irwin.

House of the Lost Court, The. By C. N. Williamson.

House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katherine Green.

House on Cherry Street, The. By Amelia E. Barr.

How Leslie Loved. By Anne Warner.

Husbands of Edith, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Idols. By William J. Locke.

Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Imprudence of Prue, The. By Sophie Fisher.

Inez. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green.

In Defiance of the King. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.

Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond.

In the Service of the Princess. By Henry C. Rowland.

Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland.

Ishmael. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. Southworth.

Island of Regeneration, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.

Jack Spurlock, Prodigal. By Horace Lorimer.

Jane Cable. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Jude the Obscure. By Thomas Hardy.

Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish.

Key to the Unknown, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Kingdom of Earth, The. By Anthony Partridge.

King Spruce. By Holman Day.

Ladder of Swords, A. By Gilbert Parker.

Lady Betty Across the Water. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Lady Merton, Colonist. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.

Lady of Big Shanty, The. By Berkeley F. Smith.

Langford of the Three Bars. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.

Land of Long Ago, The. By Eliza Calvert Hall.

Lane That Had No Turning, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey.

Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The. By Randall Parrish.

Leavenworth Case, The. By Anna Katharine Green.

Lin McLean. By Owen Wister.

Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The. By Meredith Nicholson.

Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clarke.

Lord Loveland Discovers America. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Lorimer of the Northwest. By Harold Bindloss.

Lorraine. By Robert W. Chambers.

Lost Ambassador, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Love Under Fire. By Randall Parrish.

Loves of Miss Anne, The. By S. R. Crockett.

Macaria. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Mademoiselle Celeste. By Adele Ferguson Knight.

Maid at Arms, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

Maid of Old New York, A. By Amelia E. Barr.

Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie Roe.

Maids of Paradise, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By George Randolph Chester.

Mam' Linda. By Will N. Harben.

Man Outside, The. By Wyndham Martyn.

Man In the Brown Derby, The. By Wells Hastings.

Marriage a la Mode. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.

Marriage of Theodora, The. By Molly Elliott Seawell.

Marriage Under the Terror, A. By Patricia Wentworth.

Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Masters of the Wheatlands. By Harold Bindloss.

Max. By Katherine Cecil Thurston.

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.

Millionaire Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green.

Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Miss Selina Lue. By Maria Thompson Daviess.

Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol.

Motor Maid, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Much Ado About Peter. By Jean Webster.

Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

My Brother's Keeper. By Charles Tenny Jackson.

My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

My Lady Caprice (author of the "Broad Highway"). Jeffery Farnol.

My Lady of Doubt. By Randall Parrish.

My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.

My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish.

Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allen Poe.

Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane.

Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach.

No Friend Like a Sister. By Rosa N. Carey.

Officer 666. By Barton W. Currie and Augustin McHugh.

One Braver Thing. By Richard Dehan.

Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley.

Orphan, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.

Out of the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennett.

Pam. By Bettina von Hutten.

Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten.

Pardners. By Rex Beach.

Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Passage Perilous, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Passers By. By Anthony Partridge.

Paternoster Ruby, The. By Charles Edmonds Walk.

Patience of John Moreland, The. By Mary Dillon.

Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays.

Phillip Steele. By James Oliver Curwood.

Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold.

Plunderer, The. By Roy Norton.

Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben.

Politician, The. By Edith Huntington Mason.

Polly of the Circus. By Margaret Mayo.

Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Poppy. By Cynthia Stockley.

Power and the Glory, The. By Grace McGowan Cooke.

Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.

Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Prince or Chauffeur. By Lawrence Perry.

Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott.

Princess Passes, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish.

Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine.

Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Reconstructed Marriage, A. By Amelia Barr.

Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The. By Will N. Harben.

Red House on Rowan Street. By Roman Doubleday.

Red Mouse, The. By William Hamilton Osborne.

Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond.

Refugees, The. By A. Conan Doyle.

Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner.

Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess.

Romance of a Plain Man, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess.

Rosa of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle.

Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.

Routledge Rides Alone. By Will Livingston Comfort.

Running Fight, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne.

Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Septimus. By William J. Locke.

Set in Silver. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Self-Raised. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. Southworth.

Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright.

Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.

Sidney Carteret, Rancher. By Harold Bindloss.

Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke.

Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk.

Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach.

Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle.

Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet.

Skyman, The. By Henry Ketchell Webster.

Slim Princess, The. By George Ade.

Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens.

Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey.

Spirit Trail, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.

Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach.

Stanton Wins. By Eleanor M. Ingram.

St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger.

Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett.

Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough.

Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond.

Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr.

Sunnyside of the Hill, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.

Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner.

Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish.

Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.

Tennessee Shad, The. By Owen Johnson.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy.

Texican, The. By Dane Coolidge.

That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright.

Three Brothers, The. By Eden Phillpotts.

Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.

Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss.

Title Market, The. By Emily Post.

Torn Sails. A Tale of a Welsh Village. By Allen Raine.

Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.

Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli.

Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles Alden Seltzer.

Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington.

Uncle William. By Jennette Lee.

Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.

Vanity Box, The. By C. N. Williamson.

Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson.

Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart.

Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith.

Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell.

Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Wanted-A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford.

Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford.

Watchers of the Plains, The. Ridgwell Cullum.

Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting.

Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough.

Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker.

When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish.

Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge.

White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford.

Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart.

Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright.

With Juliet In England. By Grace S. Richmond.

Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott.

Woman In the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green.

Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk.

Yellow Letter, The. By William Johnston.

Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

* * *

The Newest Books in Popular Reprint Fiction

Only Books of Superior Merit and Popularity are Published in this List

THE WOOD-CARVER OF 'LYMPUS. By Mary E. Waller.

A strong tale of human loves and hopes set in a background of the granite mountain-tops of remote New England.

Hugh Armstrong, the hero, is one of the pronouncedly high class character delineations of a quarter century.

THE REASON WHY. By Elinor Glyn.

A fine love story, the chief interest lies in the personality of a beautiful girl whose uncle arranges a match for her with a titled Englishman.

THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS. By Harold MacGrath.

Courtlandt, the young American hero, is a typical MacGrath creation. He is past thirty, without a wife, and so rich that he cannot get rid of his money fast enough. No love plot was ever more original.

AUNT JANE OF KENTUCKY. By Eliza Calvert Hall.

This story is destined to make a strong appeal to every human heart. Everyone is sure to love Aunt Jane and her neighbors, her quilts and her flowers, her stories and her quaint, tender philosophy.

THE POSTMASTER. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

"The Postmaster" has more pure fun in it than anything Mr. Lincoln has written recently. The episode where the Christian Science lady meets the nervous old gentleman in the home of the spiritualist is uproarious.

TRUTH DEXTER. By Sidney McCall.

The novel bears the unmistakable imprint of genius.... Truth Dexter, the heroine, is one of the most lovable women in fiction-pure, worshipful, worthy and thoroughly womanly-the woman who makes a heaven of earth.

THE BANDBOX. By Louis Joseph Vance.

"The Bandbox" is one of those delightful romances that you read through to the end at a sitting, forgetful of time, troubles, or tired feelings, and then breathe a sigh of regret because there's no more.

JAPONETTE. By Robert W. Chambers.

A Chambers' novel is always one of the literary events of the year, and nothing more fascinating than "Japonette" has been penned by this most gifted writer.

THE WIND BEFORE THE DAWN. By Dell H. Munger.

The author has gone below the surface, seized upon the spirit of the pioneers, and dramatized into her story their love for the region and their stubborn faith in what held them there. It is a good, human, realistic story, full of real people and thrilling with the real pulses of life.

MISS GIBBIE GAULT. By Kate Langley Bosher.

To read a book like this is like taking a sun-bath. No one will finish the book without thanking the author for the keen pleasure it has given, and the vision of something good in human nature that it has brought before them.

THE ONE-WAY TRAIL. By Ridgwell Cullum.

This is a wholesome story of life and love in Montana, with real men and women, a strong plot and thrilling situations. Intensely interesting from beginning to end.

THE GUESTS OF HERCULES. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

This is a story of the Riviera and Monte Carlo-and a clever and rather complicated plot. The girl is particularly unusual and piquant, the man more than ever loverlike and fascinating.

MOLLY McDONALD, A Tale of the Old Frontier. By Randall Parrish.

This is the story of a charming, whole-hearted girl, who leaving an Eastern school joins her father at a military post in Kansas during the Indian wars of 1868.

TO M. L. G., OR ONE WHO PASSED.

This is a life-story written by a woman who had not dared to risk telling it to the man she loved. She preferred to send him away rather than to lose his respect; knowing her life to have been so different from what he fancied it.

For sale by most booksellers at the popular price of 50 cents. Published by the

A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52 Duane Street, New York.

* * *

AUNT JANE

OF KENTUCKY

By ELIZA CALVERT HALL

With Aunt Jane a real personage has come into literature.

In this dear old philosopher in homespun-with her patchwork quilts, which were her albums and diary, and in the midst of her garden, where each "flower was a human thing with a life-story"-we seem to renew acquaintance with a character which each of us has known and loved back in our own gardens of memory.

Where so many have made caricatures of old-time country folk, Eliza Calvert Hall has caught at once the real charm, the real spirit, the real people, and the real joy of living which was theirs.

ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Land of Long Ago

"The Land of Long Ago," in which reappears that famous character, "Aunt Jane of Kentucky," is a delightful picture of rural life in the Blue Grass country, showing the real charm and spirit of the old time country folk-a book full of sentiment and kindliness and high ideals. It cannot fail to appeal to every reader by reason of its sunny humor, its sweetness and sincerity, its entire fidelity to life. Aunt Jane with her calm philosophy, her captivating stories, her sweet, womanly ways, is a character that wins the reader at once.

A. L. BURT COMPANY,

Publishers, New York

* * *