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?_
[Illustration]
* * * * *
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Adventures of A Modest Man. By Robert W. Chambers.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Beechy. By Bettina von Hutten.
Bella Donna. By Robert Hichens.
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Beth Norvell. By Randall Parrish.
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Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish.
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Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
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Captain Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
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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.
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Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington.
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Dan Merrithew. By Lawrence Perry.
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Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Derelicts. By William J. Locke.
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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.
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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.
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Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben.
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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.
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How Leslie Loved. By Anne Warner.
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Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger.
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