HORAS NON NUMERO NISI SERENAS
But this story is, after all, an idyl, and the idyl is drawing to its
close. Even as the Old Three Decker carried tired people to the Islands
of the Blest, my little tale can only end with "and they lived happy
ever after." Into the sweet monotony of such happy years what reader
wants to follow? The reader sees his fellow passengers, the characters,
disembark, waves them good-bye--and turns to sail for other isles! So
please consider that the hawsers are being loosed, the farewells being
spoken.
That second summer at Twin Fires, of course, showed us many things yet
to be done. Neither Rome nor the humblest garden was ever built in a day.
Our ramblers did their duty well, but the grape arbour and the pergola
would not be covered properly in a season. There were holes in the
flower beds to be filled by annuals, and mistakes made in succession, so
that July found us with many patches destitute of any bloom. Out in
the vegetable area there were first cutworms and then drought and
potato blight to be contended with. In our ignorance we neglected to
watch the hollyhocks for red rust till suddenly whole plants began to
die, and we had to spray madly with Bordeaux and pull off a great heap of
infected leaves, to save any blooms at all. There were clearings to
be made in the pines for ferny spots, and constant work to be done
about the pool to keep the wild bushes from coming back. There were
chickens to be looked after now, also, and new responsibilities in
the village for both of us. We had neither attempted nor desired to
avoid our full share of civic work. We lived a busy life, with not an
hour in the day idle, and few hours in the evening. We lived so full a
life, indeed, that it was only by preserving an absolute routine for my
own bread-winning labours, from nine A.M. till one, that I was able to
resist the siren call of farm and garden, and get my daily stint
accomplished.
The preceding summer I had made about $200 out of my produce, which
in my first naive enthusiasm pleased me greatly. But it was surely a poor
return on my investment, reckoned merely in dollars and cents, and
the second season showed a different result. Having two cows and a small
family, I managed to dispose of my surplus milk and cream to a farmer
who ran a milk route. This brought me in $73 a year. As I further saved
at least $100 by not having to buy milk, and $60 by Peter's efforts at
the churn, and could reckon a further profit from manure and calves,
my cows were worth between $300 and $400 a year to me. Now that we had
hens and chickens, we could reckon on another $100 saved in egg and
poultry bills. To this total I was able to add at the end of the
summer more than $500 received from the sale of fruit and vegetables,
not only to the market but to the hotels. I was the only person in
Bentford who had cultivated raspberries for sale, for instance, and the
fact that I could deliver them absolutely fresh to the hotels was
appreciated in so delicate a fruit. Stella and Peter were the pickers.
I also supplied the inns with peas, cauliflowers, and tomatoes. Thus
the farm was actually paying me in cash or saving at least $1,000 a
year--indeed, much more, since we had no fruit nor vegetable bills the
year through, Mrs. Pillig being an artist in preserving what would not
keep in the cellar. But we will call it $1,000, and let the rest go
as interest on the investment represented by seeds and implements. To
offset this, I paid Mike $600 a year, and employed his son Joe at
$1.75 a day, for twenty weeks. This left me a profit of about $200 on
my first full season at Twin Fires, which paid my taxes and bought my
coal. Out of my salary, then, came no rent, no bills for butter, eggs,
milk, poultry, nor vegetables. I had to pay Mrs. Pillig her $20 a month
therefrom, I had to pay the upkeep of the place, and grocery and meat
bills (the latter being comparatively small in summer). But with the
great item of rent eliminated, and my farm help paying for itself,
it was astonishing to me to contemplate what a beautiful, comfortable
home we were able to afford on an income which in New York would coop us
in an Upper West Side apartment. We had thirty acres of beautiful land,
we had a brook, a pine grove, an orchard, a not too formal garden, a
lovely house in which we were slowly assembling mahogany furniture
which fitted it. We had summer society as sophisticated as we cared to
mix with, and winter society to which we could give gladly of our own
stores of knowledge or enthusiasm and find joy in the giving. We had
health as never before, and air and sunshine and a world of beauty
all about us to the far blue wall of hills.
Above all, we had the perpetual incentive of gardening to keep our eyes
toward the future. A true garden, like a life well lived, is forever
becoming, forever in process, forever leading on toward new goals. Life,
indeed, goes hand in hand with your garden, and never a fair thought
but you write it in flowers, never a beautiful picture but you paint
it if you can, and with the striving learn patience, and with the half
accomplishment, the "divine unrest."
Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas
reads the ancient motto on our dial plate, and as I look back on the
years of Twin Fires' genesis, or forward into the future, the hours
that are not sunny are indeed not marked for me. I am writing now at
a table beneath the pergola. The floor is of brick, laid (somewhat
irregularly) by Stella and me, for we still are poor, as the Eckstroms
would reckon poverty, and none of what Mrs. Deland has called "the
grim inhibitions of wealth" prevents us from doing whatever we can
with our own hands, and finding therein a double satisfaction. Over
my head rustle the thick vines--a wistaria among them, which may or may
not survive another winter.
It is June again. The ghost of Rome in roses is marching across the
lawn beyond the white sundial, and there are arches in perspective
now beneath the level superstructure. The little brick bird bath is
covered with ivy, and last year's self-sown double Emperor Williams
are already blue about it. The lawn is a thick, rich green. To the
west the grape arbour rises above a white bench of real marble, and I
can see dappled shadows beneath the whitish young leaves. I know that
around the pool stately Japanese iris are budding now, great clumps of
them revelling in the moisture they so dearly love, soon to break into
blooms as large as plates, and beyond them is a little lawn, with the
bench our own hands made against a clump of cedars, and on each side a
small statue of marble on a slender chestnut pedestal, carved and painted
to balance the bench.
I know also that a path now wanders up the brook almost to the road,
amid the wild tangle, and ends suddenly in the most unexpected nook
beneath a willow tree, where irises fringe a second tiny pool. I know
that the path still wanders the other way into the pines--pines larger
now and more murmurous of the sea--past beds of ferns and a lone cardinal
flower that will bloom in a shaft of sunlight. Somewhere down that path
my wife is wandering, and she is not alone. A little form (at least
she says it has form!) sleeps beside her, while she sits, perhaps,
with a book or more likely with sewing in her busy fingers, or more
likely still with hands that stray toward the sleeping child and ears
that listen to the sea-shell murmur of the pines whispering secrets
of the future. Is he to be a Napoleon or a Pasteur? No less a genius,
surely, the prophetic pines whisper to the listening mother!
My own pen halts in its progress and the ink dries on the point.
Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas
--that indeed we desire for our children, for our loved ones! Dim,
forgotten perils of adolescence come to my mind, as a cloud obscures
the summer sun. Then the cloud sweeps by. I see the white dial post
focussing the sunlight once again on the green lawn, amid its ring of
stately queens, and the thought comes over me not that I possess these
thirty acres of Twin Fires, but that they possess me, that they are
mine only in trust to do their bidding, to hand them on still fairer than
I found them to the new generation of my stock. They are the Upton
home--forever.
Already we have bought a tall grandfather's clock, with little Nat's
name and birth date on a plate inside the door. I can hear it ticking
somnolently now, out in the hall. Already the quaint rubbish is
accumulating in our attic which in twenty years will be a dusty,
historical record of many things, from sartorial styles to literary
fashions. Some day little Nat will rummage them for forgotten books of
his childhood, and come upon my derby, now in the latest fashion, to
wonder that men ever wore such outlandish headgear.
But the garden will never be out of fashion! Looking forth again from
the window, I can see our best discovery of last season beginning to
scatter its bits of sky on the ground, as it does every day before noon.
It is flax, which blooms every day at sunrise the season through, sheds
all its petals when the sun is high, and renews them all with the next
day's dew. It is perfectly hardy and reproduces itself in great
quantity. No blue is quite like it save the sky, and at seven o'clock of
a fresh June morning you will go many a mile before you find anything
so lovely as our garden borders. A little later, too, the first sowing
of our schyzanthus will begin to flower, against a backing of white
platycodons, and that will be an old-fashioned feature of delicate bloom
perpetually new, for the little butterfly flower, as it used to be
called, covering the entire graceful plant with orchidlike blossoms, is
one of those shyer effects that the professional gardeners never
strive for, but which we amateurs who are poor enough to be our own
gardeners achieve, to put the great expensive formal gardens to shame.
Another bed we are proud of is filled with love-in-a-mist rising out
of sweet alyssum--all feathery blue and white, like our own skies.
But we, too, have the showier effects. Already the best of them is
coming--about a hundred feet of larkspur along the west wall of the
garden, and at its base pink Canterbury bells. Unfortunately, the bells
will be passing as the larkspur comes to its fullest flower, but for
about four or five days in ordinary seasons that particular border of
pink and blue is a rare delight.
I wonder, by the way, if Stella has watered the schyzanthus plants
this morning. They are down in the borders by the pool. Perhaps I had
better go and see. A moment's respite from my toil will do me good. I
will listen to the tinkle of the brook, as I will follow the path that
wanders beside it through the maples to the pines, where our garden is
but the reproduction in little of our fair New England woods. At the
spot where first we heard the hermit sing I shall find my wife and
child, I shall find them for whom all my strivings are, who give meaning
to my life, who, when all is said, are the sunshine of its serene hours.
What a blue sky overhead where the cloud ships ride! What a burst of
song from the oriole! What a pleasant sound from the field beyond the
roses--the soft chip of Mike's hoe between the onions! And hark, from
the pines a tiny cry! Can he want his father?
THE END
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THE SILENT CALL. By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the
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MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES. By E. W. Hornung.
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Idyl of Twin Fires, by Walter Prichard Eaton