High walls of hollyhock and morning-glory Concealed the ancient house with gables wide; Shut out the world of swift and merry hours. In the long silence of a fairy-story My heart stood still. Then, at a turn I spied My Mother, smiling at the other flowers. GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE Grandmother’s house is far away. You take the train and you ride all day, Till you come to a meadow beside the sea, As green and still as a place can be. In a little white room is a little white bed; The pillow is sweet where you lay your head; And all around is the scent of rose, That breathes wherever Grandmother goes. Down in the meadow the crickets trill As if they thought it was daytime still; “_Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheepy, cheepy! Cheep! Cheep!_” Oh, how can a body go to sleep? All alone you lie and hark To the curious sounds that come in the dark; For the wall says “_Crick!_” And the floor goes “_Creak!_” Then out in the hall is a rustle and squeak. A wee voice cries and is still again; Then Something taps on the window-pane. There’s a whispering in the tree outside, And a sigh, that Grandmother _says_ is the tide. Grandmother’s house is nice by day, But at night you seem very far away. And the noise of the quiet is so loud, It bothers you more than the noise of a crowd. GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN This was the garden that Grandmother made, Here in the filtering sunlight and shade. Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies, Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses, Balsam and lavender, briar and box, Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks; Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet, Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet. And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all, Mother went tiptoeing when she was small. This is the garden that Grandmother made— New buds to open as older ones fade. With her wee waterpot making the showers, _My_ mother dallied with _her_ mother’s flowers; Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose, Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows; Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw, And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw. But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it, Why, where should _I_ be this blessed minute? THE FRIGHTENED PATH The wood grew very quiet As the road made a sudden turn; Then a wavering, furtive path crept out From the tangled briar and fern.