I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. MADISON CAWEIN A PURITAN LADY'S GARDEN This fairy pleasance in the brake-- This maze run wild of flower and vine-- Our fathers planted for the sake Of eyes that longed for English gardens Amid the virgin wastes of pine. Here, by the broken, moldering wall, Where still the tiger-lilies ride, Once grew the crown imperial, The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret, Prince's-feather, and mourning bride. Beyond their pale, a humbler throng, Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine; The mountain fringe ran all along The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, And overhung the eglantine. And Sunday flowers were here as well-- Adam-and-Eve within their hood, The stately Canterbury bell, And, oft in churches breathing fragrance, The sweet and pungent southernwood. When ships for England cleared the bay, If long beside these reefs of foam She stood, and watched them sail away, It was her garden first enticed her To turn, and call this country "home." SARAH N. CLEGHORN THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN Among the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize, For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies. The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close, For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.