Then said he unto me,
Go thy way,
Weigh me the weight of the fire,
Or measure me the blast of the wind,
Or call me again the day that is past.
II Esdras IV:5
The day is done, and yet we linger here at the window of the privateoffice, alone, in the early evening. Street sounds come surging up tous—the hoarse Voice of the City—a confused blur of noise—clangingtrolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and familiar cries—all the variedcommotion of the home-going hour when the city's buildings are pouringforth their human tide of laborers into the clogged arteries.
We lean against the window-frame, looking across and beyond the myriadroofs, and listening. The world-weariness has touched our temples withgray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns and tumult presses in,presses in .... presses in ....
Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the throbbing street belowslowly changes to a winding country road .... the tall buildings fadein the sunset glow until they become only huge elm-trees overtopping adusty lane .... the trolley-bells are softened so that they are but thedistant tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills .... and you and I inmatchless freedom are once more trudging the Old Dear Road side byside, answering the call of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood soundingthrough the years.
It was the spirit of the garden that crept into my boy-heart and leftits fragrance, to endure through the years. What the garden stoodfor—what it expressed—left a mysterious but certain impress.Grandmother's touch hallowed it and made it a thing apart, and the raresoul of her seemed to be reflected in the Lilies of the Valley thatbloomed sweetly year by year in the shady plot under her favoritewindow in the sitting-room. Because the garden was her specialprovince, it expressed her own sturdy, kindly nature. Little wonder,then, that we cherished it; that I loved to roam idly there feeling theenfoldment of that same protection and loving-kindness which drew me tothe shelter of her gingham-aproned lap when the griefs of Boyhoodpressed too hard upon me; and that we walked in it so contentedly inthe cool of the evening, after the Four O'clocks had folded theirpurple petals for the night.
Grandmother's garden, like all real gardens, wasn't just flowers andfragrance.
There was a brick walk leading from the front gate to the sitting-roomentrance—red brick, all moss-grown, and with the tiny weeds andgrasses pushing up between the bricks. In the garden proper the pathswere of earth, bordered and well-defined by i