on its roughened lip the classic question, "Cur moriatur homo, dum salis crescit in horto?"[1]
A broad gravel walk intersecting the garden, divided the parterre from an expanse of fair, even-shorn turf, at whose termination was a pleasant arbor, with its lattice-work interwoven and overshadowed by an ancient, thickly clustering grape-vine. Grouped around it was a copse of peach trees, the rich golden fruited, the large crimson and white cling, the colorless autumnal varieties, and the more diminutive ones, whose pulp, blood-tinted throughout, were favorites for the preserving pan.
Yet the garden at the opposite extremity of the house was emphatically the fruit region. It was longitudinally divided by a grassy terrace, and with the exception of a few esculents, rows of graceful peas and beans, decking their rough props with blossoms, was directed to the varieties of fruit that a New England climate matures: currants reached forth their rich and pendulent strings, large gooseberries rejoiced amid their thorny armor, over a broad domain ran the red and white strawberry, hand in hand, like a buxom brother giving confidence to his pale, exquisite sister. Through the apple-boughs peered the small orb of the deep-colored pearmain, and the full cheek of the golden sweeting, while many lofty pear trees aristocratically
- ↑ Why need a man die, who has sage in his garden?"
