five I _can_ do it
_perfectly well_, if necessary, otherwise, save at the change of
seasons, to keep in touch with earth and sky, I raise myself
comfortably, elbow on pillow, and through the window scan garden, wild
walk, and the old orchard at leisure, and then let my arm slip and the
impression deepen through the magic of one more chance for dreams.

_9 o'clock._ The warm throb of spring in the earth, rising in a potent
mist, sap pervaded and tangible, having a clinging, unctuous softness
like the touch of unfolding beech leaves, lured me out to finish the
transplanting of the pansies among the hardy roses, while the first
brown thrasher, high in the bare top of an ash, eyes fixed on the sky,
proclaimed with many turns and changes the exact spot where he did not
intend to locate his nest. This is an early spring, of a truth.

Presently pale sunbeams thread the mist, gathering colour as they filter
through the pollen-meshed catkins of the black birches; an oriole
bugling in the Yulan magnolias below at the road-bend, fire amid snow; a
high-hole laughing his courtship in the old orchard.

Then Lavinia Cortright coming up to exchange Dahlia bulbs and discuss
annuals and aster bugs. She and Martin browse about the country,
visiting from door to door like veritable natives, while their garden,
at first so prim and genteel, like one of Lavinia's own frocks, has
broken bounds and taken on brocade, embroidery, and all sorts of lace
frills, overflowed the south meadow, and only pauses at the stile in the
wall of our old crab-apple orchard, rivalling in beauty and refined
attraction any garden at the Bluffs. Martin's purse is fuller than of
yore, owing to the rise in Whirlpool real estate, and nothing is too
good for Lavinia's garden. Even more, he has of late let the dust rest
peacefully on human genealogy and is collecting quaint garden books and
herbals, flower catalogues and lists, with the solemn intent of writing
a book on Historic Flowers. At least so he declares; but when Lavinia is
in the garden, there too is Martin. To-day, however, he joined my men
before noon at the lower brook. Fancy a house-reared man a convert to
fishing when past threescore! Evan insists that it is because, being
above all things consistent, he wishes to appear at home in the company
of father's cherished collection of Walton's and other fishing books.
Father says, "Nonsense! no man can help liking to fish!"

[Illustration: "THE MAGNOLIAS BEL