and kings' palaces, and every
satiny petal was a palimpsest of song and legend. Its perfume was the
attar-of-rose scent, like that of the roses of India. It satisfied and
satiated with its rich potency. And breathing this odor and gazing
into its deep wells of color, you had strange dreams of those other
pilgrims who left home and friends, and journeyed through the perils
of a trackless wilderness to plant still farther westward the rose of
civilization.

To Aunt Jane there were three epochs in a garden's life, "daffodil
time," "rose time," and "chrysanthemum time"; and the blossoming of
all other flowers would be chronicled under one of these periods, just
as we say of historical events that they happened in the reign of this
or that queen or empress. But this garden had all seasons for its own,
and even in winter there was a deep pleasure in walking its paths and
noting how bravely life struggled against death in the frozen bosom of
the earth.

I once asked her which flower she loved best. It was "daffodil time,"
and every gold cup held nepenthe for the nightmare dream of winter.
She glanced reprovingly at me over her spectacles.

"It appears to me, child, you ought to know that without askin'," she
said. "Did you ever see as many daffydils in one place before? No;
and you never will. I've been plantin' that flower every spring for
sixty years, and I've never got too many of 'em yet. I used to call
'em Johnny-jump-ups, till Henrietta told me that their right name was
daffydil. But Johnny-jump-up suits 'em best, for it kind o' tells how
they come up in the spring. The hyacinths and tulips, they hang back
till they know it'll be warm and comfortable outside, but these
daffydils don't wait for anything. Before the snow's gone you'll see
their leaves pushin' up through the cold ground, and the buds come
hurryin' along tryin' to keep up with the leaves, jest like they knew
that little children and old women like me was waitin' and longin' for
'em. Why, I've seen these flowers bloomin' and the snow fallin' over
'em in March, and they didn't mind it a bit. I got my start o'
daffydils from mother's gyarden, and every fall I'd divide the roots
up and scatter 'em out till I got the whole place pretty well
sprinkled with 'em, but the biggest part of 'em come from the old
Harris farm, three or four miles down the pike. Forty years ago that
farm was sold, and the man that bought it tore things up scandalous.
He called it remod