Stranica 79 [79]
OCR
tt EStORTLeE . (s A RDRIN A EGE ROTT TA =e —= — ae = — SS = ———S ww TTtTttt tt A — = a eagles with wings spread proudly as if for flight. It is a curious thought to recall that these eagles, symbols of our country, were set there long before our country was even a dream. From this great gate a graceful iron fence slopes to each side, divided into sections by square pillars, each capped with a different emblem of stone. Here, in the wilderness, Byrd set a bit of England. It was in the English blood to make and to love a garden. Even now, this overgrown old garden, with its formal box-hedged squares and oldfashioned flowers, reminds one of the lanes and hedge-rows of England. Ihe sweet-smelling box recalls the old fragrance of forgotten memories—rosemary and rue—lace laid away in lavender— the spicy scent of sandalwood. Quaint sweet williams bloom in company with the pale forgetme-not; foxgloves, purple and white, grow beside iris, white and purple; clove-pinks, the progenitors of all our regal carnations, vie with peonies, shaded like the inside of a flushed shell; lilies of serene and virginal white look chastely upon their gaudy, flaunting cousins, tiger-striped and voluptuous; timid violets peep out from beneath bold hollyhocks; and everywhere are roses, some of which, the legend says, will bloom in no other ground. Flowering shrubs are there—the modest bridal wreath spirea, syringa, or mock-orange. Crepe-myrtle bushes grown almost into trees and calycanthus with deep red-brown flowers verging upon purple. In this rich, moist soil the vines have grown with almost tropic luxuriance. Rambler roses and trumpet vines riot through and over the old hedges, which, untrimmed in spots, have grown into tree-like proportions, and wistaria has woven and twisted itself into tangled thickets of verdure, which in season are masses of purple bloom. | | But the greatest charm of this rare old garden lies neither in the sweet box-hedges, the beautiful beds of old-time flowers, the graceful shrubbery, nor the clambering vines. Nor in the countless birds that make the enclosure melodious with their song. It is found in the thoughts, redolent with romance, that this 148]
