The garden-gate stood open. The initials of my name, still legible,
appeared rudely carved on the posts--a boyish propensity which most of
us have indulged; and I well remember ministering to its gratification
wherever I durst hazard the experiment, when first initiated into the
mystery of hewing out these important letters with a rusty pen-knife.
Not a creature was stirring; and the nature of the present occupants,
whether sylphs, gnomes, or genii, was a question not at all, as it yet
appeared, in a train for solution. The front door was closed; but, as I
knew every turn and corner about the house, I made no doubt of soon
finding out its inmates, if any of them were in the neighbourhood. I
worked my way through the garden, knee-deep and rank with weed, for the
purpose of reconnoitring the back-offices. I steered pretty cautiously
past what memory, that great dealer in hyperbole, had hitherto generally
contrived to picture as a huge lake--now, to my astonishment, dwindled
into a duck-pond--but not without danger from its slippery margin. It
still reposed under the shadow of the old cherry-tree, once the
harbinger of delight, as the returning season gave intimation of another
bountiful supply of fruit.
Pages:
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787