with damp earth into crevices, and carefully watered several times a day, so that the stones looked—as, of course, they were—ages old. As this was the part of the composition nearest the house, it was rather more ornate in character than that of the lower slopes, which fell away to a mass of Laurel and Maple trees at the edge of the grounds.
Now, of course, this garden, with the house on the top of the hill, broke from the outset the rules and customs with regard to garden making; therefore, if the people who constructed it had been unintelligent ants, only faithfully copying what the other ants who preceded them had done, there would have been no garden on that steep hillside at all, or rather, perhaps, no house at the top of it. They were original workers, and, while they adhered to the foundation principle of presenting a view of natural scenery, they could hardly stick to any of the classic injunctions as to how to attain this end. Everything had to be modified to fit the case, and a most charming hill garden, with the main interest at the top, was the result. Paths and stepping-stones led downward and upward, with clumps of flowering trees (at least, they would flower the following spring) placed irregularly in happily chosen spots. There was a little shrine (a shade too new and red, just then, at which the Azaleas spoke rudely, under their breath), and there were quaint, storm-driven
