“Well and I did!!  This mornin’ early she picks a lot o’ them sticky pink flowers by the stoop, the colour o’ chiny shells, wid spokes in them like umbrellas, and the thick green leaves, and after leavin’ ’em in water a spell, puts ’em in me cold closet, a small bit o’ wet moss tied to each stem end wid green sewin’ silk!  A piece after dinner out she comes wid the hat that’s covered with strong white lace, and she cocks it this way and pinches it that and sews the flowers to it quick wid a big thread and a great splashin’ bow on behind, and into the cold box agin!

“‘That’s fer this afternoon,’ says she, and before she wore it off (a hat that Eve, mother o’ sin, and us all would envy), she’d another ready for the night!  ‘Will it spoil now and give yer away, I wonder?’ says I, anxious like.

“‘Not fer two hours, at least; and it’ll keep me from stayin’ too long; if I do, it’ll wither away and leave me all forlorn, like Cinderella and her pumpkin coach!’ she said a-smilin’ kind uv to herself in me kitchen mirror, when she put the hat on.  ‘But I’m not insultin’ God’s flowers tryin’ to pass them off for French ones, Annie,’ says she.  ‘I’m settin’ a new garden fashion; let them follow who will!’ and away wid her!  That same other is in here now, and it’s no sin to let yer peep, gin it’s ye own posies and ye chest they’re in.”  So, throwing open the door Anastasia revealed the slate shelf covered by a sheet of white paper, while resting on an empty pickle jar, for a support, was the second hat, of loosely woven black straw braid, an ornamental wire edging the brim that would allow it to take a dozen shapes at will.  It was garlanded by a close-set wreath of crimson peonies grading down to blush, all in half bud except one full-blown beauty high in front and one under the brim set well against the hair, while covering the wire, caught firm and close, were glossy, fragrant leaves of the wild sweetbrier made into a vine.

Ah, well, this is an unexpected development born of our experiment and a human sort of chronicle for The Garden, You, and I.

One of the most puzzling things in this living out-of-doors on our own place is the reversal of our ordinary viewpoints.  Never before did I realize how we look at the outdoor world from inside the house, where inanimate things force themselves into comparison.  Now we are seeing from outside and looking in at ourselves, so to speak, very much like the robin, who has his third nest, lop-sided disaster having overtaken the other two, in the old white lilac tree over my window.

Some of our doings, judged from the vantage point of the knoll, are very inconsistent.  The spot occupied by the drying yard is the most suitable place for the new strawberry bed, and is in a direct line between the fence gap, where my fragrant things are to be, and the Rose Garden.  Several of the walks that have been laid out according to the plan, when seen from this height, curve around nothing and reach nowhere.  We shall presently satisfy their empty embraces with shrubs and locate various other conspicuous objects at the terminals.