At supper father, Evan, and I were silent and ceremoniously polite, neither referring to the day’s disasters, and I could see that the boys were regarding us with open-eyed wonder.  When the meal was almost finished, the bell of the front door rang and Effie returned, bearing a large, ornamental basket, almost of the proportions of a hamper, with a card fastened conspicuously to the handle, upon which was printed “With apologies from Jupiter!” Inside was a daintily arranged assortment of hothouse vegetables,—­cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant eggs, artichokes,—­with a separate basket in one corner brimming with strawberries, and in the other a pink tissue-paper parcel, tied with ribbon, containing mushrooms, proving that, after all, fussy Mr. Vandeveer has the saving grace of humour.

My righteous garden-indignation dwindled; laughter caught me by the throat and quenched the remainder.  Evan, knowing nothing of the concatenation, but scenting something from the card, joined sympathetically.  Glancing at father, I saw that his nose was twitching, and in a moment his shoulders began to shake and he led the general confession that followed.  It seems that he arrived at the hospital really the day of the consultation, but found that the patient, in need of surgical care, had been seized with nervous panic and gone home!

After such a thoroughly vulgar day there is really nothing to do but laugh and plan something pleasant for to-morrow, unless you prefer crying, which, though frequently a relief to the spirit, is particularly bad for eye wrinkles in the middle-aged.

May-day. I always take this as a holiday, and give myself up to any sort of outdoor folly that comes into my head.  There is nothing more rejuvenating than to let one’s self thoroughly go now and then.

Then, besides, to an American, May-day is usually a surprise in itself.  You never can tell what it will bring, for it is by no means the amiable and guileless child of the poets, breathing perfumed south wind and followed by young lambs through meadows knee deep in grass and flowers.

In the course of fifteen years I have seen four May-days when there was enough grass to blow in the wind and frost had wholly left for the season; to balance this there have been two brief snow squalls, three deluges that washed even big beans out of ground, and a scorching drought that reduced the brooks, unsheltered by leafage, to August shallowness.  But to-day has been entirely lovable and full of the promise that after all makes May the garden month of the year, the time of perfect faith, hope, and charity when we may believe all things!

This morning I took a stroll in the woods, partly to please the dogs, for though they always run free, they smile and wag furiously when they see the symptoms that tell that I am going beyond the garden.  What a difference there is between the north and south side of things!  On the south slope the hepaticas have gone and the columbines show a trace of red blood, while on the north, one is in perfection and the other only as yet making leaves.  This is a point to be remembered in the garden, by which the season of blooming can be lengthened for almost all plants that do not demand full, unalloyed sun, like the rose and pink families.