It seems but yesterday that the punctual year brought back her Daffodils—that Hyacinth and Tulip pushed up green shoots for the spring sunshine—and now the Syringa bushes are white with bloom.

In one short week midsummer will have come, that beautiful holiday of the summer solstice, whose festal observance is, in England, of great antiquity.

The old practice of lighting bonfires in London and in other towns (and even in villages) is probably a remnant of the pagan rites once observed on that day.

Later, the Christian monks dedicated this festival to one of their saints, and, accordingly, the people on that day made their houses gay with St. John's-wort and other flowers and at evening kept the "vigil of St. John the Baptist," lighting bonfires in honor of this saint. Every man's door was then hung with birch boughs and lamps of glass, whose oil burnt on through the night. An old parish entry—dating so far back as the reign of Edward IVth—thus stands: "For birch at Midsummer VIII d"; and again, "Various payments for birch bowes at Midsummer."

Old English poets commemorate in verse the hanging at this season of birch branches over the sign boards of shop doors.

Perhaps in our increasing demand for holidays we may yet adopt this charming festival of our English forbears, as we have that of their Yule-tide. It would fall at the same season as did that pretty Persian festival, "The Feast of Roses."

Today, in after-dinner "idlesse," with the unread morning paper in my hand, I sit beneath the blossomed Tulip trees, taking in so much of the beauty and perfection of the hour as my limited being will hold. Shadow and sunshine interchange upon the lush green lawn, where today the Syringa sprinkles its first light snow. The breath of blown Peonies scents the summer air along with the languorous odor of the mock-orange flowers. Yonder, in the old pear tree hard by the Lover's bowery walk, a happy thrush sings out his little heart while his silent mate broods patiently the family nest. A distant robin pipes cheerily among the apple boughs, and somewhere among the treetops a gurgling oriole sings—sings as if in this whole wide world of ours there were neither pain nor death, but only life, and joy, and never-ending summer.

Last night a Damask Rose opened in the garden—

"God's in his Heaven; all's right with the world!"

For myself—attuned to the blessed influences of the hour—I am at peace with all mankind. My enemies, one and all, are forgiven on the spot, and I meekly consider the advisability of "turning the other cheek" for a second "smite." For what saith the old herbalist—combining in his ancient book floriculture and ethical instruction? "Flowers, through their beautie, variety of color, and exquisite forme, doe bring to a liberal and gentlemanly minde the remembrance of honestie, comeliness, and all kinds of virtues. For it woulde be an unseemly thing for him that dothe looke upon and handle faire and beautiful things to have his minde not faire, but filthy and depraved."

The Japanese, in their days of heathendom, celebrated with great care their ancient "Festival of Departed Spirits." A fire was then built in front of every house in the empire as a signal or invitation for all the departed members of the house to revisit their old homes.

So tonight, with pulses slowed down to peace, musing in the quiet of this sleepy garden, I keep the "Festival of Departed Spirits," and, signaling to the unseen, hear in the tender silence faint footfalls of the departed along the familiar garden ways.

Said the dear Lady (who at one time in her life was much fascinated by Spiritualism, and wont to map out with great accuracy the "Undiscovered Country" with its pursuits and privileges), referring to that time when this house and garden should no longer know her in the flesh: "I shall not forget my home on earth, I shall still be around."

And thou, "my summer child"[2] (best loved and last to go), born with the roses and gifted with the sunny sweetness of a thousand Junes, but yesterday we trod together these garden paths, whose improvement was thy latest care. The echo of thy parting footfall yet lingers in this garden, making it "holy ground." "They sin who tell us Love can die."

"Auf wiedersehen," my "summer child."

[1] A nickname suggested by this item in a bill of our German cobbler—which ran thus—"To souling shues for Tird sun 50 sense."