"That's it," I exclaimed, "and the old Chinaman was right! A garden excuses civilization."
"It's what brought us here," said Mrs. Vedder.
With that we fell into the liveliest discussion of gardening and farming and country life in all their phases, resolving that while there were bugs and blights, and droughts and floods, yet upon the whole there was no life so completely satisfying as life in which one may watch daily the unfolding of natural life.
A hundred things we talked about freely that had often risen dimly in my own mind almost to the point--but not quite--of spilling over into articulate form. The marvellous thing about good conversation is that it brings to birth so many half-realized thoughts of our own--besides sowing the seed of innumerable other thought-plants. How they enjoyed their garden, those two, and not only the garden itself, but all the lore and poetry of gardening!
We had been talking thus an hour or more when, quite unexpectedly, I had what was certainly one of the most amusing adventures of my whole life. I can scarcely think of it now without a thrill of pleasure. I have had pay for my work in many but never such a reward as this.
"By the way," said Mr. Vedder, "I have recently come across a book which is full of the spirit of the garden as we have long known it, although the author is not treating directly of gardens, but of farming and of human nature."
"It is really all one subject," I interrupted.
"Certainly," said Mr. Vedder, "but many gardeners are nothing but gardeners. Well, the book to which I refer is called 'Adventures in Contentment,' and is by--Why, a man of your own name!"
With that Mr. Vedder reached for a book--a familiar-looking book--on the table, but Mrs. Vedder looked at me. I give you my word, my heart turned entirely over, and in a most remarkable way righted itself again; and I saw Roman candles and Fourth of July rockets in front of my eyes. Never in all my experience was I so completely bowled over. I felt like a small boy who has been caught in the pantry with one hand in the jam-pot--and plenty of jam on his nose. And like that small boy I enjoyed the jam, but did not like being caught at it.
Mr. Vedder had no sooner got the book in his hand than I saw Mrs.
Vedder rising as though she had seen a spectre, and pointing dramatically at me, she exclaimed:
"You are David Grayson!"
I can say truthfully now that I know how the prisoner at the bar must feel when the judge, leaning over his desk, looks at him sternly and says:
"I declare you guilty of the offence as charged, and sentence you--" and so on, and so on.
Mr. Vedder stiffened up, and I can see him yet looking at me through his glasses. I must have looked as foolishly guilty as any man ever looked, for Mr. Vedder said promptly:
"Let me take you by the hand, sir. We know you, and have known you for a long time."
I shall not attempt to relate the conversation which followed, nor tell of the keen joy I had in it--after the first cold plunge. We found that we had a thousand common interests and enthusiasms. I had to tell them of my farm, and why I had left it temporarily, and of the experiences on the road. No sooner had I related what had befallen me at the Stanleys' than Mrs. Vedder disappeared into the house and came out again presently with a tray loaded with cold meat, bread, a pitcher of fine milk, and other good things.
"I shall not offer any excuses," said I, "I'm hungry," and with that I laid in, Mr. Vedder helping with the milk, and all three of us talking as fast as ever we could.
It was nearly midnight when at last Mr. Vedder led the way to the immaculate little bedroom where I spent the night.
The next morning I awoke early, and quietly dressing, slipped down to the garden and walked about among the trees and the shrubs and the flower-beds. The sun was just coming up over the hill, the air was full of the fresh odours of morning, and the orioles and cat-birds were singing.
In the back of the garden I found a charming rustic arbour with seats around a little table. And here I sat down to listen to the morning concert, and I saw, cut or carved upon the table, this verse, which so pleased me that I copied it in my book:
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot--The veriest school of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not--Not God! in gardens? when the even is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign, 'Tis very sure God walks in mine.
I looked about after copying this verse, and said aloud:
"I like this garden: I like these Vedders."
And with that I had a moment of wild enthusiasm.
"I will come," I said, "and buy a little garden next them, and bring Harriet, and we will live here always. What's a farm compared with a friend?"
But with that I thought of the Scotch preacher, and of Horace, and Mr. and Mrs. Starkweather, and I knew I could never leave the friends at home.
"It's astonishing how many fine people there are in this world,"
I said aloud; "one can't escape them!"
"Good morning, David Grayson," I heard some one saying, and glancing up I saw Mrs. Vedder at the doorway. "Are you hungry?"
"I am always hungry," I said.
Mr. Vedder came out and linking his arm in mine and pointing out various spireas and Japanese barberries, of which he was very proud, we walked into the house together.
I did not think of it especially at time--Harriet says I never see anything really worth while, by which she means dishes, dresses, doilies, and such like but as I remembered afterward the table that Mrs. Vedder set was wonderfully dainty--dainty not merely with flowers (with which it was loaded), but with the quality of the china and silver. It was plainly the table of no ordinary gardener or caretaker--but this conclusion did not come to me until afterward, for as I remember it, we were in a deep discussion of fertilizers.
Mrs. Vedder cooked and served breakfast herself, and did it with a skill almost equal to Harriet's--so skillfully that the talk went on and we never once heard the machinery of service.
