FLOWER GATHERING.

165

my Washington, but as I cannot, I fear that you never will.

A Washington May is the June of the north, with a pomp of color, an exuberance of foliage, an allurement of atmosphere which a northern June has not.

It is May now. All the ugly outlines and shabby old houses are softened and covered with beneficent foliage. Already the mowers are at work in the Capitol grounds and in the little public parks, and the sweetness of the slain grass pervades the atmosphere. The children are everywhere pretty things. Washington is full of them, tumbling amid the flowers and in the dirt. It is May, yet June, impatient, has reached across her sister, dropping her roses everywhere. Washington is one vast garden of roses. It is the hour of strawberry festivals and of

FLOWER GATHERING.

Miles away from the dusty town,

Out in the beautiful June-time weather,
The wind of the south is rippling down,
And over the purple hills of heather.

Dim, in the distance, the city walls

Rise, like the walls of a dreary prison;

On the healing sward where the sunshine falls,
We stand 'mid the flowery folk arisen.

We watch their innocent eyelids ope,
And below we hear the river flowing;
While wilting sweet on the upland slope
Lies the grass of the early mowing.

On through the bees and butterflies,

The grass and the flowers, the hours are walking;

And we seem to catch their low replies

To the flowing waters forever talking.

We listen and question the fathomless space,
In the deeps of its emerald silence lying,
While we watch the leaves turning face to face,
And their lovers-the winds-wooing and sighing.

And still, like a dream, fades the dusty town,

And dumb on our ear dies its distant murmur;

But the speech, in the stilly air steals down,

And the fainting heart grows calmer and firmer.

Hearts that ache with a wounding smart,

Wander out from the heedless city;

The human yearning on Nature's heart
Is a thing that God in his love must pity.

Sorrow and sin are in the mart,

And greed and gain killing tender feeling; Here we draw close to the god Pan's heart, And feel on our hearts his touch of healing.

Often we ask, is there room to grow

'Neath the bands of the earth, so hard and binding?

The wisdom of life we are fain to know ;

Does it ever pay for the pain of finding?

So, far away from the dissonant town,

Out in the marvellous June-time weather, We climb the hills to their blossoming crown, And rest and gather our flowers together.

Lo! we gather our flowers to-day,

We are like thee, O restless riverWe loiter for play on our endless wayWhile life, our life, rolls on forever.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE WHITE HOUSE, ¿. e. THE PRESIDENT'S HOUSE.

Haunted Houses-Shadows of the Past-Touching Memories-The Little Angels Born There-Building of the Presidential Mansion-A State of Perpetual Dampness-Dingy Aspect of a Monarch's Palace-Outside the White House-A Peep Inside the Mansion-The Emperor of Japan Supersedes the Punch-Bowl-The Unfinished "Banqueting Hall"-Glories of a Levée-Magnificent Hospitalities-A Comfortable Dining-RoomInteresting Labors of Martha Patterson-A Lady of Taste-An American Baronial Hall"—The Furniture of Another Generation-A Valuable Steward-A Professor of Gastronomy-Paying the Professor and Providing the Dinner-Feeding the Celebrities-Mrs. Lincoln's Unpopular Innovations-Fifteen Hundred Dollars for a Dinner-How Prince Arthur, of England, was Entertained-Domestic Economy-"Not Enough Silver ”—A Tasty Soup--The Recipe for an Aristocratic Stew—Having a Nice Time "--Mrs. Franklin Pierce Horrified-" Going a Fishing on Sundays"--Hatred of Flummery-An Admirer of Pork and Beans and Slap-jacks-A Presidential Reception-Ready for the Festival-“ Such a Bore !”—Splendor, Weariness, and Indigestion-Paying the PenaltyIn the Conservatory-Domestic Arrangements-The Library-Statue of Jefferson-Pleasant Views-Reminiscence of Abraham Lincoln.

THE

"All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors."
"There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.”

HESE lines were never truer of any human habitation than of the White House at Washington.

The Nation's House! The procession of families which the people have sent to inhabit it, in moving on to make