To the left of our house was the garden. I have read of the old-
fashioned garden; the gardens written about and the gardens sung about,
but I have never seen a garden that could surpass the garden of my old
home. Just inside the pickets were bunches of bear grass. Then, there
was the purple flag, that bordered the walks; the thyme, coriander,
calamus and sweet Mary; the jasmine climbing over the picket
fence; the syringa and bridal wreath; roses black, red, yellow and pink;
and many other kinds of roses and shrubs. There, too, were strawberries,
raspberries, gooseberries and currants; damson and greengages, and apricots,
that grew on vines. I could take some time in describing this beautiful
spot.
At the side of the garden was the family burying ground, where the
gravestones were laid flat on masonry, bringing them about three feet
from the ground. These stones were large, flat slabs of marble, and I
used to climb up on top and sit or lie down, and trace the letters or figures
with my fingers. I visited this graveyard in 1903. The eight graves
were there in a good state of preservation, with not a slab broken,
although my grandfather was buried there, ninety years ago. My father
had a stone wall built around these graves for protection, when he left
Kentucky. I am glad that family graveyards have given place to public
cemeteries, for this place has changed hands many times and this graveyard
is not pleasant for the strangers who live there.
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