Rugged old Harpeth began to
be crowned with wreaths of tender green and pink which trailed down
its sides in garlands that spread themselves out over meadow and farm
away beyond the river bend. Overnight, rows of jonquils in Mrs.
Poteet's straggling little garden lifted up golden candlestick heads
to be decapitated at an early hour and transported in tight little
bunches in dirty little fists to those of the neighbors whose spring
flowers had failed to open at such an early date. In spite of what
seemed an open neglect, the Poteet flowers were always more prolific
and advanced than any others along the Road, much to the pride of the
equally prolific and spring-blooming Mrs. Poteet. And in a spirit of
nature's accord the white poet's narcissus showed starry flowers to
the early sun in the greatest abundance along the Poteet fence that
bordered on the Rucker yard. They peeped through the pickets, and who
knows what challenge they flung to the poetic soul of Mr. Caleb Rucker
as he sat on the side porch with his stockinged feet up on a chair and
his nose tilted to an angle of ecstatic inhalation?
Down at the Plunketts the early wistaria vine that garlanded the front
porch hung thick with long purple clusters which dropped continually
little bouquets of single blossoms with perfect impartiality on the
head of widow and maid, as the compromise of entertaining both young
Bob and Mr. Crabtree at the same time was carried out by Louisa Helen.
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