e above the big one--and over the gateway at the
centre; as a sort of final triumph, rose a grandiose arch of interlaced
branches upon which the artist had outdone himself in marvels of
ornamentation.

I shall never forget the sensation of delight I had over this discovery,
or of how I walked, tiptoe, along the road in front, studying each of
the marvellous adornments. How eagerly, too, I looked over at the house
beyond--a rather bare, bleak house set on a slight knoll or elevation
and guarded at one corner by a dark spruce tree. At some distance
behind I saw a number of huge barns, a cattle yard and a silo--all the
evidences of prosperity--with well-nurtured fields, now yellowing with
the summer crops, spreading pleasantly away on every hand.

It was nearly dark before I left that bit of roadside, and I shall never
forget the eerie impression I had as I turned back to take a final look
at the hedge, the strange, grotesque aspect it presented there in the
half light with the bare, lonely house rising from the knoll behind.

It was not until some weeks later that I met the owner of the wonderful
hedge. By that time, however, having learned of my interest, I found
the whole countryside alive with stories about it and about Old Nathan
Toombs, its owner. It was as though I had struck the rock of refreshment
in a weary land.

I remember distinctly how puzzled was by the stories I heard. The
neighbourhood portrait--and ours is really a friendly neighbourhood--was
by no means flattering. Old Toombs was apparently of that type
of hard-shelled, grasping, self-reliant, old-fashioned farmer not
unfamiliar to many country neighbourhoods. He had come of tough old
American stock and he was a worker, a saver, and thus he had grown
rich, the richest farmer in the whole neighbourhood. He was a regular
individualistic American.

"A dour man," said the Scotch Preacher, "but just--you must admit that
he is just."

There was no man living about whom the Scotch Preacher could not find
something good to say.

"Yes, just," replied Horace, "but hard--hard, and as mean as pusley."

This portrait was true enough in itself, for I knew just the sort of an
aggressive, undoubtedly irritable old fellow it pictured, but somehow,
try as I would, I could not see any such old fellow wasting his moneyed
hours clipping bells, umbrellas, and camel's heads on his ornamental
greenery. It left just that incongruity which is at once the lure,
the hum