pennyroy'l in my hands, I believe my
whole life'd come back to me. Honey-suckles and pinks and roses ain't
any sweeter to me. Me and old Uncle Harvey Dean was jest alike about
pennyroy'l. Many a time I've seen Uncle Harvey searchin' around in the
fence corners in the early part o' May to see if the pennyroy'l was up
yet, and in pennyroy'l time you never saw the old man that he didn't
have a bunch of it somewheres about him. Aunt Maria Dean used to say
there was dried pennyroy'l in every pocket of his coat, and he used to
put a big bunch of it on his piller at night. Sundays it looked like
Uncle Harvey couldn't enjoy the preachin' and the singin' unless he
had a sprig of it in his hand, and I ricollect once seein' him git up
durin' the first prayer and tiptoe out o' church and come back with a
handful o' pennyroy'l that he'd gethered across the road, and he'd set
and smell it and look as pleased as a child with a piece o' candy."

"Piercing sweet" the breath of the crushed wayside herb rose on the
air. I had a distinct vision of Uncle Harvey Dean, and wondered if the
fields of asphodel might not yield him some small harvest of his
much-loved earthly plant, or if he might not be drawn earthward in
"pennyroy'l time."

"I was jest settin' here restin'," resumed Aunt Jane, "and thinkin'
about Milly Amos. I reckon you heard me singin' fit to scare the crows
as you come along. We used to call that Milly Amos' hymn, and I never
can hear it without thinkin' o' Milly."

"Why was it Milly Amos' hymn?" I asked.

Aunt Jane laughed blithely.

"La, child!" she said, "don't you ever git tired o' my yarns? Here it
is Sunday, and you tryin' to git me started talkin'; and when I git
started you know there ain't any tellin' when I'll stop. Come on and
le's look at the gyarden; that's more fittin' for Sunday evenin' than
tellin' yarns."

So together we went into the garden and marveled happily over the
growth of the tasseling corn, the extraordinarily long runners on the
young strawberry plants, the size of the green tomatoes, and all the
rest of the miracles that sunshine and rain had wrought since my last
visit.

The first man and the first woman were gardeners, and there is
something wrong in any descendant of theirs who does not love a
garden. He is lacking in a primal instinct. But Aunt Jane was in this
respect a true daughter of Eve, a faithful co-worker with the
sunshine, the winds, the rain, and all other forces of nature.