FullReads

“It was not merely that a small path through the shrubbery led me into a little enclosed piece of ground devoted to those many-shaped, box-edged little flower-beds characteristic of ‘children’s gardens,’–it was not alone that the beds were shaped like letters, and that there was indisputably an M among them–but they were six in number. Just one apiece for myself and my brothers and sisters! And though families of six children are not so very uncommon as to make it improbable that my father’s predecessor should have had the same number of young ones as himself, the coincidence appeared to my mind almost supernatural. It really seemed as if some kind old fairy had conjured up the whole place for our benefit. And–bless the good godmother!–to crown all, there were two old tea-chests and a bottomless barrel in the yard.

“Doubtless many causes influenced my father in his leaning towards Reka Dom, and he did not confide them to me. But I do truly believe that first and foremost of the attractions was its name. To a real hearty lover of languages there is a charm in the sight of a strange character, new words, a yet unknown tongue, which cannot be explained to those who do not share the taste. And perhaps next to the mystic attraction of words whose meaning is yet hidden, is to discover traces of a foreign language in some unexpected and unlikely place. Russian is not extensively cultivated; my father’s knowledge of it was but slight, and this quiet little water-side town an unlikely place for an inscription in that language. It was curious, and then interesting, and then the quaint simple title of the house took his fancy. Besides this, though he could not but allow that there was reason in my mother’s views on the subject of large grounds in combination with one man-of-all-work, he liked plenty of space and shrubbery where he could wander about–his hands behind his back–without being disturbed; and for his own part he had undoubtedly felt more pleasure in the possession of large grounds than annoyance at seeing them neglected. So the garden tempted him. Finally, there was a room opening upon a laurel walk, which had at one time been a library. The shelves–old, common, dirty and broken–were still there, and on the most secure of them the housekeeper kept her cheese and candles, and an old shawl and bonnet.

“‘The place is made for us!’ I exclaimed on my return from discovering the old barrel and tea-chests. My father was standing in the library looking out upon the garden, and he did not say No.

“From the old woman we learnt something of the former tenants. She was a good-natured old soul, with an aggrieved tone of voice, due probably to the depressing effects of keeping an empty house for a cantankerous landlord. The former tenant’s name was Smith, she said (unmistakably English this!). But his lady was a Roosian, she believed. They had lived in Roosia, and some of the children, having been born there, were little Roosians, and had Roosian names. She could not speak herself, having no knowledge of the country, but she had heard that the Roosians were heathens, though Mr. Smith and his family went regularly to church. They had lived by a river, she believed, and their old home was called by the same outlandish name they had given to this. She had heard that it meant a house by the water-side, but could not say, knowing no language but her own, and having (she was thankful to say) found it sufficient for all purposes. She knew that before Mr. Smith’s time the house was called Montague Mount, and there was some sense in that name. Though what the sense was, she did not offer to explain.

“‘Please, please take it!’ I whispered in a pause of the conversation! ‘there are six little gardens, and–‘