Explore "Her Country" by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Out on the edge of the city were large places, screened from the road by hedges which had been fifty, a hundred years sometimes, in the growing. Behind one such lay a sunshiny garden, lovely in the June Sunday morning. Down the gravel of a path a girl in a white frock walked, swinging a shallow basket in which scissors rattled from side to side. The girl kept a critical eye, walking, on the wall of Dorothy Perkins roses which, growing over a tall broken lattice, separated the garden from the grounds next door.
"You adorable nobodies, you're like pink music," she addressed the million little blooms, and halted, erect and poised, glorying in flowers and sunlight.