GRASS
Now and then, at regular intervals of the summer, the Suburb springs for
a time from its mediocrity; but an inattentive eye might not see why, or
might not seize the cause of the bloom and of the new look of humility
and dignity that makes the Road, the Rise, and the Villas seem suddenly
gentle, gay and rather shy.
It is no change in the gardens. These are, as usual, full, abundant,
fragrant, and quite uninteresting, keeping the traditional secret by
which the suburban rose, magnolia, clematis, and all other flowers grow
dull--not in colour, but in spirit--between the yellow brick house-front
and the iron railings. Nor is there anything altered for the better in
the houses themselves.
Nevertheless, the little, common, prosperous road, has bloomed, you
cannot tell how. It is unexpectedly liberal, fresh, and innocent. The
soft garden-winds that rustle its shrubs are, for the moment, genuine.
Another day and all is undone. The Rise is its daily self again--a road
of flowers and foliage that is less pleasant than a fairly well-built
street. And if you happen to find the men at work on the
re-transformation, you become aware of the accident that made all this
difference.
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