Such as it was, the house stood even with the sidewalk, but the yard was screened from the street by a board fence, outside which I am sure there was a bench.
The gate into the yard swung so high from the ground that four-footed visitors did not have to wait till it was opened.

Pigs found their way in, and were shown the way out, under the gate; grunting on their arrival, but squealing on their departure.
[Illustration: MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE, WHERE I WAS BORN] Of the interior of the house I remember only one room, and not so much the room as the window, which had a blue sash curtain, and beyond the curtain a view of a narrow, walled garden, where deep-red dahlias grew.

The garden belonged to the house adjoining my grandfather's, where lived the Gentile girl who was kind to me.
Concerning my dahlias I have been told that they were not dahlias at all, but poppies.

As a conscientious historian I am bound to record every rumor, but I retain the right to cling to my own impression.
Indeed, I must insist on my dahlias, if I am to preserve the garden at all.

I have so long believed in them, that if I try to see _poppies_ in those red masses over the wall, the whole garden crumbles away, and leaves me a gray blank.