This is Willy Paterson (known locally, by-the-bye, as "the
Priest's Wully"), our gardener, groom, coachman (when required), and
general handy man. Willy is a wiry, wrinkled, white-haired little
man--little now, because stooping a bit under the weight of well-nigh
eighty years--who is greatly respected by his neighbors far and near
because he has "been sooth." For he was long ago in the ranks of the
police of one of our biggest cities, and his former profession, not to
speak of his knowledge of the world gained thereby, entitles him to
esteem. It has raised him to the rank of a species of oracle on any
subject upon which he is pleased to discourse; the result is a not
unpleasing, because altogether unintentional, dogmatism which seasons
Willy's opinions of men and things.
Our garden is the pride of Willy's heart. It begins in front of the
house, where flowers of varied hue succeed one another as season
follows season, and roses--red, white, and yellow--seem almost
perennial, since they bud forth in late May and scarcely disappear till
December. But that is due to our wonderful climate as much as to
Willy's attention. As the garden disappears round the corner of the
house, its nature changes; vegetables in surprising and intricate
variety there flourish chiefly. At the stable-yard it ceases; beyond
that a dense pine wood holds its own to the very top of a hill, which
rises above our domain and protects us from eastern blasts.
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