Xanthe liked to watch the stream disappear in the myrtle-grove.
When, sitting in her favorite nook, she turned her eyes downward, she
overlooked the broad gardens and fields of her father and uncle,
stretching on the right and left of the stream along the gentle slope of
the mountain, and the narrow plain by the sea.
The whole scene resembled a thick woolen carpet, whose green surface was
embroidered with white and yellow spots, or one of the baskets young
maidens bear on their heads at the feast of Demeter, and in which, piled
high above the edge, light and dark-hued fruit gleams forth from leaves
of every tint.
Groves of young pomegranate and myrtletrees, with vigorous shoots, stood
forth in strong relief against the silvery gray-green foliage of the
gnarled olive-trees.
Fragrant roses, glowing with a scarlet hue, as if the sun's fiery kiss
had called them to life, adorned bushes and hedges, while, blushing
faintly, as if a child's lips had waked them from slumber, the blossoms
of the peach and almond glimmered on the branches of the trees.
Tiny young green leaves were growing from the oddly-interwoven branches
of the fig-trees, to which clung the swelling pouches of the fruit.
Golden lemons glittered amid their strong, brilliant foliage, which had
survived the winter season; and long rows of blackish-green cypresses
rose straight and tall, like the grave voices of the chorus amid the
joyous revel.
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