In a captivating small town in colonial America, where the morning bells sang the vegetable peddlers to work, the rowdy boys to boys’ school, and the haughty girls to girls' school, there lived a young woman of twenty-five years named Lydia, Lydia Felicia Wadsworth, who possessed the most peculiar habit of falling in love with things that no one else deemed worthy of a second glance. One week it would be light green hair ribbons, the next week shimmering parasols, and the third week white aprons. On one occasion, it had even happened that Lydia had gone quite mad for panties, which had led her to spend her entire fortune on purchasing panties, of which she had built herself a bed, and some she had placed in a large cauldron and boiled into a soup. This panties-soup had tasted so fine that Lydia began to eat it every day, for breakfast, lunch, supper, and evening meal.
Alas, all the things that Lydia became obsessed with never lasted for long. It was her way to be obsessed with something for exactly two weeks, and then she would focus on something entirely new. She always carried a bundle of papers and a quill pen with her, where she would write down everything she had been obsessed with, and when two weeks had passed, not a day longer, she would write down something new on which she would bestow all her precious focus. Once she had become obsessed with white horses, which had led her to break into the home of the rich fishmonger and steal all ten of his brown horses, which rightly belonged to his daughters. When two weeks had passed, she crossed out the white horses in her book and set them free again, without a thought for them belonging to the fisherman's children.
The young lads all around Lydia considered her "a madwoman in a lady's gown," one small, mischievous boy had given her the nickname “Lydia The Mad," and some had even spoken amongst themselves that she ought to be locked away in a cell at the local “funny farm” and the key that’d looked her in her cell would be thrown away. Lydia cared not for what others said about her; she cared not even for her own family, who had spoiled her since she was a little child. All she cared for was her Obsessions.
One day, at the time when the American Revolutionary War was at its fiercest, Lydia's mother said:
"Lydia, it's high time you went to visit one of your lady friends or did something sensible instead of just squandering all your time on useless and vulgar things like devouring women's undergarments from night till day!"
So Lydia climbed upon her lazy horse "Muskethunder" and thereupon rode away along the gravel road that led to her friend's mansion. Muskethunder, whose years as a swift and nimble steed were long past, plodded along at the same pace as the snails beside him. It did no good for Lydia to whip him with the horsewhip, push him from behind, or even kick and try to carry him. It took Lydia all day to arrive at her friend's home.
She kicked Muskethunder to make him go faster, whereupon the very lazy but also hot-tempered horse gave her a hard kick in the stomach so she flew far away and landed with her rump first in a very large mud puddle. Now it looked as though Lydia had soiled herself, that is, had pooped her pants, and that was most unbecoming for a fine young lady, thought Lydia.
Lydia's friend, who was named Caroline, lived in a most remarkable mansion, for its garden resembled an enchanted fairytale land and not a usual garden at all. Caroline herself was a very comely young lady of but nineteen years, who had also been spoiled by her father and mother since she was a little girl. She always wore large hats that were always adorned with yellow roses tied with a yellow silk ribbon around the hats. But unlike Lydia, she was more interested in different kinds of flowers than she was interested in anything and everything.
When Lydia arrived at Caroline's, Caroline took her hand firmly and then began to pull her toward the backside of the majestic mansion.
"Why the great hurry, you're skitterin' toward me as if your mama was dyin' or the garden was a-blazin', can't you collect yourself and tell me what's goin' on?!" Lydia cried out anxiously. She had to hold her dress in an iron grip so it would not fly off with the speed.
"My apologies, but there ain't no time to collect myself right now, a wonder has happened in my garden!" Caroline cried out overjoyed.
The girls spun around the corner, and when they had reached Caroline's beautiful garden hedge, Lydia was met with a sight that made her jaw nearly drop in astonishment.
Lydia stopped and blinked several times, as if her eyes could not quite believe what they saw. Before her stood one of the hedge figures, but it was no ordinary figure, it was a completely astounding version of one of the country's founders, namely Alexander Hamilton, as if the garden itself had taken a history book and transformed him into a living, greenery-clad perfection.
Hedge-Hamilton stood straight and stately, his shoulders pulled back with military pride. His face, sculpted with a precision that made every leaf and branch fall into the exact right place, had strong, determined features: high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to glitter with both intelligence and indomitable energy. His hair, meticulously carved in a small wave that resembled his snowy-white wig, caught the sun's rays and gave him an almost living glow.
Lydia could not help but take a couple of steps forward, enchanted by the sight. Never had she seen anything so stately, so dapper, and yet so strangely real; it was as if Hamilton himself had strolled in and become a green and living being in the middle of Caroline's garden.
"Ain't he somethin' dapper? Seein' as I ain't got no gardener, I paid all my brisk serving girls a fortune to clip him," said Caroline and smiled proudly.
Lydia stood there, completely spellbound, and felt her heart beat faster than Muskethunder's sluggish steps. The verdant Hamilton was suddenly no longer just a hedge figure—he was a living, stately figure, a perfect blend of discipline and charm, and Lydia knew at once that this would be her next great obsession.
The very next morning, before the sun had even risen, Lydia stole out of the house, taking with her a basket filled with small gifts. She sat down in front of Hedge-Hamilton, carefully laid out fresh flowers around his feet, and spoke aloud, as if she knew he could hear her:
"Oh, dapperest of all founders, may these here flowers bring you joy this day!"
The days passed, and Lydia found new ways to worship her green love. She gave him food—first simple berries, then small pieces of bread that she had carefully crumbled over the ground around his feet, always with reverence. She dressed him in small pieces of cloth, carefully placed like mini-uniform details, and every day she found something new that could beautify him.
One day she stole the flag that hung and swayed in the middle of the town square and then she laid it right next to the Hamilton-Hedge Figure.
"God bless America and God bless you, my heart's greatest love," said Lydia and kissed the figure.
Even her most private obsessions became an offering to Hamilton. One morning, with a pounding heart, Lydia pulled up her dress; she took off her lacy white panties and laid them carefully at his foot, with an explanation:
"For you, my dapper Hamilton, my most precious treasures shall be yours."
She knew it was mad, and perhaps that was precisely why she felt more alive than ever. Every day she spent hours in front of him, talking with him, laughing with him, and sometimes she even complained about her latest obsessions that now felt trivial by comparison.
Lydia had lost all attention to the world around her. No one could understand why she was so engrossed in a hedge, but Lydia cared not. Hedge-Hamilton was her dream that never seemed to let go, her verdant love that she tenderly cared for with flowers, food, clothes, and even her most private treasures.
Caroline, who was the rightful owner of the leafy statue, turned green with envy because her former best friend no longer dedicated a minute to her but only to that stupid Hamilton statue.
One sunny forenoon, when the dew still glittered like small diamonds on the leaves, Lydia stood as usual in front of Hedge-Hamilton, leaning over his stately branch-shoulders and arranging the newly purchased flowers in a carefully composed bouquet. She had laid her most precious lacy undergarments at his feet and whispered little secrets as if he truly could hear her.
But suddenly something happened that made Lydia stop with a loud "OH!" on her dark green lips.
Hedge-Hamilton moved, a little as if a faint breeze swept through him, yet with determination. Branches scraped against one another like a loud little-squeaking fanfare. And then, with a voice as surprising and solemn as a military trumpet in a rosebush, he spoke:
"Lydia... my dear, your fervor is unmatched, but I am... not in love with you."
Lydia stumbled backward, her eyes wide as teacups.
"What do you mean? But you... I have given you everythin'! Flowers! Little scraps of cloth! My... my precious pantiess, my precious panties that I ain't never changed and have had on since I was three years old!"
Hamilton's hedge face moved almost humanly, the branches splayed in a gesture of resignation:
"It's all for naught. I am a hedge. A beautiful, green, historical hedge! And historical hedges... they don't love back."
Lydia felt her heart about to fall to the ground along with her precious embroidered undergarments. But before she could fully break down, Hedge-Hamilton continued with a new, unexpectedly serious tone:
"The abominable, red-coated heathens of Englishmen aim to attack this here town, the town's peace is in great peril! The British are comin', d'you hear what I say, THE BRITISH ARE COMIN'!!!"
Lydia blinked, trying to process this absurd message, while the sun made his green uniform glimmer almost poetically. It was like a satire of all stories about forbidden love; she, obsessed with a statue-hedge, was now to become a patriot. She could not help but laugh in the midst of her despair:
"So... I've been in love with the wrong figure, and now I'm s'posed to hide from the British... with only flowers and my women underwears for ammunition?"
"That's right, that's precisely what you're to do," answered Hedge-Hamilton, the branches almost lifting in a theatrical gesture of exhortation. "But do it with pride, Lydia. And be sure you warn Caroline 'bout the attack, soon blood will dye this town red!"
As Lydia stood there, in the midst of this surprisingly patriotic duty, she suddenly heard a rustling movement through the crowns of the trees. Hedge-Hamilton had moved again, but this time in a way that made Lydia's heart jump. The branches quivered slightly, and his green hand, perfectly sculpted and yet somehow warm, slowly stretched out toward her.
With a gesture that was both solemn and almost comically elegant, he bent down and carefully took Lydia's hand in his. His leafy lips met her hand with a kiss that was both solemn and soft, a gesture of respect, admiration, and silent farewell. Lydia felt a strange warmth spread through her, a combination of sorrow and beauty, as she realized that this was the end of her obsession, at least in the way she had wished.
Before she could say anything more, a deep, whooshing sound was heard behind her. There, in the midst of the treetops, an enormous hedge-horse had materialized—a creature as green and perfect as Hamilton himself, with branches forming a stately mane and leaves that glistened in the sun like armor. Hedge-Hamilton jumped up onto the flying horse-being with a lightness that was both impressive and absurd.
"Farewell, Lydia! Fight for the city!" he cried with his voice that was both crisp as autumn leaves and warm as spring sun. The hedge-horse sprung its leafy legs and with a magical whoosh, they lifted into the air, hovered over the treetops, and vanished toward the horizon. Lydia's eyes followed them for a long time, her heart filled with both pride and a strange, bittersweet sorrow.
She stood still in Caroline's garden, surrounded by flowers, small scraps of cloth, and traces of her obsession, and felt how the world suddenly felt bigger, more absurd, and at the same time more beautiful than ever. She had lost her green love, but she had gained something else: a sense of adventure, courage, and the almost absurd poetry of the fairy tale.
The sun sank slowly behind the treetops, and Lydia knew that even though her true love had departed and would never return, the memory of Hedge-Hamilton and his flying horse would always live on as a green and magical legend in the midst of her proud American heart29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbnqJZOeHTC
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