Our Old-Garden Birds. 141 



stroyed, and were clouds to obscure the sky, the time 

 of year and the time of day could still be closely 

 reckoned, except in winter, by the coming and going 

 of the flowers. 



Leaving the garden at last, I was soon on the 

 well-kept lawn of a pretentious house. Not a weed 

 had escaped the scythe, and the grass seemed like 

 a green carpet that hid the earth. Here, everything 

 gave evidence of man's presence, and there was too 

 little of unrestrained nature to be pleasing to one 

 who loves fields and hedge-rows. I could not with- 

 hold my admiration of many a strange exotic bloom, 

 but I was not at ease ; ever before me was a more 

 beautiful picture of the simpler charms of the quaint 

 old village garden wherein I had lovingly lingered 

 but an hour before. 



I had occasion to visit this same garden again in 

 January. Aunt Peggy was sitting close to the little 

 stove and complained of rheumatism. She had 

 escaped until over eighty, but did not take that into 

 consideration. I asked about the garden, and she 

 looked at me in blank surprise, as though she thought 

 that gardens, like summer birds, went away during 

 the winter. ''There's nothin' to see out o' doors 

 this time o' year," was her reply. 



Nothing to see ! If there ever was a fallacious 

 statement this is one, and yet how very common ! 

 Nothing to see ! Did you ever look at the seed- 

 pods of skull-cap covered with feathery frost, or the 

 skeletons — do not shudder — of plants sparkling with 

 dew ? Even the bleached bones of the nosegay you 



