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102 IN AN OLD DESERTED GARDEN— 
the past have a peculiar interest. It is she 
years and years of nature’s quiet work that 
produce such a scene. The old trees— 
beautiful in their symmetry alone—rendered 
still more so by their hoary mantles of moss 
or bright evergreen ivy, the crumbling red 
brick walls built by our forbears (the red of 
quite a different shade to that of modern 
bricks), hidden here and there by wall cress, 
ferns, creepers and the like, the mossy winding 
paths, leading through plots of grass, soft, 
green, and restful to the eyes these nave 
not been created m a simgle day. Hens 
surely, was a place for birds’ nests. Sitting 
there quietly in the shade on a seat this day 
in May, with a warm sun shining overhead, 
and throwing the shadow on the old sun dial 
to the hour of twelve, whilst the delicious 
pungent odour of the currant in bloom was 
wafted to us now and then, it was not many 
minutes before the feathered occupants, 
frightened at first by our approach, gathered 
again. A chorus of chirps and songs now 
rang out. Two Blackbirds vied with each 
