IN AN OLD GARDEN 259 



we have symbols to express as perfectly our 

 summer-f eeling^ — our dream ? 



That small song has served to remind me of 

 ty/o small books I brought Into the garden to 

 read — the works of two modern minor poets 

 whose "wren-like warblings," I imagined, would 

 suit my mood and the genial morning better than 

 the stirring or subtle thoughts of greater singers. 

 Possibly in that I was mistaken; for there until 

 now lie the books neglected on a lawn chair 

 within reach of my hand. The chair was dragged 

 hither half-an-hour ago by a maiden all in white, 

 who appeared half inclined to share the mulberry 

 shade with me. She did not continue long In that 

 mind. In a lively manner, she began speaking of 

 some trivial thing; but after a very few moments 

 all interest in the subject evaporated, and she sat 

 humming some idle air, tapping the turf with her 

 fantastic shoe. Presently she picked up one of 

 my books, opened it at random and read a line 

 or two, her vermilion under-lip curling slightly; 

 then threw it down again, and glanced at me out 

 of the corners of her eyes; then hummed again, 

 and finally became silent, and sat bending forward 

 a little, her dark lustrous eyes gazing with 



