MIDWINTER GARDENS 



In the midst of all, where a broad path eddied 

 quite round an irregular open space, and that 

 tender quaintness of decay appeared which is 

 the unfailing New Orleans touch, the space was 

 filled with roses. This spot was lovely enough 

 by day and not less so for being a haunt 

 of toddling babes and their nurses; but at 

 night — ! Regularly at evening there comes 

 into the New Orleans air, from Heaven knows 

 whither, not a mist, not a fog nor a dampness, 

 but a soft, transparent, poetical dimness that 

 in no wise shortens the range of vision — a 

 counterpart of that condition which so many 

 thousands of favored travellers in other longi- 

 tudes know as the "Atlantic haze." One night 

 — oh, oftener than that, but let us say one for 

 the value of understatement — returning to our 

 quarters some time before midnight, we stepped 

 out upon the balcony to gaze across into that 

 garden. The sky was clear, the neighborhood 

 silent. A wind stirred, but the shrubberies 

 stood motionless. The moon, nearly full, swung 

 directly before us, pouring its gracious light 

 through the tenuous cross-hatchings of the 



