24 THE PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Lightly, lightly speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering 

 to the gentle breeze. I inquire my route as I go. I grudge the 

 slowness of the dawning day. From afar I descry my old home, 

 and joyfully press onwards in my haste. The servants rush forth 

 to meet me : my children cluster at the gate. The place is a 

 wilderness ; but there is the old pine-tree and my chrysanthemums. 

 Wine is brought in full bottles, and I pour out in brimming cups. 

 I gaze out at my favourite branches. I loll against the window in 

 my new-found freedom. I look at the sweet children on my knee. 



And now I take my pleasure in my garden. I lean on my staft 

 as I wander about, or sit down to rest. I raise my head and 

 contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise, unwilling from the 

 bottom of the hills : the weary bird seeks its nest again. Shadows 

 vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home once 

 more ! I'll have no friendships to distract me hence. The times 

 are out of joint for me ; and what have I to seek from men ? In 

 the pure enjoyment of the family circle I will pass my days, 

 cheering my idle hours with lute and book. My husbandmen 

 will tell me when spring-time is nigh, and when there will be work 

 in the furrowed fields. Thither I shall repair by cart or by boat, 

 through the deep gorge, over the dizzy cliff, trees bursting merrily 

 into leaf, the streamlet swelling from its tiny source. Glad is this 

 renewal of life in due season : but, for me, I rejoice that my 

 journey is over. Ah, how short a time it is that we are here ! 

 Why then not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to trouble whether 

 we remain or go ? What boots it to wear out the soul with 

 anxious thoughts ? I want not wealth : I want not power : heaven 

 is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright 

 hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers ; or I will 

 mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse beside the 

 limpid brook. 



Thus will I work out my allotted span, content with appoint- 

 ments of fate, my spirit free from care. — Herbert A. Giles, ''Gems 

 of Chinese Literature.'' 



—WW' — 



