xii BIRD NOTES 



"poem" under the fir-trees, or behind the root 

 house in the shrubbery such was my horror and 

 fear lest they should be seen. But I may as well 



" let fall 

 The curtain of Oblivion o'er them all," 



as I said in some of those juvenile verses, which 

 I unfortunately buried where I could never find 

 them again, though they were enclosed for safety 

 in a tin pea-shooter ! 



' The dear old shrubbery ! As I look back, that 

 old shrubbery seems to me to be the very kernel 

 of my much-loved home. At one time I almost 

 lived in it, never walking beyond it, except, on 

 Sundays, to church. Its shades and silences, its 

 gleams and voices now the murmur of the wind 

 in the tall Scotch firs, now the song of the many 

 birds all unconscious of my still presence these 

 nourished the poetry of my life and taught me to 

 love solitude and meditation. I sat there - knelt 

 there again lately, under the old laurel, on the 

 sloping green-sward, when on a visit to the old 

 home which is no more mine. " Not mine now ! " 

 it was a sad thought. But as i sat and watched 

 the gleams of sunshine on the now green and 



