** Who loves a garden, still his Eden keeps*" 



ALCOTT. 



JANUARY 



These January days give hope anew, 



Although the bitter frost and dark hour stays ; 

 Few flowers the meads' or garths' dead floors bestrew > 

 These January days. 



But in the fields which yet the cold wind greys, 



Will open soon a thousand eyes of blue, 

 Forget-me-nots, bluebells and speedwell-sprays. 



Hope's voice is heard in note of bird, though few 



Are woodland songs ; faith in fair days 

 With snowdrop comes, that lights with its pale hue 

 These January days. 



TT7E stand upon the threshold of the New Year, and every- 

 where around Nature seems to be at rest. In a warm 

 corner of the garden, undaunted, a clump of heartsease fills 

 itself with yellow and purple blossoms. Only once as yet 

 has winter arrayed itself in its fantastic white garments, 

 which was a short while since, when the hoar-frost came 

 suddenly (and as quickly vanished), brought by the north 

 wind. So unprepared for it was everything, that on its 

 arrival even the lusty laurels drooped. To-day a wild wind 

 blows, but not from the north, and the river, flowing not 

 far distant from the garden, is lashed into foam; broken 

 branches are scattered everywhere ; a trail of golden leaves 

 float down the wind-blown opal-tinted stream, and here and 

 there along its banks are collected masses of driftwood. In 

 the meadows fly innumerable crisp leaves, from a distance 

 having the appearance of flocks of tiny birds. And how 



