

My garden of pleasure lies withered and bare*** 



MACKENZIE BELL. 



JANUARY 



Oh, the grey light of the year, 

 When the Springtime draweth near, 

 Wakes the world to sunny gleams 

 From the grey of Winter dreams. 



Oh, the shadow of the Spring, 

 April's light and leaf doth bring, 

 That is worn by hedges, bowers, 

 When the world's a smile of flowers. 



AS I put my pen to paper regarding the garden, and to 

 ^ chronicle its thoughts, it is the time, midway between 

 Autumn's profusion and Winter's desolation, that very time 

 of which the poet sings 



" Between the dead leaf and the new flower." 



And yet the garden is full of the hope of the coming of Spring. 

 To-day it is one of lustrous clearness, which truly betokens 

 Winter's flight. Standing naked as yet, the poplars tremble 

 and sway in the sun-satiate air for very joy ; their long taper- 

 ing twigs seem to run to meet the blue sky above them till lost 

 in its glistening depths. Day by day the land around seems 

 to grow more vigorous ; no more it lies in weary stupor, for 

 well it knows the time is near when the first 



" Shy buds venture out." 



The honeysuckle is fledged all over with little wing-like 

 leaves, and the leaves of the lesser celandine grow more 

 noticeable, pushing their way from under the mossy floor of 



