' The gardener is the trustee of a world of fair living things/* 



WILLIAM ROBINSON. 



JANUARY 



" Where are the swallows fled ? 



Frozen and dead 

 Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore ? 



Oh, doubting heart ! 

 Far over purple seas 

 They wait in sunny ease, 

 The balmy southern breeze 

 To bring them to their northern homes once more. 



The sun has hid his rays 



These many days ; 

 Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 



Oh, doubting heart ! 

 The stormy clouds on high 

 Veil the same sunny sky 

 That soon, (for spring is nigh,) 

 Shall wake the summer into golden mirth." 



ADELAIDE PROCTER. 



/ Hp v HE course of the grey January river which winds near 

 ^ to the garden is through many meadows, past many 

 copses, now leafless and almost berryless. Beneath the clear 

 sky of April-blue how joyously this same river was flowing, 

 singing upon its way, its voice blending harmoniously with 

 the song of birds and bees that sang amid the breaking leaves 

 and opening flowers ; how refreshing to the eye it silently 

 glided in the hot July noons by meads where drowsily grazed 

 the cattle, its languid breast, lily jewelled, shimmering in 

 the light, fanned by whispering boughs overhead. It was in- 

 deed a fair scene then, as it wended its way like a golden 

 thread through green fields between the numberless elegant 



