136 FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



sense of smell. A breath of perfume stealing through the 

 air, or entering into an open window, and one is reminded 

 of some far-off place or some long past day when the same 

 perfume floated along, and for a single moment the past will 

 seem more real than the present." Another graceful garden 

 book says of the present time : " From a bed of emerald 

 leaves, slowly unfolding, perfume-clad, a queen comes forth 

 the first June rose. The brown moth flitting at eve, the 

 butterfly glittering by through the day, bear the news through 

 the garden, field, and lane. With bird-notes mingle the 

 flower-voices, in the language of the quaint days when flowers 

 served as speech between shy lovers, and each maiden, work- 

 ing in her garden, lived and dreamed of it. The flowering 

 almond spoke of hope, the bluebell nodded constancy. . . . 

 But roses, whether they are red or white, pink-hearted or 

 yellow, all sing of love, the changeful melody of many 

 keys." 



