NOVEMBER 269 



The first fall of snow came to-day with its silent message, 

 so beneficial to the garden, covering with its pure pall the 

 unsightly limp and blackened leaves of the dahlias and nas- 

 turtiums. The snow is the manna of the plants and bulbs 

 now hiding beneath the ground, to glorify the garden at 

 Springtime. 



In the warmth and glow of my room I sit, the firelight 

 mirroring itself upon the old-world furniture. A fragrance 

 as of spice and cedar is around me. Ah, I remember ; a little 

 while ago I lifted the lid of a jar of pot-pourri. 



" An old blue jar beneath the old bureau, 



Traced with a dragon, quaint in its design, 



Wreathed willow leaves and needles of the pine, 

 Owned once by one in Cathay, long ago. 

 Whence came the perfume, ling'ring in the room, 



Of roses, lavender ? The spicy breath 



From lifted lid tells of a faith in death, 

 Love's constancy fills all the twilight gloom ! 



Sweet old pot-pourri, tales of days gone by 



New tales in old, crisp leaves ; though roses die 

 By thousands, though a hundred summers pass, 

 Though sands run whole shores through Time's measuring glass, 



There will not be a tale so sweet, so pure, 



As this jar's fragrant spiced leaves immure ! " 



And as I sit in the rose-leaf fragrance there come to me 

 pictures of gardens where maybe some of the leaves were 

 gathered. Sweet dream-gardens ! One of which I dream is a 

 garden of the long ago, whose date I know not, but it is very, 

 very old ; the sunlight and shadows are playing among the 

 dipt yews, the wind sings softly among its alleys, heavily 

 ladened with the scent of lilies and lavender. Walking 

 along its paths, I see a maiden in the golden sunlight of life's 



