PREFACE xiii 



the unutterable sweetness of that sylvan note, the old 

 long-remembered lines recur and keep time with the 

 wood-pigeon s music. 



' I heard a stock-dove sing or say 

 His homely tale this very day ; 

 His voice was buried among trees 

 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 

 He did not cease, but cooed, and cooed ; 

 A nd somewhat pensively he wooed. 

 He sang of love with quiet blending, 

 Slow to begin and never ending, 

 Of serious faith and inward glee, 

 That was the song the song for me.' * 



Heavily has the great frost told on evergreens in the 

 garden. The yew hedges which are our pride, look 

 thin and seared. There is scarce a berleris left alivt, 

 and we shall sorely miss those exquisite carpets of 

 yellow and orange which summer by summer did use to 

 spread beneath the shrubs when their little gold bells drop; 

 and there will be no berries ripening in purple bloom. 

 And lavender, on which we set such store, has also 

 suffered, so that the harvest of its fragrant yield will 

 be less rich this year than ever we remember. 

 * Wordsworth. 



