DECEMBER 217 



A white Christmas is beautiful, but I 

 think I like almost better the soft warm 

 grey which the wild birds love. There is 

 a feeling that underneath the dim grass 

 comes then a stirring of life : that the 

 snowdrops and crocuses are feeling up- 

 wards and are ready to break through to 

 the light. 



Poor birds ! Poor little flowers ! It is 

 all a dream, and the worst of winter is to 

 come : soon or late it has to be, and 

 January will have no pity. 



What would life be without Hope? 

 How should we endure the melancholy of 

 the Iris ground at this moment, covered as 

 it is with apparently decaying roots and 

 broken rubbish of wet, dead leaves, did not 

 the mind's eye see it in its glow of summer 

 bloom, as we hope to see it a few months 

 hence ! Beside the narrow aqueduct that 

 runs down to us from the village ponds a 

 mile distant (and which is always dry 

 except in winter when it is not wanted) a 

 plantation of Japanese iris Kcempferi has 

 been made : that is, they were meant to 

 be the Japanese, but when they arrived 



