Life and Sport on the 

 Pacific Slope 



I 



THE LAND OF TO-MORKOW 



NOT long ago I saw the sun rise in a Surrey 

 garden. Standing at an open window I 

 looked down upon dew-laden, silvery lawns that 

 sloped to a lovely mere. In the mid-distance the 

 mist lay like a velvety blur upon the woods skirting 

 the northern bank of the Thames. It veiled, too, 

 the great cedars and elms in the garden, robbing 

 them of colour and substance, so that they seemed, 

 as it were, grey ghosts, — spectral sentinels of an 

 Eden whence the glory had departed. The mist 

 began to melt beneath the kiss of an August sun, 

 and I lingered at my window, waiting expectantly 

 for what would be revealed, as if I were a stranger 

 to the garden and its beauties. Very soon the trees 

 and shrubs and flowers were clearly defined, fresh 

 and glowing. Against the yew hedge that encom- 

 passed this pleasaunce was an herbaceous border. 

 Here, great salmon-pink hollyhocks towered above 

 the graceful larkspurs — dark and pale blue. Below 

 these again were those sweet vagabonds the corn- 

 flowers, the stocks, the verbenas, and snapdragons. 



