II 



THE BOOK OF THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



April 30. Gray dawn, into which father and Evan 

 vanished with their fishing rods ; then sunrise, curtained 

 by a slant of rain, during which the birds sang on with 

 undamped ardour, a catbird making his de"but for the 

 season as soloist. 



It must not be thought that I was up and out at dawn. 

 At twenty I did so frequently, at thirty sometimes, 

 now at thirty-five I can do it perfectly well, if necessary, 

 otherwise, save at the change of seasons, to keep in 

 touch with earth and sky, I raise myself comfortably, 

 elbow on pillow, and through the window scan garden, 

 wild walk, and the old orchard at leisure, and then let 

 my arm slip and the impression deepen through the 

 magic of one more chance for dreams. 



9 o'clock. The warm throb of spring in the earth, 

 rising in a potent mist, sap pervaded and tangible, 

 having a clinging, unctuous softness like the touch of 

 unfolding beech leaves, lured me out to finish the trans- 

 planting of the pansies among the hardy roses, while the 

 first brown thrasher, high in the bare top of an ash, 

 7 



