OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 

 young Bracken begins to creep in green patches that are 

 pure joy. Later on the Bell-heather breaks into a deep 

 rose which, with the sun on it, holds such a glory of colour 

 that you could scarce find its match in an old Cathedral 

 window. And when this splendour begins to turn to 

 russet, then comes the tender silvery amethyst of the Ling, 

 and spreads a mantle all over those great shoulders of 

 wild land that is of the exact hue most beautiful to con- 

 trast with the full summer woods and the blue of an August 

 sky/ a combination so matchless for colour-loving eyes 

 that it seems as if one's soul were not big enongh to hold 

 the complete impression. And when our Delphiniums rear 

 themselves against this background, we feel, looking on it 

 all, as if we could sing for the mere rapture of it / or 

 having no voice roll in the grass like Loki or like Bunny. 



For a long time we Loki's Grandfather and Grandmother 

 had said to each other that we must have a week-end 

 cottage. We were so tired of hiring other people's houses, 

 summer after summer, and of the labour <not unattended 

 by some pleasurable excitement on Loki's Grandmother's 

 part) of pulling their furniture about, and hiding away all 

 the family portraits and the choicest works of art, to make 

 the alien spaces tolerable to one's own individuality. So 

 tired, too, of the boredom and worry of having to restore 

 everything to its pristine ugliness and hang up the enlarged 

 photographs and the dreadful oil paintings on the walls 

 once more a tedious task, albeit enlivened on one occasion 

 by the thrilling discovery that, having consigned these 

 treasures to an oak chest in the hall, most of them had 

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