OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



which once met my eyes when I looked for the quiet, happy 

 prospect I had known. 



The town, when I last saw it, and its ancient church had 

 been rebuilt / but the Palace was a dismal ruin / and the park 

 seemed scald and deserted. Gone also, worst luck of all, 

 the Lanteme de Diogene~tht quaint tower at the river-side 

 opening of the main alley, built in the pleasure-loving days 

 of Louis'le'Bieri'Aime. <It was called a mirador : I believe 

 a structure of that kind is now known as "gazebo" 

 deplorable word!) From the top of it a magnificent 

 panorama of distant Paris could be descried. 

 The neighbourhood of la Lanteme was the great trysting 

 place of nurses and guardsmen, and the playing ground of 

 children. On that day of back-dreaming exploration, I had 

 been looking forward, with a kind of tenderness, to gazing 

 once more on its bizarre shape. There is a well-known 

 ron de f dating it would seem from the Middle Ages : 



" La Tour, prends garde 

 La Tour, prends garde 

 De te laisser abattre ! " 



which is sung by the Gallic infant, in a game somewhat 

 cognate to our: "Here we go round the Mulberry 

 Bush ! " It used to be danced under the shadow of this 

 tower/ and, in a child's way, I had always instinctively 

 associated the unnamed stronghold of the ballad with this 

 peaceful erection. 



Alas for the dear old Tour, it was destined to be laid low, 

 after all, in spite of our eager warning ! The terrace on 

 which it was built was seized as the emplacement of a 

 battery of heavy Krupps, for the bombardment of the 

 60 



