OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



the exquisite voice of thrush or blackbird, singing as it 

 were under its breath the morning hymn which is one of 

 the most touching things in Nature. 

 Just now a small bird was spinning out a monody as 

 delicate and continuous and attenuated as a spider's 

 gossamersome feathered mother, we fancy, cradling her 

 eggs. We never heard any song quite like it before. 

 Adam shakes his head and says we are bringing the birds 

 about the house with our winter largesses/ but one might 

 as well be told that if you want to keep your house tidy 

 you should banish the children ! 

 Says Victor Hugo : 



" Preservez moi, Seigneur, preservez ceux que faime, 

 Freres, parents, amis, et mes ennemis memes, 

 Dans le mal triomphants, 

 De jamais voir, Seigneur, la ruche sans abeilles 

 La printemps sans oiseau, I'ete sansfleurs vermeittes . . 

 La maison sans enfants I " 



Substitute "jar din " for "priniemps" and you have our 

 views. We have no children in this house, worse luck . . . 

 except the fur ones. 



Caliban, the garden man, has again broken his " pledge/' a 

 little quicker than usual this time, and we fear we must be 

 firm and keep to our last ultimatumthat unless he takes it 

 afresh he will have to go. Caliban always reminds us of 

 a prehistoric man. Whenever one meets him he looks 

 exactly as if he had just reared himself upright from 

 running on all fours, and would drop down again tome- 

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