OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



her guests. Be it as it may, we sat an hour while the 

 thunder rolled bars of sound over our heads and the wind 

 whistled and the rain hissed and roared down the valley, 

 and the lightning kept a perpetual play between the chinks 

 of the shutters. And though Loki's Grandma generally 

 gibbers during a thunderstorm, she never enjoyed an hour 

 more, so delightful was her hostess and so fascinating the 

 sense of isolation and strangeness, being thus shut away 

 amid the fury of the elements in a little Italian farmhouse ! 

 And when the tempest was grumbling itself off in the 

 distance, the shutters were all thrown back and the doors 

 on the square wooden balcony opened. The air rushed 

 in, vivifying, full of the scent of the earth and charged with 

 ozone and perfumes. We went out on the dripping 

 balcony, and never, oh! never can any of us forget the 

 vision ! For below the casa the land dropped away, and 

 it was all vineyards / and they rose and dipped and rose 

 again, a sight no one has ever beheld out of Italy. And 

 beyond were the mountains/ and the whole wide valley 

 was filled with mist and all of it was stained rose and 

 crimson from the sunset. 



You may not believe it, you who read it, but it is a fact 

 that the valley was carmine up to the balcony, indescrib- 

 ably shot with the fires of the Westa steaming cauldron 

 of glory ! That is the kind of vision one carries gratefully 

 to one's grave. 



For a long time we vowed that our old age would see us, 

 like the Scotch Dowager, steeping our being in the joys of 

 Spring in a farmhouse outside Florence. But now we 

 don't know. Viilino Loki has laid hold of us / it is our 

 real home, the rest are but dreams. 

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