OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



St. John's Wort along the moorland roads. It has been a 

 day of golden heat, the distant woods have shimmering 

 purple vapours in their hollows, and the hills are misty 

 blue. There had been a fire last year in a great flat 

 stretch of pinewood that runs into heather and moor, high 

 above where the road begins to fall into the first of the 

 little country towns between us and London. The wood 

 had been cleared of the dead trees and we suppose it is 

 this which has given encouragement to the great yellow 

 weed. However it may be, it is a field of cloth of gold 

 now. Pines rise up at intervals in their dark solemnity. 

 Royal purple of the heather runs into the gold. It is a 

 meeting of colour that ought to be immortalized. 



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