64 A GARDEN DIARY 



CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1899 



THERE was a slight sprinkling of snow this 

 morning, yet the garden looks exceedingly 

 black. Save for a scarce discernible white line 

 here and there, everything in it seems stiff, and 

 hard, and black as iron ; crumpled iron leaves 

 against an iron floor. Black is the livery, not 

 alone of sorrow, but of dismay, so that the garden 

 does very well just now to wear it. There are 

 moments in the individual life, moments, so it 

 appears, even in an entire nation's life, when the 

 ordinary scheme of things seems to dissolve and 

 change ; when all the familiar landmarks for the 

 time being melt away, and disappear under our 

 eyes. 



Standing here, staring blankly out of the window, 

 I feel myself for the moment a sort of embodi- 

 ment of all the other, vacant-eyed starers out of 

 windows, up and down over the face of the country 

 this Christmas morning. How many of them there 

 must be ! How many must be staring down at 

 the dull ground, and telling themselves they will 



