70 A GARDEN DIARY 



because such a very mild and colourless version 

 of those old cherished dreams has befallen mine 

 ancient enemy ! 



CHRISTMAS-DAY, 6 P.M. 



I FORGOT to record quite an unlooked-for 

 little pleasure which befell me on my way 

 home this afternoon ; one of those little incidents 

 which are nothing in themselves, yet which mean 

 much to us, and never more so than when life is 

 going ill. 



I had got as far as the grassy entrance to our 

 X, copse when a sudden dazzling gleam of sunlight 

 shot across it, sweeping over the fields beyond, 

 and away up to the top of the downs. Though 

 the day had been fairly fine for the time of 

 year, the expectation of so dramatic a finale to 

 it had never for a moment crossed my mind, 

 and I stood gazing about me almost as if some- 

 thing had happened ; feeling in fact as if some- 

 thing desirable and unlocked for had happened. 



The yellow oak scrub withered but not leaf- 

 less glowed with a sudden russet splendour. 

 Upon the little garden wall the terra-cotta pots 

 shone with a momentary reminiscence of that 

 Italy where they were born and baked. The 

 air seemed to tingle ; the tall birches glistened, 

 one sheen of feathery silver up to their tiniest 



