A GARDEN DIARY 125 



MARCH 7, 1900 



A SENTIMENTALIST sleeps in nearly 

 /* everyone, whether he is aware of the fact 

 or not ; just as we are all potential poets or 

 lovers, though some of us undoubtedly under 

 rather a deep disguise. My particular vein of 

 sentiment has lately taken the form of linking 

 together sundry small spots here with others 

 far away, upon the other side of St. George's 

 boisterous channel. Thus I have a Burren 

 corner, a West Galway corner, a Kerry corner, 

 a Kildare corner, even a green memento or two 

 of the great lost forest of Ossory, of which only 

 a few shadowy remnants survive to a remote, but 

 happily not an indifferent generation. 



That pleasure is to be found in such childish- 

 ness might at first sight seem incredible. Since 

 it is so, there is no use, however, in refusing to 

 recognise it oneself. Take the Burren, for 

 instance. Burren the wild, the remote, the 

 austere, the solitary ; to the few who know it 

 a region absolutely unique, with its cyclopean 



