252 GARDENING OVER A WINTER FIRE. 



long as their names, and thus find out for cer- 

 tain which were really the best. 



At last we sweep books and seductive cata- 

 logues aside, .lift our feet on the fender, and lean 

 back in our easy-chair. Falling into a dreamy 

 state, we conjure up some sort of an ideal Eden 

 in which fancy is head gardener, and wishes 

 wait to do its bidding. Having reached the 

 strawberry-bed in our imaginary scene, we rest 

 satisfied, and drop off into a doze to awake an 

 hour later, chilled and shivering. The winter 

 fire has gone out, and we find a feather, rather 

 than a strawberry-bed, is the proper thing. 



" The time of the singing of birds is come." 



A brass band banging away after bedtime, 

 or in ancient times the voice of a Troubadour 

 twanging a guitar under a window at sc me un- 

 seasonable hour often mistaken on first awak- 

 ening no doubt for a cat these are perhaps the 



