KINGS IN GARDENS 



orderly, and the storks walking about give a very 

 dignified air of calm. Then, all of a sudden, we 

 enter a maze contrived of nut trees, and, after a 

 turn or two in its bewildering paths, we feel a 

 subtle change in the air. The scent of orange 

 blossom is carried to us by a little secret wind, 

 and the sound of water playing, and somewhere 

 a bird is singing passionately, and we both stop, 

 for it is a nightingale, and you must stop when a 

 nightingale sings, for it is a song of love and 

 exquisite agony and the bitter-sweet of life, and 

 an aching of hearts and then a torrent of triumph, 

 and then the sinking, dying, heart-breaking notes 

 of love desolated. 



And then we turn a corner and we are in Italy. 



The great Italian garden is spread before us, 

 prodigal of colour, set with paths for emperors to 

 tread. It is on the magnificent scale of Italian 

 things, rich beyond words ; dazzling in pure 

 sunlight. 



Now choirs of birds sing, and somewhere a 

 hidden lute is playing. 



One is reminded of that garden in which stood 

 the palace of the President Maison, and of how 

 he pulled down a whole village to make room for 

 6 



