CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



still to keep the hills in sunlight long after the sun 

 himself had sunk the broom in which we first found 

 the lintwhite's nest and of its petals, more precious 

 than pearls, saw framed a wreath for the dark hair of 

 that dark-eyed girl, an orphan, and melancholy even 

 in her merriment dark-haired and dark-eyed indeed, 

 but whose forehead, whose bosom, were yet whiter 

 than the driven snow. Greenhouses conservatories 

 orangeries are exquisitely balmy still and, in pres- 

 ence of these strange plants, one could believe that 

 he had been transported to some rich foreign clime. 

 But now we carry the burden of our years along with 

 us and that consciousness bedims the blossoms, and 

 makes mournful the balm, as from flowers in some 

 fair burial-place, breathing of the tomb. But oh! 

 that Craig-Hall hawthorn! and oh! that Craig-Hall 

 broom! they send their sweet rich scent so far into 

 the hushed air of memory, that all the weary worn- 

 out weaknesses of age drop from us like a garment, 

 and even now the flight of that swallow seems more 

 aerial more alive with bliss his clay-built nest the 

 ancient long-ago blue of the sky returns to heaven 

 not for many a many a long year have we seen so 

 fair so frail so transparent and angel-mantle-look- 

 ing a cloud! The very viol speaks the very dance re- 

 sponds in Craig-Hall: this this is the very Festival 

 of the First Day of the Rooks Mary Mather, the 

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