XV111 



A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



tion, a garden for his thoughts. There were 

 the wet slates shining in the grey weather ; 

 there were the lights at night ; there were the 

 smoke-forests ; there were the mosses, parched 

 by sun, freshened by rain; there were the fogs; 

 there were the skies, the stars and the dawn. 



He had no more ; had not I as much ? 



The "captive of an idea" I arose, my eyes 

 wide with a great resolve. 



I too would have a garden. My body might 

 be imprisoned but my soul should be free. For 

 what was my fancy given if it be not to over- 

 ride circumstance? Why should my memory 

 so linger over every leaf and flower, every 

 light and shade, every sound and movement 

 of the beautiful world that once was mine, if 

 out of its hoard I might not fashion a garden in 

 which my thoughts might dwell ? Why were 

 my brain-cells stored with the words which 

 those who have gone before me have said 

 about the green world which they loved, if I 

 may not set them forth where I can touch them 



