12 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



be thought of as have those pampered members 

 of the body the eyes and the nose. A per- 

 fectly trained ear knows by the sound of the 

 wind in the branches of the tree under which 

 it is passing what sort of tree it is. Harsh, 

 some of these sounds will be ; delicately vibrant 

 others ; mournful others, and cheery yet others. 

 There are oaks which are types of village 

 gossips, so full is their persistent foliage of 

 whisperings and insinuations. There are 

 beeches which rustle through the winter with 

 the silken frou-frou of great court ladies, and 

 there are dry, sarcastic, unfallen leafings which 

 hurt like the smile of a cynic. In some 

 strong-caned bushes one hears the voices of 

 the builders of great commonwealths, and in 

 the creakings of certain assertive growths the 

 materialism of this age has long been fore- 

 boded. The catalpas rattle their long cas- 

 tanets ; the locusts clash their pods in unison 

 with the beating of the invisible drums for 

 which the balls of the sycamores are for ever 

 ready. Through long grasses and sedges 

 poets and musicians sing to us, and in the 

 contented rustle of the corn the great dear, 

 commonplace, indispensable common people 



