2 4 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



In a few days I begin to watch for the post- 

 man, and never watch I in vain. The kind 

 growers make all haste to disseminate pleasures, 

 and in a trice my desk is covered with the most 

 fascinating of all forms of literature. Then I 

 shut the door, and invite my soul to a lordly 

 feast. It is nothing to me that the skies are 

 heavy and grey. I do not care if the fog 

 steals up from the river and, with white, bale- 

 ful fingers, presses against the pane. I take 

 no thought of Candlemas shadows which 

 others fear. I am at the gates of a paradise 

 from which no angel, flaming sworded, bars, but 

 which all may enter if they will but have a key. 

 Tables and chairs are soon over-littered with 

 the charming sheets which come from every- 

 where, and by every post. Of late there has 

 crept into these a habit of illustrating their 

 text by photographic reproductions of actual 

 flowers, a practice I cannot too rigidly contemn. 

 If the florist must go into court, and hold up 

 his right hand, and solemnly swear that thus 

 and not otherwise grew his campanulas and 

 his foxgloves, where are we to look for the old 

 delight that lay in the woodcuts of asters that 

 were as big as chrysanthemums, and chrysan- 



