32 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



or water, its suggestion of bird or beast, its 

 healing graces. It is touched, thus, by man's 

 religion, by his superstition, by his loves, not 

 often by his hates. Poetry lurks in every 

 letter that helps to spell out the names of the 

 oldest favourites. A rose would most certainly 

 not be as sweet by another name, and if the 

 daffodil were robbed of one syllable of the 

 name that looks like its upspringing, slender 

 leaves, and sounds like the music of its pale 

 trumpets, it would not be the daffodil that I 

 love. 



So, because I have lists headed " Creepers, 

 trailers and climbers," " Biennials," and " Old 

 friends," and because at the head of each stands 

 this unlovely word which I have just crossed 

 out, and for which I have substituted " Alle- 

 ghany vine," and " Mountain fringe " I sat 

 with poised pencil, and wondered why this 

 particular little plant should have been registered 

 in so many places, and as I wondered I began 

 to dream dreams, and to see visions. 



Once upon a time, in the country that lies 

 Back of Beyond, there stood a farmhouse. 

 Pine-trees stood about it chanting perpetually 

 that battle hymn of the republic of trees in 



