46 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



sound that seems almost an echo from skies 

 divided by their wedge-shaped flight. There 

 is nothing that is quite of the same value as 

 that high, lonely crying ; and poor indeed is 

 the garden above which it is not heard. I 

 remember a warm, misty night when the birds, 

 attracted by the lights of the city ; bewildered 

 by having lost their invisible clue ; circled, 

 crying, calling overhead for hours a most 

 mysterious night. 



There are so many winds abroad in March, 

 and so many cruel damps and chills, that I 

 shall shut in my garden to-night by a high 

 brick wall, and I shall content myself with 

 smaller quarters than I found necessary when 

 I needed wide spaces for my January ever- 

 greens, or when February called for long 

 stretches for my box walks. I think I can 

 get all I need within the compass of an 

 acre, but I must insist upon the brick walls 

 red-brick, mellowed to dullness by time, and 

 overgrown with the mosses that are so quick 

 to respond to the warmth of the returning 

 sun. I cannot but think that it was by ob- 

 servation of the quick colouring of these 

 charming plants, and the way they have of 



