74 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



smouldering pile, are priest and priestess, 

 all unknowing. Blue-birds are singing their 

 pretty, plaintive notes as the blue reek curls 

 upward, and robins are busy in the freshly 

 upturned soil from which the rubbish has been 

 taken. There are a few clouds over the sun, 

 but there is no wind, and the air is warm. The 

 day for the spring bonfire is always carefully 

 chosen lest the flames spread. Everything is 

 still and sweet, with the wandering voices of 

 the blue-birds to listen to, and a handful of 

 ladies' delights to look at. It is only in old 

 village gardens that these brave and cheerful 

 little pansykins grow, but there they are always 

 abroad to overlook the April bonfire. Modern 

 plantings know them not, and modern seeds- 

 men have never heard of them. They are 

 called viola tricolour in the botanies, and adv. 

 frm. Eu. is placed after so meagre a description 

 of them that no one could guess them to be the 

 dear, familiar friend to whom our honest fore- 

 fathers gave so many names. Garden gate, 

 birds' eye, three-faces-under-a-hood, Kit- 

 runabout, come-and-cuddle-me, come-and-kiss- 

 me, kiss-me-ere-I-rise, pink of my Joan, Johnny- 

 jump-up, and that astonishing combination of 



