206 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



and its angular green stems give it an all- 

 the - year round usefulness shared by few 

 bushes. Once I saw it at its best, trained 

 up the sides of a long arbour whose top was 

 a heavy thatch of wisteria. The sunlight 

 played through the purple blossoms where 

 the bees were humming. The Kerrias, like 

 hidden princesses in old fairy tales, tossed 

 their deep orange-coloured balls into the air, 

 which was filled with the clamour of nesting 

 martins. The tiny mistress of the garden 

 stepped daintily along under the gold and 

 purple canopy, nodding her grey curls appre- 

 ciatively at our praise. "A pretty place," she 

 said. "A very pretty place." 



Now come the iris in all their lovely tones 

 of yellow and of brown. So many of them ! 

 So free with their gifts ! I shall always care 

 more for these imprisoned butterflies since I 

 have read in " Mes Origines," of Mistral's pas- 

 sion for a colony which grew in a ditch in the 

 Provence of his childhood. Twice, within one 

 fateful half-hour, he fell into its muddy depths 

 in vain endeavour to reach the blossoms. 

 Twice he received whippings and change of 

 clothes, but his "hands still itched so to clutch 



