NOVEMBER 269 



by beloved wraiths, and the shaded glades 

 held no memories, sweet or bitter. What if 

 our own gardens were effaced each year by 

 the snows, and bore each spring new flowers ? 

 What if there were no daffodils, no lilacs, 

 but only gorgeous scented strangers ? No one, 

 I take it, would then care to plant even a 

 White-paper Garden ! 



