174 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



spiral dance wise eyes can read a change of 

 weather. The last red leaf drifts helplessly 

 hedgeward and is lost in the briary tangle 

 already full of those lightly blown grasses 

 known to country folk as " Limber Well." 

 Everywhere there is snow. The lightest- 

 footed bird has left the imprint of his presence 

 upon it ; the slenderest bent-grass has cut its 

 shadow there with a line so fine and clear that 

 no modern painter could ever hope to repro- 

 duce it, and which leads us back to the days 

 when the missal painters sat humbly at the 

 feet of the Teacher of the grasses ! Under 

 drifts blue caves allure the fancy. Evergreens 

 are heavy with the same white burden of trans- 

 figuring purity that curves the furrows in the 

 field into a resemblance too poignant to be 

 ignored. 



" Once for each Son the kind Earth-Mother grieves : 

 For each, one soft sigh shudders through her breast 

 Once for each one : and every low sigh leaves 

 Another grave wherein is perfect rest." 



The year's work is over at last. There is 

 nothing to do, even in a White-paper Garden. 

 Through the long day we have toiled, and 

 now the night is coming, when Mother Nature 



