DECEMBER 275 



will gather us into her arms and croon a bed- 

 time song. Softly, gently, almost impercept- 

 ibly she has already gathered the greater 

 number of her children in, and has tucked 

 them away under the white blanket. She has 

 given each one a dream for company, and now 

 she is waiting to hear what I have done in my 

 garden days with my one poor little talent, 

 before I, too, get the kiss and the dream and 

 go to sleep. 



To begin with the Omissions. 



I have not said a word about a water 

 garden, and yet I have known all along that 

 nothing is more satisfactory than even a little 

 pool in which the birds may bathe and drink, 

 and wherein the blue sky, looking down 

 between the leaves, may peep at the reflection 

 there half hidden by the lilies. As perfume is 

 the soul of the flower, so water is the soul of 

 the landscape, and its presence in the garden 

 is an unalloyed delight. A cemented pool 

 need not overtax a very modest purse, and 

 there are so many lovely water lilies and lotus 

 and bamboos ready to grow in it, and so many 

 obliging minnows and goldfish ready to keep 

 it sweet, that it seems a pity that instead of 



