IT is a perfect spring morning in ' my garden ' and 

 the possibility of attempting to describe the scene 

 before my eyes seems hopeless. Ah ! could I but 

 hold the artist's brush and steal one look from Nature's 

 face, and with genius interpret her mood, when thus 

 she smiles and speaks, even then it would be but a 

 soul-less copy dead an incomplete expression,. 



For what words can portray it ? words the least 

 impressive of things, hard and cold in black and white, 

 with no life, whose familiar shapes and harsh sounds 

 may suffice for the market, for the latest price of 

 stocks and shares or squabbles of politicians ; good, 

 indeed, for concealing the true and real meanings of 

 the heart, blinding the eyes and hiding the depths of 

 life, but, for ' my garden,' this day of spring, they are 

 futile, limited, lifeless. 



For the call of the forest compels me and I see its 



QUEEN BEECH Queen arrayed in matchless beauty. If the giant 



rugged oak is the King-, the beech must be crowned 

 Queen ; she reigns here supreme, showing her 



80 



