DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



cate shades of orange-flame and sunset tints, fills the 

 still air with its perfume, while the tree pseonies 

 seem too lazy in the sultry heat to open their great 

 flowers; here is an immense pure white one whose 

 crumpled petals limply flop over and hide the large 

 crimson knob of its pistil, encircled by a gold dust- 

 laden fringe of anthers. One is reminded of the 

 Eastern maiden the flash of whose dusky eyes has 

 kindled our imagination as to what features may be 

 hidden beneath her white veil 



Yonder are splashes of lovely ruby-crimson, maroon 

 and blackish bronze, uncommon shades they are the 

 last of the Darwin tulips and as we wander on we 

 are suddenly aware of the stillness ; the birds are 

 silent, no breath of wind to sigh or rustle and, lifting 

 our eyes from earth's floor to heaven's dome, we see 

 the blue-grey leaden-hued shapeless banks of clouds, 

 gathering in haste, massing for the approaching 

 storm ; we dread it for the flowers' sake ; for itself, 

 its superb and mighty grandeur, our words are idle. 

 On it comes, the moments now punctuated with dis- 

 tant murmurs that grow to rumblings. But still we 

 linger among the flowers, for now is the moment of 



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