DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



humour it rocks and lifts the dancing boughs; its 

 hurried, pauseless song, as through the stunted furze 





BY WINDSWEPT THORNS 



and wiry grass it rushes madly o'er the hill-crest and 

 sweeps along the curving ridge by windswept thorns. 

 Down in the meadow grass it croons among the 

 waving bents and frets them into curling ripples of 



126 



