DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



light strikes its broken surface, or stealing off almost 

 sulkily into a shaded backwater as if ashamed of 

 its gloomy colour and loss of life. I see the green, 

 wet, mossy boulders (patched with ochre and grey 

 lichens, crowned with tufts of waving, bending grasses 

 and the spray of frail blue harebell) resting, all un- 

 conscious of the day when a mighty rushing flood 

 shall dislodge them and hurl them on in its sweeping 

 torrent. I remember what she said, and the look in 

 her eyes, as she paused by the leaning oak, whose 

 network of flood-washed naked roots still grip the 

 streamside bank in defiance of the undermining 

 waters. Ah ! how the sun shone then ! and we were 

 thankful, then for happiness, now for sweet memories 

 and unbroken faith. 



Scent is not alone in its power of thus recalling 

 the days that are for ever gone, somewhere there is 

 a subtle connection between fragrance and music. 

 A few bars of some melody we hear the old familiar 

 notes and the vision is summoned, the secret door of 

 a dim recess in the brain has been opened, and we 

 see it all again ; the current of thought is switched 

 far, far away, and there, mirrored in accurate detail, 



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