MEMORY ECHOES 



is a once familiar and loved scene, for ever past, but 

 for ever indelibly photographed on the plates of the 

 memory, retained, pigeon-holed as it were, in that 

 marvellous store-cupboard, suddenly rising and filling 

 our mental vision, in response to an outside call, un- 

 aided by any conscious effort of ours ; the whole 



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scene re-enacted, in which we take no actual part, 

 yet in which we are the stage, actors, audience and 

 theme. How little we know ourselves, how like a 

 switch-board we are, subject to a thousand outside 

 currents and influences, almost a plaything in the 

 hands of operators by whom we are controlled ! 



So it is when the hot sun shines on those quiet BOX 



and secluded old-world spots, where narrow paths 

 are fringed by neat box hedges, and those miniature 

 ribbons of green fill the air with a peculiar faint 

 odour. In an instant I am back across the years 

 and, conjured into vivid view, an old garden is seen. 

 Voices, loved voices, now long silent, speak ; faces, 

 well-remembered, smile. The snow-white lace and 

 cap upon soft and neat hair, the silken gown, the 

 droning hum of bees, the unnamed rose of ruby red 

 which clambered over porch and arch, the beckoning 



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