THE END OF THE YEAR 



bushes, their deep rich green crowned with pink- 

 fleshed blooms of exquisite colour, while sentinelled 

 around upon great stones, in frequent spots as if 

 petrified, stand quaint yet graceful herons, the lovely 

 greys of their plumage completing one of wild Nature's 

 perfect colour schemes. 



Again, a terraced old world rose garden seems to 

 sleep in the long June-day sun. I see and smell the 

 fragrant blooms, I hear the happy twitter of the 

 swallows, which like blue steel shuttles weave a great 

 aerial web in their flight down to where the river 



glides. 



I look down upon a flower-border into the familiar 

 eyes of great pansies, with their cat-like faces, blend- 

 ing the richest hues in their soft velvet folds. 



Before me lies an Irish bog, rough heather-grown, 

 its naked patches of peat tan and sepia-toned, its 

 face pitted where the pot-holes lurk, their margins 

 fringed deep red with tiny sundews ; and just beyond 

 a breeze-tossed snow-flaked breadth of cotton grass ; 



193 



