DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



the emerald greens of water grasses lace the level 

 stretch to where the brooms blaze and giant gorse 

 gold-spatters the Ben, blue-hazed. I hear the curlews 

 whistle, I smell the burning turves. 



Anon, a silent world, snow-thatched, the burden 

 of deep whiteness almost too much for bending bough 

 and prostrate growth ; there is the hush of smothered 

 life in the profound stillness. 



I see too the familiar figure of a true friend, as 

 he stoops to gather carefully what some would call a 

 weed from the hedge-row, or, kneeling, tenderly plucks 

 the tiny spray from the flowerland he loves and in 

 which, to him, there hardly ever is a stranger. Great 

 sorrows have but made his life one of unbroken 

 praise and worship, its quiet beauty and reverence 

 an inspiration and an influence to those who are 

 privileged to know him. 



And so, without any conscious mental effort, a 

 hundred scenes, at home, afar, visualise ; each por- 

 trayed on the magic canvas hung in the hidden 



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