WASHINGTON'S GARDEN 



after the moon is up, the June night is sometimes 

 flooded with the tangled melody of a mocking-bird, 

 weaving its silver mesh of song after all the other 

 singers have hushed their last notes. 



Now the fireflies begin to gleam over the lawns and 

 among the shrubbery. The shadows increase, and are 

 full of the smell of honeysuckle. An exquisite blue haze 

 rises and wraps itself about the tops of the trees, inter- 

 posing an almost impalpable presence between the 

 garden and the rest of the world. The moon shines 

 white on the white house, sharply outlining the columns, 

 and the night wind tosses the shadows about oddly. 

 Murmuring with unseen life, moist and warm and fra- 

 grant, the garden waits. . . . 



Is it a shade among the shades? Or really a tall 

 figure in a cloak, with a three-cornered hat giving a 

 glimpse of nose and chin? It seems to bend over a 

 white mist-form as though in converse. Now both 

 move slowly toward the house. A deep quiet broods 

 throughout the garden, a welcoming silence. Surely 

 the two figures are those of a man and a woman ; see, 

 he lifts his hat and raises his face toward the light with 

 a movement full of dignity and peace . . . or is it but 

 the shimmering of a white lilac stirring to the breeze ? 

 Fancy, deceiving elf, has lost her power, or you your 

 true seeing. At all events, the trees are swaying again, 

 the insects busy with flute and viol, and the heavy lilies 

 nod their heads indifferently. 



55 



