THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 



sees to it that certain bushes with crimson or golden 

 twigs, and others with ivory or scarlet berries, shall 

 burn in a chill fervor the winter through. A holly 

 hedge is finest in cold weather, its glossy leaves and 

 glowing berries all the richer for the half-shrouding 

 snow ; while arbor vitae spreads its frondy branches 

 with all of summer's energy, still yielding a pungent 

 perfume as you crush the stiff leaflets between your 

 fingers. 



The little box borders along the paths are curiously 

 packed with snow, the cheery little branches sticking 

 up indomitably. And what a quaint primness dis- 

 tinguishes those tender shrubs and small trees which 

 the gardener, with careful forethought, has protected 

 from the frost in thick swathings of brown and yellow 

 straw. 



In the days of storm there is a wild singing in the 

 trees. And a white night of moonshine and snow is 

 worth a long journey to see. What immaculate purity, 

 what faint grays and sharp blacks, and what an invio- 

 lable silence ! Nature at rest, not tired, not discour- 

 aged, full of subtle life, at peace under the blanket of 

 snow. 



Now and then, befalling like a spell, a sudden 

 wizardry, winter achieves its greatest miracle of 

 beauty. Various circumstances must combine in order 

 to insure its perfection. Occasionally not at all, but 

 usually once or twice in a season, this miracle is 



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