THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 



nificent mantle of ice is melted, fearful havoc may be 

 wrought in the garden and the forest As it is, many 

 a slender bough or delicate shrub is too heavy-laden 

 under its splendor, and may have to suffer for its hour 

 or two of more than kingly pomp. Winter's crown is 

 the most brilliant set upon the garden's brow, but there 

 is danger in its gem-weighted beauty. 



So you pass slowly along the radiant paths, releas- 

 ing the fettered plants from their load where this is 

 possible. The sharp crackle of the frozen snow under 

 your feet, and the tinkle of falling ice in every direction, 

 make a keen music that harmonizes perfectly with the 

 silver panoply. 



Toward sunset a deep rose kindles in the sky, flush- 

 ing the snow-fields. A flock of snow-birds passes 

 with a fluttering of wings, and the sparrows tweet- 

 tweet under the eaves of the veranda, seeking shelter 

 for the night. High up, a few loose golden clouds sail 

 lightly, presaging a wind. But a wind from the 

 south, and suddenly you realize that the temperature 

 has already changed, is softer, milder. 



An infinite number of shadows begin playing about 

 in the garden, purple, gray, and dusky. The fountain 

 all day has looked like a twisted little gnome changed 

 by some waving wand into a statuette of crystal. 

 Now it suddenly begins to murmur and complain, and 

 the edges begin to drip, making a tender crooning. 

 The snow is softer underfoot, and each moment some 



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