The Happy Garden 



delight in their rich scent, and the roar that comes 

 from them as they swing in the wind. Great, tall 

 fellows they are, where they go striding up the hill 

 behind the house. But that is not yet. 



Have you forgotten London ? You left it be- 

 hind you at the top of the hill, as you gasped at 

 the sight of the purple hills flung like a mothering 

 arm about the valley. Then it was gone, and you 

 swung down a green tunnel, beech, and birch, and 

 oak interlacing above the road. Over the little 

 river you came into the pines ; then dogs bark at 

 you — a great Newfoundland, sober, solemn, and a 

 clownish sheepdog — glorious weather, of course, 

 and this is the house that I built. 



It had a sad little romance before I came to it : 

 the pitiful small tale of an old gentleman who loved 

 well and truly, and lost, and was so wounded that, 

 for modesty, he gave the trunks of all his trees 

 trousers of laurel. There were laurels everywhere, 

 and the little hedges there by the kitchen door and 

 the green kennel that makes the house semi- 

 detached — the sheepdog sleeps in it — (" Down, 

 Billy ! Where's that whip ? ")— are all that is left 

 of the mania of his blighted love. He also built 

 the red-gabled wing out to the back, and did it 

 surprisingly well. 



But, oh ! my dear, you should have seen 

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