Over the Hills and Far Away 



summer — in vain. They pass too, and the great 

 trees, secure in the entail of the estate on which 

 they have been wise enough to grow, hardly notice 

 all the wonders at their feet, for, by the time they 

 have accomplished their year's task, it is spring 

 again. Time is not the same for trees and snow- 

 drops. 



Here, if anywhere, there should be nightingales, 

 but though the most exquisite nights are arranged 

 for them and the largest of moons are ordered, 

 they are not to be tempted — or I have not been 

 fortunate enough to hear them. One cannot have 

 everything and a nightingale is quite an easy thing 

 to create in imagination. 



Incidentally, I may add that these giant trees pro- 

 vide the finest leaf-mould for the garden, and every 

 year we build a stack of it behind the glass-houses. 

 Now the word is " Home." Only half the 

 treasures have been seen, but enough to give the 

 flavour of the country-side, which is the setting of 

 my garden. On the other side the pines stretch 

 for a couple of miles over the hills and far away. 

 A Black Forest, relieved only by green rides and 

 glades and heather glens, where, in winter, the sun 

 is trapped so that we can lie and bask on one slope 

 while in the shade opposite the rime is still steam- 

 ing from the heather. 



"5 



