jftogaicg 



against them many times a day. One little nest 

 was so low in the short brushwood on the stem 

 of an old yew that even Timmy, the rough-haired 

 terrier, sometimes peeped in to see if the baby 

 robins were agreeing in their little nest. For 

 birds in their little nests do not always agree 

 proverbs notwithstanding. 



No one can be really said to love his gar- 

 den who does not love it in winter. A fine- 

 weather love is like a fine-weather friend, the 

 prostitution of a sacred name: the friend is no 

 friend and the love is no love at all. 



Winter in a garden is the season of promise, 

 of hope, and of anxious expectation, and who 

 can say that the objects of our hopes and anxi- 

 eties are not as interesting and engaging to our 

 faculties as their fulfilment; that is to say, when 

 they cease any longer to be hopes and anxieties. 

 Realization of hopes may give, and sometimes 

 does give, serener pleasure, but it seldom pre- 

 occupies the intellect so completely or so long 

 as the hopes themselves. And then there are 

 the failures, or realizations of the anxieties, to 

 take into the account. 



6 



