Ctyilti anti tyt 



Pausing, might ponder on the past, 



Vague twilight in their eyes, 

 Wane calmer, comelier, to the last, 



Then die, as Autumn dies. 



All gardens, I suppose, bear traces of child- 

 hood, either in the shape of the little retired plots 

 called " the children's gardens " or in other forms. 

 In my garden, the period of children's plots, alas ! 

 has passed; but I am still able to cherish marks 

 of reminiscence left by little visitors whose fairy 

 presence has from time to time vied with the flow- 

 ers in bringing home to one the beauties and joys 

 of nature. One delightful little being, herself one 

 of the fairest and gayest of flowers, has left be- 

 hind her numerous mementoes. One of these is 

 a rose-bush, "Black Prince," specially appropri- 

 ated, on her own initiative, by the little " White 

 Princess," to be cared for and tended in future on 

 her behalf. 



Another is a real memento mori, the grave of one 

 of her beloved white pigeons about the place, who 

 flew to her and settled about her as though they 

 also, like the flowers, recognized her as one of 

 themselves. The poor bird fell a prey to the 

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