XIII. 



A DESPERATE 

 STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 



ALAS, alas ! most of the pretty white fox- 

 gloves we planted out by the boggy hollow 

 just below the tennis-lawn have come to 

 nothing. The heather and bracken of the 

 moor have outgrown them and throttled 

 them. They made a hard fight for life, 

 in their petty Thermopylae one or two of 

 them, indeed, are still battling with inex- 

 haustible courage against the countless hordes 

 of sturdy natives that choke and overshadow 

 them ; but die they must in the end, unless 

 I step in betimes as earthly providence to 

 thin out the furze and enrich the niggard 

 soil for the struggling strangers. They 

 97 H 



