THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



ful, when it is clipped and trimmed, to look upon." Of 

 the pleasure and comfort of such hedges, of the health 

 to be gained by regarding them, many people have 

 spoken. There is, surely, something in the tough 

 green life of the Yew, something in its staunchness that 

 conveys a feeling of strength to the mind. I feel this 

 in different degree with every kind of tree, partly no 

 doubt from moments of particular association, from 

 memories that become attached to scenes as they will 

 (curious how scents, arrangements of colour, outlines 

 against a sky, will call up things and thoughts which 

 for the moment have no connection with them. I never 

 see Oranges but I think of a dark passage lined with 

 books, and a cupboard built round with books in shelves. 

 In the cupboard are dishes of fruit, and shapes, all tied 

 up in linen, of fruit cheeses, as damson cheese, and crab- 

 apple cheese, and a cheese made of Quinces and Medlars). 

 I remember a graveyard in a little Swiss village 

 where every grave had a tiny weeping willow bending 

 over it. It had, for us, infinitely more pathos than the 

 sombreness of many English graveyards. There was a 

 rushing torrent below, for the church and its grave- 

 yard was on a height over a river, and the voice of the 

 river sang in the quiet graveyard, like a strong spirit 

 singing in the pride of vigour to those asleep. The 

 little willows bent and shivered in the breeze, looking 

 small and pathetic against the strong small church. 

 Outside the church, all along one wall was a seat very 

 smooth and worn, it faced the graves and the tiny 

 trees, and behind it, on the wall of the church, was a 

 great Wisteria with clusters of pale purple flowers. 

 There were no other trees there, or to be seen from the 

 seat, but these little bending weeping trees. And close 

 by, a hundred yards from the church gate, was the 

 undertaker's shop, part farm, part garden, part stocked 



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