GARDEN PROMISES 



rouses into Spring, some vague conjecture of the mighty 

 magic of the growing world, where no particle of energy is 

 ever wasted. 



Life in the Winter takes on this aspect of waiting 

 wonderment. While the rivers are in flood, and the 

 fields are ruled with silver lines where the ditches are 

 full, and the Sun uses them for a mirror ; while the 

 gulls are driven inland and follow the plough, and the 

 starlings congregate in the open fields, we prepare 

 our pageant of flowers against those days when the 

 slumber of the earth is over, and the now purple hedge- 

 rows are alive with tender green. St. Francis of Assisi 

 impressed the very sentiment on his friars, in bidding 

 them make scented gardens of flower-bearing herbs to 

 remind them of Him who is called " The Lily of the 

 Valley," and " The Flower of the World." 



So goes my workshop through the winter days, while 

 a few pale ghosts of late Roses linger on the trees, sigh- 

 ing doubtless to themselves, like old gentlemen " Ah, 

 I remember this place before Autumn pulled down all 

 the green leaves, and long before all that ground was 

 laid out for seed plots." And all the while my Roses 

 are growing and, could one see into the colour chambers 

 of the trees, into those wonderful studios hidden in the 

 tiny cells, one would see these artists at work rivalling 

 the blush of morning, the flames of fire, the white soul 

 of innocence, the crimson of king's robes, and the 

 orange flush of sunset. There are men, I suppose, 

 who know to a certain extent how the secretion of 

 these wonderful colours is arranged ; why this or that 

 colour runs to flush a petal to the edge, or stays to 

 dye only the flower's heart. But it will ever be a 

 marvel to me to see how these veins flow crimson, 

 those hold orange, and those again hold a rich yellow. 

 The work that creates the colour of a Pansy, that gives 



217 2E 



