GARDEN PATHS 



as beautiful as many jewels if they are self -discovered 

 and lit by the light of joy ? That corner of the garden, 

 hidden by shrubs, by low-growing nut trees and shaded 

 by ancient Elms, has been for me the Forest of Arden, 

 of Sherwood, the deeps of the Jungle, an ambush, a 

 hiding-place, a tree covered island, each in its turn 

 absolutely satisfying to my mind. The sun's rays 

 shooting down through the branches have found me 

 seated, dirty, dishevelled, but incomparably happy, a 

 King with an ash heap for a throne. 



To an ash heap, then, I repaired on the following 

 day, there to gather loads of cinders and slack for my 

 garden path. Already in my mind the Roses bloomed 

 by the path side ; the tiles, evenly set, were leaned 

 against by blue-eyed Violas ; Carnations waved gorgeous 

 heads at my feet. 



My friend the robin was there betimes and took upon 

 himself to sing a little song to cheer me. After that, 

 with his bright eyes glinting, he hopped upon the bed 

 and inspected my labours. 



The gardener coming upon me glanced at the row 

 of neatly placed tiles. 



" I'm glad I thought o' they," he said. 



" Hit him," the robin chirruped. 



" You think they look well ? " said I. 



" As soon as I thought of they tiles," he answered, 

 " I knew I'd a thought of a grand thing." 



So he took all the idea to himself, and went on solemnly 

 pounding down the cinders with a heavy stone fastened 

 onto a stick. 



And now the path is finished, and curves smooth and 

 sleek between the Rose trees, and answers firmly to 

 the tread. All day long I have been planting cuttings 

 of Violas alongside the path ; and behind them are 

 rows of Carnations. 



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