THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



leaned my back against some venerable monument, and 

 there lunched. I take it that this is no disrespect to the 

 dead, that the living should join company with them 

 even to the extent of spreading crumbs of bread over 

 their resting places. I take it that the smoke of a pipe 

 is no sacriligeous sight in the neighbourhood of tombs ; 

 for it is but a friendly spirit prompts it, and no violation 

 of the repose of these dead people. No ; no more than 

 does the distant roar of the ship's guns at practice dis- 

 turb these quiet souls. 



In more than one churchyard there are the stocks 

 remaining where malefactors were placed, and so seated 

 were they that all the good folks passing in and out of 

 church were forced to pass, almost to touch the feet of 

 the wrongdoers as they trod the path to the porch. One 

 place I know in particular where the stocks remain, and a 

 goodly Yew tree having grown thick and strong behind 

 the seat forms a fine back to lean against. From here I 

 have surveyed the landscape over the tops of grey old 

 tombs, now all aslant over the heads of the sleepers. 

 Here the squire of 1640 rests facing the Cornfields once he 

 cut and sowed and stacked. There a lady, Christabel by 

 name, faces the flagged walk to the stone porch. There 

 is grass over them now, and the merriest Daisies grow, 

 and Moss covers the laughing cherubims, and Lichen has 

 crept into the words that set forth their marvellous 

 number of virtues. Spring comes here just as it comes 

 to other gardens, and the trees bud just as daintily, and 

 the young grass is every bit as green, and the first Crocus 

 lights his lamp, and the Dandelion flares as bravely with 

 his crown of gold. 



There are these quaint quiet churchyards over the 

 length and breadth of England, where the dead lie so 

 comfortably under the fresh English grass. Some 

 are full of flowers planted by loving hands ; Roses 



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