;8 AN ISLAND GARDEN 



fleecy vapors steal across the sky, the southwest 

 wind blows lightly, rippling the water into little 

 waves that murmur melodiously as they kiss the 

 shore. In this warm gray, brooding light I am 

 reminded of Tennyson's subtle description of 

 such a daybreak : 



" When the first low matin chirp hath grown 

 Full quire, and morning driven her plough of pearl 

 Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 

 Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea." 



Through the early hours of the day the mottled, 

 pearly clouds keep their shape, with delicious 

 open spaces of tempered blue between ; by and 

 by the sky's tender fleece is half shadowed, to- 

 ward noon it melts into loose mists. Color every- 

 where tells against these pellucid grays, the 

 gold of Lemon Lilies, the flame of Iceland Poppies, 

 all the sweet tints of every blossom. Presently 

 the happy rain begins to fall, so soft, so warm, so 

 peaceful, the very sound of it is a pleasure ; every 

 leaf in the patient garden, which has waited for 

 the shower so long, spreads itself wide to catch 

 each crystal drop and treasure its deep refreshment. 

 All day it rains ; at night the melody lulls us to 

 sleep as it patters on the roof. In the night the 

 wind changes, and next day brings a northeast 

 storm again with a wild wind, but from this the 

 little flower plot is well protected, and I rejoice in 

 the thorough watering deep down among their 

 roots which is doing all the plants unmeasured 

 good. Two, perhaps three days, it lasts, the gale 

 blowing till there is such contention of winds and 

 waves about the little isle as to make a ceaseless 



