AN ISLAND GARDEN 109 



After the storm, in the clear, beautiful morning, 

 before sunrise I went as usual into the garden to 

 gather my flowers. To and fro, up and down 

 over the ruined bank I passed ; the wind blew 

 cool and keen from the west, though the sky was 

 smiling. The storm had beaten the flowers flat 

 all over the slope ; in scarlet and white and blue 

 and pink and purple and orange bloom they were 

 prostrate everywhere, leaves, stalks, blossoms, and 

 all tangled and matted in an inextricable con- 

 fusion. Swiftly I made my way through it, find- 

 ing a foothold here and there, and stooping for 

 every freshly unfolded cup or star or bell whose 

 bud the tempest had spared. As I neared the lit- 

 tle western gate with my hands full of blossoms to 

 enter the garden on my way to the house, I was 

 stopped still as a statue before a most pathetic 

 sight. There, straight across the way, a tall 

 Poppy plant lay prone upon the ground, and 

 clinging to the stem of one of its green seed-pods 

 sat my precious pet humming-bird, the dearest of 

 the flock that haunt the garden, the tamest of 

 them all. His eyes were tightly closed, his tiny 

 claws clasped the stem automatically, he had no 

 feeling, he was rigid with cold. The chill dew 

 loaded the gray-green Poppy leaves, the keen 

 wind blew sharply over him, he is dead, I 

 thought with a pang, as I shifted my flowers in a 

 glowing heap to my left arm, and clasped the 

 frozen little body in the palm of my right hand. 

 It was difficult to disengage his slender wiry claws 

 from their close grip on the chilly stalk, but he 

 never moved or showed a sign of life as I took 



