112 AN ISLAND GARDEN 



come ; he alights on my arms and hands and hair 

 unafraid ; he rifles the flowers I hold, when I am 

 gathering them, and I sometimes think he is the 

 very most charming thing in the garden. The 

 jealous bees and the butterflies follow the flow- 

 ers I carry also, sometimes all the way into the 

 house. The other day, as I sat in the piazza. 

 which the vines shade with their broad green 

 leaves and sweet white flowers climbing up to the 

 eaves and over the roof, I saw the humming-birds 

 hovering over the whole expanse of green, to and 

 fro, and discovered that they were picking off and 

 devouring the large transparent aphides scattered, 

 I am happy to say but sparingly, over its surface, 

 every little gnat and midge they snapped up with 

 avidity. I had fancied they lived on honey, but 

 they appeared to like the insects quite as well. 



In the sweet silence before sunrise, standing in 

 the garden I watch the large round shield of the 

 full moon slowly fading in the west from copper 

 to brass and then to whitest silver, throwing across 

 a sea of glass its long, still reflection, while the 

 deep, pure sky takes on a rosy warmth of color 

 from the approaching sun. Soon an insufferable 

 glory burns on the edge of the eastern horizon ; 

 up rolls the great round red orb and sets the dew 

 twinkling and sparkling in a thousand rainbows, 

 sending its first rejoicing rays over the wide face 

 of the world. When in these fresh mornings I 

 go into my garden before any one is awake, I go 

 for the time being into perfect happiness. In this 

 hour divinely fresh and still, the fair face of every 

 flower salutes me with a silent joy that fills me 



