202 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



northern shore, of the cots under the hill and peat smoke 

 dissolving in the blue of Irish skies at even. Who with 

 a drop of Celtic blood in his veins will forget its pungent 

 odors? Who that has once looked for fairies in the peat 

 fire will lose his gift of seeing far"? 



The fire has burned low the dead flowers have van- 

 ished ashes to ashes. It is night, and the lingering 

 cuckoo is calling from the distance. The doves have gone 

 to rest, the new moon hangs a silver horn beneath the 

 evening star, and Mercury holds his torch just above the 

 western hills. In another moment he will have wheeled 

 onward. 



Come within and close the door. The wind has risen, 

 and the same blast that beats at the unlatched gate is toss- 

 ing the ships far out at sea and beating incessantly on 

 the shores. Home-faring hearts treasuring happy memo- 

 ries are best. 



Light the lamp and look what the mail has brought in 

 a casket of palms and ferns. It is the promise of the 

 future. These dreams of daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and 

 lilies will not fade as illusions. Hidden deep in the 

 bulbs lie the pledges of another life. Hope wings its 

 way, and to-morrow we '11 do the planting. 



