CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



still to keep the hills in sunlight long after the sun 

 himself had sunk — the broom in which we first found 

 the lintwhite''s nest — and of its petals, more precious 

 than pearls, saw framed a wreath for the dark hair of 

 that dark-eyed girl, an orphan, and melancholy even 

 in her merriment — dark-haired and dark-eyed indeed, 

 but whose forehead, whose bosom, were yet whiter 

 than the driven snow. Greenhouses — conservatories — 

 orangeries — are exquisitely balmy still — and, in pres- 

 ence of these strange plants, one could believe that 

 he had been transported to some rich foreign clime. 

 But now we carry the burden of our years along with 

 us — and that consciousness bedims the blossoms, and 

 makes mournful the balm, as from flowers in some 

 fair burial-place, breathing of the tomb. But oh! 

 that Craig-Hall hawthorn! and oh! that Craig-Hall 

 broom! they send their sweet rich scent so far into 

 the hushed air of memory, that all the weary worn- 

 out weaknesses of age drop from us like a garment, 

 and even now — the flight of that swallow seems more 

 aerial — more alive with bliss his clay-built nest — the 

 ancient long-ago blue of the sky returns to heaven 

 — not for many a many a long year have we seen so 

 fair — so frail — so transparent and angel-mantle-look- 

 ing a cloud! The very viol speaks — the very dance re- 

 sponds in Craig-Hall: this — this is the very Festival 

 of the First Day of the Rooks — Mary Mather, the 

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