THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



dreams over an old brown volume of " Grimm's Fairy 

 Tales." 



How wonderful the lane smelt after the rain ! The 

 Honeysuckle filled the air and mingled with the smell 

 of warm wet earth. It was a deep lane, with the high 

 hedges grown so rank and wild that they nearly crossed 

 overhead, and the curved arms of the Dog Roses criss- 

 crossed against the patch of turquoise sky. The thin 

 new thread of a single wire crossed high overhead, 

 shining like gold in the sun. It went, I knew, to the 

 Coast Guard Station below me, and I remember clearly 

 how I used to wonder what flashed across the wire to 

 those fortunate men : news of thrilling wrecks, of 

 smugglers creeping round the point, of battle-ships 

 put out to sea, and other tales the sailors told me. 



The lane was deep and twisted, and so narrow that 

 when a flock of sheep was driven down it, the dogs 

 ran across the backs of the sheep to head off stragglers. 

 What a cloud of white dust they made, and how thick 

 it lay on the leaves and flowers until the rain washed 

 them clean again. 



On the day of which I was dreaming, there had been 

 one of those sharp angry storms, very short and fierce, 

 with growling thunder in the distance, and purple and 

 deep grey clouds flying along with torn, rust -coloured 

 edges. I had sheltered under a quick-set hedge (set, 

 that is, while the thorn was alive — quick, and bent 

 into a kind of wattle pattern by men with sheepskin 

 gloves) and where I sat, under a wayfaring tree (the 

 Guelder Rose), the lane had a double turn, fore and 

 aft, so that a space of it was quite shut off, like an 

 island. I had my garden here and knew all the flowers 

 and the butterflies. 



On this day the rain washed the Foxgloves and 

 made them gay and bright, each bell with a sparkling 



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