THE CHARM OP GARDENS 



they have at their doors sights the country can never 

 equal. The sun in late autumn setting behind the trees 

 of Hyde Park and glowing over the murky smoke-laden 

 skies is a sight for the gods. Smoke has its disadvan- 

 tages, but it certainly gives one aesthetic joys unknown 

 in clear skies, for instance alone the reflection of the 

 lights of Piccadilly on the evening sky. 



After all, the time to see the wonder of town gardens 

 is at night. The streets are empty of people. Here and 

 there a few night workers walk the lonely streets, a 

 policeman tramps his beat, the huge carts bringing the 

 provisions for the city lumber along with sleepy carters 

 swaddled in sacks perched high among the heaps of 

 baskets. Here and there men with long hoses are wash- 

 ing down the roads. The Parks and Gardens lie bathed 

 in peace, mysterious shadows make velvet caves sheltered 

 by leaves. Those trees standing close to the road are lit 

 by the electric lamps and fringe the street with vivid 

 green. Only the flowers seem really awake, alive, in a 

 tremendous dream city. Along the lines of houses, 

 blinds down, shutters closed, a window box here and 

 there breaks the monotony and seems to be the only real 

 thing there. If it is Spring, then from Hyde Park 

 Corner to the Kensington High Street, all along the side 

 of the Park, behind the railings are regiments of Crocus 

 flowers, spikes of Narcissus, and of Daffodil. Their 

 sweetness fills the air, their very presence fills the town 

 with gentleness, and purifies and softens its grimness. 

 Far above, in some citadel of flats, a solitary light burns, 

 some one is at work, or ill, or watching. Above all hang 

 the blazing stars. 



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