THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



vanished, the glass domes over clocks, the worsted bell- 

 pulls, the druggets and the rep curtains all gone for 

 good. 



Outside, wonders have been worked in the garden. 

 New beds filled with the choicest Roses and Carna- 

 tions. Water is now properly conveyed by a sprinkler. 

 The old water-butt, slimy and falling to pieces, gone to 

 give place to a well filled concrete tank of water, kept 

 clean and sweet. 



One more ghostly sound left, a sound the lonely man 

 unconsciously listens for as he sits under the tree. On 

 one bough, low growing and strong, shows the marks 

 deep cut where once depended the ropes of a swing. 

 In his ears he can sometimes hear the shouts of children 

 and the creak of the swing ropes, sounds he used to 

 hear in his childhood. And mingled with the children's 

 laughter he can hear, very faintly, a boy's voice, his own. 



Such is the story of an hundred English Gardens, 

 where trees will tell secrets, and the lawn holds memories, 

 and the paths echo with footsteps out of the past. 

 # # # • • 



The influence literature has on the mind is nowhere 

 more traceable than in a garden. A dozen thoughts 

 spring to the mind gathered but of the store cupboards 

 of remembered reading at the sight of flowers, trees, 

 sunlit walks, dark alleys. Trees call up romantic meet- 

 ings, hollow trunks where lovers have posted their 

 letters, dark shades where vows have been made, smooth 

 trunks on which are carven twin hearts pierced by a 

 single arrow and crowned with initials cut into the bark. 

 Gloomy recesses under spreading boughs remind one of 

 the hiding places of conspirators, of fugitives. 



Sometimes, on a winter's night, to look into the garden 

 and see the trees toss and shake with an angry wind, or 

 Stand bare, bleak, and black against the sparkle of a 



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