m^ Mlnter Garben 



AN IDYL OF THE GULF COAST 



A BREEZY headland curving parallel 

 with the line of a fair horizon ; some 

 cat-boats and luggers leaning against the 

 sky ; a smell of acacia whisked along in 

 broken puffs ; a wandering sound of uncer- 

 tain quality passing between the white- 

 capped sea and the dusky pine woods 

 afar; roses tossed about on emerald 

 sprays; great sea-birds winging aloft — 

 and I in the midst of this my Winter 

 Garden, loafing under a yaupon-tree. 



Two days ago, at the hour of noon, a 

 snow-storm, an Eskimo wind, the earth 

 frozen to granite solidity, and icicles clink- 

 ing on the boughs of my Indiana apple- 

 orchard, when our southward flight was 



