Friendly Spying 



I remember one time in particular when I in- 

 dulged in friendly spying, while supposedly I 

 was quite safe in bed. I had arrived at dusk and 

 from the windows I could see no garden, only a 

 stretch of lawn closely cropped in contrast to 

 the marshlands which lay just beyond it, and 

 twisted pines, massed dark against the evening 

 sky. But in the room about me there were 

 flowers which could be the product of no green- 

 house; tea-roses, heliotrope, nicotiana with its 

 sweet-scented stars, little vincas, dead white 

 against their glossy leaves. 



I resolved that night to find them growing and 

 before they were displayed, so at an early hour 

 I rose and unobserved, slipped out upon the lawn. 

 The mist had risen from the sea, but shreds of 

 cloud still lingered in the marshlands, and the 

 pine trees were cutting through their silver 

 shroud. At first, however, I could not find the 

 garden, not a sign of blossoms; only shrubs, 

 their leaves sparkling with a myriad little jets of 

 flame. Then suddenly a heavy fragrance came 

 upon me — clethra, its feathery spikes stiU wet 

 with dew — and I made my way to what had 

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