70 A GARDEN DIARY 
because such a very mild and colourless version 
of those old cherished dreams has befallen mine 
ancient enemy ! 
e e e e cd 
CHRISTMAS-DAY, 6 P.M. 
I FORGOT to record quite an unlooked-for 
little pleasure which befell me on my way 
home this afternoon; one of those little incidents 
which are nothing in themselves, yet which mean 
much to us, and never more so than when life is 
going ill. 
I had got as far as the grassy entrance to our 
copse when a sudden dazzling gleam of sunlight 
shot across it, sweeping over the fields beyond, 
and away up to the top of the downs. Though 
the day had been fairly fine for the time of 
year, the expectation of so dramatic a finale to 
it had never for a moment crossed my mind, 
and I stood gazing about me almost as if some- 
thing had happened ; feeling in fact as if some- 
thing desirable and unlooked for ad happened. 
The yellow oak scrub—withered but not leaf- 
less—glowed with a sudden russet splendour. 
Upon the little garden wall the terra-cotta pots 
shone with a momentary reminiscence of that 
Italy where they were born and baked. The 
air seemed to tingle; the tall birches glistened, 
one sheen of feathery silver up to their tiniest 
