A GARDEN DIARY 75 
them is absolutely invisible, but then so he pro- 
bably would be in any case. Evening has more- 
over in my experience an odd power of loosening 
the tie of the actual. The mind seems to be 
less fixed to its shell than in the earlier, and 
more garish hours of the day. As the shadows 
lengthen stronger and stronger becomes the im- 
pression that the world is after all but a small 
place, and that the scenes that one is thinking 
of are nearly, if not quite, as close as those 
that one is actually looking at. Thought flits 
over the wave-crests between this and South 
Africa more lightly than one of Mother Carey’s 
chickens, and alights dry-shod upon the veldt. 
One is amongst them. One is standing in the 
midst of them. One can see, literally all but see, 
that tattered, sunburnt, rather dilapidated-looking 
host—friends, cousins, kinsfolk ; countrymen and 
fellow-subjects at all events. How odd you all 
look, dear friends, and yet how familiar! Big 
English frames, shrewd Scotch faces, tender, 
devil-may-care Irish hearts. Surely one knows 
you? Surely you are very near to us, disguise 
yourselves as you may? The setting may be 
new, the remoteness considerable, but neither 
setting nor remoteness can hinder one from feel- 
ing at home in the midst of you! 
