80 A GARDEN DIARY 
same time perfectly definite feelings of associa- 
tion, of which we are all at times more or less 
aware? Why should certain perfectly common- 
place things awaken dreams, reminiscences, 
suggestions ; whereas others, every bit equally 
qualified to do so, find us blank, and indifferent ? 
Of all such aids to impersonal memory, commend 
me to an out-of-door fire! The wild, keen smell 
of it. The red eye of flame, blinking at one out 
of the heap. The sleepy rolls of smoke, tumbling 
about, and making one’s eyes water. The 
sudden ‘“crick, crick, crackle” of a snapping 
twig, travelling sharply through the frosty air. 
All these separately, or the whole combined, 
bring with them trains of association that have 
been accumulating very much longer, or I am 
much mistaken, than the course of any one single 
lifetime. Reminiscences, who can tell, of that 
remote day when the human hearth was for the 
most part not an indoor, but an out-of-door one? 
A friend and neighbour of ours has recently 
improved upon such casual burnings by having 
what may be called a permanent bonfire in 
her grounds, and I wonder more people who 
love their gardens, and spend whole winters 
in the country, do not adopt the plan. In one 
respect it is certainly an inferior bonfire, for 
its main constituents are, not leaves and sticks, 
but anthracite coal. To make amends, it burns 
merrily away night and day, only needing to 
