A GARDEN DIARY 125 
MarcH 7, 1900 
SENTIMENTALIST sleeps in nearly 
everyone, whether he is aware of the fact 
or not; just as we are all potential poets or 
lovers, though some of us undoubtedly under 
rather a deep disguise. My particular vein of 
sentiment has lately taken the form of linking 
together sundry small spots here with others 
far away, upon the other side of St. George's 
boisterous channel. Thus I have a Burren 
corner, a West Galway corner, a Kerry corner, 
a Kildare corner, even a green memento or two 
of the great lost forest of Ossory, of which only 
a few shadowy remnants survive to a remote, but 
happily not an indifferent generation. 
That pleasure is to be found in such childish- 
ness might at first sight seem incredible. Since 
it is so, there is no use, however, in refusing to 
recognise it oneself. Take the Burren, for 
instance. Burren the wild, the remote, the 
austere, the solitary; to the few who know it 
a region absolutely unique, with its cyclopean 
