^OF DREAMS P oetr ^ a " lts own > an ^ there are mornings 

 when the beauty is so enthralling and the 

 poetry so ennobling, evenings when the still- 

 ness is so eloquent, that I think my garden is 

 never so beautiful as then. There are nights 

 when the moon and the frost transmute my 

 garden into fairyland. 



It is true, it is a cold and austere beauty, 

 this beauty of my garden in winter, but it is 

 the very austerity of its beauty that lays upon 

 me a spell more potent than the thrall of sum- 

 mer days. The enchantment of the winter 

 world is very real to the soul that has grown 

 into an understanding of its serene, austere, 

 untroubled beauty. 



Study the tender color harmonies of this 

 picture. The drawing is bold, for "winter is 

 no time for petty things.'' But how perfectly 

 esthetic the colors! The lavish palette of mid- 

 summer is not here, but there is a shy and 

 delicate beauty that "veils itself from all but 

 the eyes of love." 



Color is never high or garish. The gray and 

 silver-gray of bark and lichen, the many tones 

 of brown, the softened greens of the conifers, 



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