pain, for the pain of something that seems MY GARDEN 



1 ' i IN WINTER 



almost human. 



For what in nature is so human as an old 

 tree around which family traditions cluster? 

 What so deeply elemental as the trees? What 

 so stirs the heart as their whispering voices 

 breathing their mysteries into human ears? 

 What so spiritual as the etherealized trees on 

 a winter evening when twilight settles down 

 cold and still? Never do the trees suggest so 

 much of mystery as in winter. 



To see my winter garden at its best, look 

 out from my study window some morning such 

 as this. 



The frost has decked every tree and plant 

 and twig with diamonds. The sun sets free 

 the fire of a million gems. Did ever lapidary 

 cut a stone with the fire and color of these ? 



Many and various are the moods of my 

 winter garden, as many and various as are the 

 variations of atmospheric effect and pictorial 

 beauty. 



These winter moods are very wonderful — 

 now full of tender mystery, again reserved and 

 austere, now seemingly hard and pitiless, again 

 [i45l 



