nest are now singing in some far Southland, MY GARDEN 

 and that in these midwinter days life is stirring IN WINTER 

 beneath the sod, and that new leaves are being 

 formed out of sight? 



Winter is a great gardener. At the root of 

 the withered stock in my garden he is at work 

 forming new leaves and new blossoms. That 

 old tree, even now in the very dead of winter, 

 as it is called, though bare of leaves, is full of 

 life. The sap has sunk down from his bole and 

 branches, down into his roots, but there it is, 

 ready in due time to ascend again. 



Even now there is distinct promise of sum- 

 mer. My plants are growing steadily under 

 ground, and I have the certainty that summer 

 is coming, and that the good things promised 

 will not fail. The mighty Mother stirs in her 

 sleep and murmurs. We think of the flowers 

 that are unborn. 



The story of the flowers does not end with 

 the month of blossoms, but runs on through 

 the time of hoar-frost and snow, and on to 

 blossoms again. 



Does the snowdrop, that "child of winter," 

 tell no tale of immortality to the simple- 

 [ i47 1 



