THE STORY OF A GARDEN I43 



bird's raptures, making his life in 

 living. 



It is a drowsy August afternoon; the 

 birds are quiet, and the locusts express 

 the heat by their intonation. The 

 Japan lilies, in the border back of the 

 house, are densely sweet, the geraniums 

 mockingly red, and the lemon-verbena 

 bushes are drooping. The smooth 

 grass and trim edges stop before an 

 arch that spans the path, and about it 

 shrubs straggle, grouping around a tall 

 ash. This ash, a veritable lodestone 

 to the birds, is on the borderland of 

 the wild and cultivated, and they regard 

 it as the Mussulman does his minaret, 

 repairing there to do homage. Before 

 the leaves appear the wood thrush takes 

 the topmost branch to sing his matins, 

 as if, by doing so, he might, before his 

 neighbours, give the sun greeting. 



