IN A GARDEN. 
A SUNNY morning in June — a golden day among 
days that have mostly a neutral tint ; a large 
garden, with no visible houses beyond, but green 
fields and unkept hedges and great silent trees, 
oak and elm — could I wish, just now, for a more 
congenial resting-place, or even imagine one that 
comes nearer to my conception of an earthly 
paradise ? It is true that once I could not drink 
deeply enough from the sweet and bitter cup of 
wild nature, and loved nature best, and sought it 
gladly where it was most savage and solitary. 
But that was long ago. Now, after years of city 
life, during which I have laboured like many 
another " to get a wan pale face," with perhaps a 
wan pale mind to match, that past wildness would 
prove too potent and sharp a tonic ; unadulterated 
nature would startle and oppress me with its rude 
desolate aspect, no longer familiar. This softness of 
a well-cultivated earth, and unbroken verdure of 
foliage in many shades, and harmonious grouping 
