Visions and Rumours of War 
wild by every spruit or burn, as well as Ferns and 
Hydrangeas. Roses and Tuberoses were thick in my 
correspondent’s backyard. Now, if there is one thing I 
love, it is a Tuberose with its perfect scent aud stately spire 
of porcelain flowers. Happily one can raise them here in the 
most humble of Greenhouses, buying the bulbs for a penny 
each, and enjoy them without risk of the snake, too often 
hidden in their graceful tuft of leaves, in their native land. 
What a contrast the peaceful tranquillity around here is 
to the bloody warfare and rumours of wars one hears of 
daily ! The Sparrows are flying in little flocks above the 
bare hedge, alighting every now and then to sample the 
Haws. It is so still one can hear the leaves drop. Down 
on the haugh I see through the bare trees a pair of beautiful 
grey Herons alight and prepare to fish. In the Rose- 
garden, where dire devastation has been wrought of late by 
the Demon Mole, the Mole-catcher, a sturdy individual 
with satchel and tiny spade like an Irish “ loy,” is busy 
laying his snares, probably the last of the season, as there 
is a whisper of coming snow; but there is no noisy Boy 
now to inspect and criticise “ Auld Moudyman,” no rattle 
of little wooden cart to tell of the coming and going round 
about the house of little Redcap. I sit alone at the window 
and think of the days gone by. 
The dear old Past is an empty nest, 
And the Present the brood that is flown, 
says Alfred Austin. But the room is sweet with the scent 
of the Rose-pourri Boy helped to make. As Shakespeare 
says, 
Flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, 
Leese but their show ; their substance still lives sweet. 
Boy’s Canary greets a passing sunbeam with a burst of 
cheerful song. Yes, I must possess my soul in patience, 
and remember, as the Indian proverb says, “ Mana basanta 
ki khalaka basanta ” (When it is springtime in the heart the 
whole world is green). Boy is happy elsewhere, and will 
255 
