My Friends in their Gardens 
saith, “ for smelling sweetly,” literally scented the garden $ 
and could not be picked fast enough, and the Cherry-trees 
were all white with delicate snow, like a dream of Japan, 
and the Oranges were giant bridal bouquets ? Or when the 
May sun was hot, and the garden was very still, no breeze 
stirring the leaves, the Roses all a-bloom, when even the 
burnished pigeons seemed to feel the heat, and sat very still 
in crevices of the red rock till the sun went down and the 
old white Owl came from his eyrie on the cliff-top among 
the Evergreen Oak scrub, where he sat hidden all day, and 
flew noiselessly to and fro? In the evening, when the 
waterpipes were opened, and the welcome sound of the 
running water was to be heard down amongst the Orange- 
trees, where, among the parched hot scarlet Geraniums of 
the Geranium-hedge, trickled swift rivulets, the evening 
breeze stirred faintly in the quivering Bamboos and ever 
ragged Bananas, and shook the grey Olive-leaves ; the Bats 
began to fly — the “ birds of darkness,” — then the sweet mis- 
tress of the garden came and walked about in it, listening 
to the shrill sweet piping of the Nightingales and the 
responsive croak of the young ones. I do not know when 
was the most pleasant time. Oh ! indeed, 
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
Rose plot, 
Fringed pool, 
Ferned grot — 
The veriest school 
Of peace ; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not — 
Not God ! in gardens ? when the eve is cool ?* 
Impossible — 
When God it was who made a garden first. 
Ah ! when Annie lay weary on her sofa, the sight of the 
flowers from Mon Repos reminded her that there is, thank 
Heaven, other things in this world beside pain, and there 
are yet folk who try to brighten the dusty wayworn lot in 
life that falls to some. 
* By Rev. T. E. Brown. Published by Macmillan. 
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