THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR 
5i 
green, the tall arched sceptres of the Solomon’s Seal— 
another name that spells mystery and enchantment, but 
here of a more cryptic kind. I have never been quite 
able to disabuse myself of the idea that these sealed 
blooms that rise year after year in shadow still hold 
some secret of antiquity behind their pale closed lips; 
“ men sell not such in any town.” All around and be¬ 
neath them to the border’s hem spreads a sea of fresh 
green, whose delicately odorous foam shows in pure 
white bells of lily of the valley, while across the way 
the ethereal gaieties of the fair azalea mollis take the 
sun with such a clear and candid charm as to set all 
their little portion of the world en fete . This gala-like 
impression is partly due, I believe, to their soft trans- 
lucency, and in part also to the radiant purity of their 
diverse colours, the very ensigns of youth ; it is not pre¬ 
cisely the hue of lemon, nor of apricot, nor primrose, 
nor yet quite of coral (even if coral could be made trans¬ 
parent) that delights the eye, and yet you are set think¬ 
ing of each and all of these. They would seem to have 
something in common with the earlier paintings of 
Albert Moore, and the pity of it is that their fragile 
loveliness must end so soon. 
There are certain plots that I almost always set aside 
for violas and pansies, although they have a share, be¬ 
sides, in the hospitalities of the mixed borders; and of 
these the most important is the heart-shaped bed beyond 
the sundial upon the sunken lawn. Here you may see 
to advantage the constant play of softly broken colour; 
blossoms now rich, now pale; pansies in their gowns of 
damask and pied velvet freaked with jet; violas blue, 
