52 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
white, sulphur, and lilac, some of the well-beloved of 
the florist’s “ seifs,” which signifies, as you are aware, all 
of the one colour, together with others that are lightly 
flushed and stained with various tints, and these last are 
best liked of me. But all are delightful, and remind 
one of nothing so much as an airy host of butterflies 
resting from flight, yet fluttering ready to take wing. 
Happily, however, this pretty habit is but an idle boast; 
for both violas and pansies alike are very constant to the 
places they adorn, and will bud and bloom and wither 
over and over again with unfailing faithfulness, pro¬ 
vided only that there is some one to mark the full-flown 
blossom directly it begins to flag, and delete it swiftly 
before it has time to turn itself into a seed-vessel. Had 
I, as had the ladies of Hogarth’s time, a little “ woolly¬ 
headed blackamoor” for page, this work of excision 
should be chief among his summer tasks. 
Blackbird and thrush still are singing of summer, now 
one, now the other, and sometimes even both together. 
“ Be quick, be quick, be quick ! Marguerite, 
Marguerite ! ” cries the one, with many a sweet trill 
and tender turn besides; but the other sings in an un¬ 
known tongue, in the lost language, it may be, of El 
Dorado. His is the true voix d’or , and he would seem 
to flute from some haunted palace of the past—one can 
almost see its golden domes and milk-white minarets, 
high beyond its thick, embowering forest of ancient 
trees. 
The minor minstrels of the garden are making melody, 
too, save only those whimsical sprites the tits, and they 
are taking domesticity so seriously that they have all 
