124 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
sensibly reminds one of it now. To be sure, my trees 
boast no leaves and branches of silver or of gold ; but it 
was precisely here, as I imagine, that the magician 
made his mistake so far as beauty was concerned. 
Silver and gold have they none, these trees that bend 
beneath their rich load ; but what better setting could 
you conceive for the heavy half-translucent globes of 
violet and rose and amber than their sheltering jade- 
green bowers ? Especially grateful to the eye are the 
honey-coloured clusters of the oval harvest plum among 
their deep green leaves. Unconsidered by the virtuoso, 
by reason, perhaps, of their unfashionable dimensions 
and comparatively old-world origin, they still rejoice 
the heart of the amateur through sight and savour 
alike, to say nothing of the pleasant childhood’s memo¬ 
ries they evoke. 
You close your eyes for a moment, and here surely is 
the clean, soft scent of the stackyard and the freshly- 
reaped fields under dim blue skies, where a vast copper 
moon is slowly mounting. It is from the tree over¬ 
hanging the high red wall by the herb-bed that you 
plucked this smooth yellow fruit in your hand. Who 
shall maintain there are no dreams to sell, even now ? 
Nut brown and rosy bronze pears droop heavily from 
the bough, and red and golden apples toss in the light 
breeze that stirs the tree tops; while every now and 
again u thump ” in soft grass or broad border falls one 
that the execrable worm i’ th’ bud condemned long 
since in bloom time. ’Tis an ill wind indeed that 
blows nobody good, and the birds will not be slow to 
profit by our losses. 
