THE WINTRY GARDEN 
l S9 
green wrought out upon smooth sward that lies divided 
betwixt sun and shade ? 
Signor Frost is no amateur, and although his triumphs 
undoubtedly claim their tale of victims, he is no more 
relentless, I dare say, than have been others of his brother¬ 
hood from time immemorial. Yet one cannot but re¬ 
gret that most triumphs demand victims, that altar fires 
must pale and die wanting a sacrifice. The tiny dead 
wren that I found in the shrubbery this morning, sitting 
poised and ready for upward flight, with small, sleek 
head and feathers, and tip-tilted, russet-freckled tail, 
seemed very minute and pitiful somehow. The round, 
bright eyes of jet, that death had not yet dulled, looked 
at me, I thought, with an air of inquisitive innocence, 
as though in wonder as to why so pretty and perfect a 
morsel of life should have thus brusquely perished. On 
the whole, I am satisfied that, for the more part, the 
garden should keep its own secrets ? I have no wish to 
pry. “ He who looks too close may see that he would 
not,” says the old saw, not, I am inclined to think, with¬ 
out reason. 
But here, in this Arcady in little of the walled garden, 
there is scant room for tragedy; it is a microcosm of 
diminutive disasters and many amenities. 
If, however, the serene silence of the white, frost- 
bound pleasaunce should seem over-insistent, it is but 
the briefest of journeys to a scene bristling with viva¬ 
city. Past the long, sunken lawn, through the green 
door in the ivied wall, along a thin, irregular footpath 
that traverses the orchard, then between two tall rows 
of bare currant bushes, and behold us arrived! 
