WATTLED SUMMER HOUSE 
WINTER 
The melancholy days are come, “the saddest 
of the year ” ; and what a contrast to the glories 
of summer or the wealth of autumn are these 
cold, dark days of winter. The flowers are 
dead, the trees are bare, the winds are sighing, 
and the year is dying. The garden looks for¬ 
saken, and all nature seems asleep. It is then 
we are grateful to every green leaf—the glossy 
ivy, shining laurels, and sombre yews, all are 
welcome now. We wander round the garden, 
too cold to linger unless we find some work to 
be done, and even for busy hands there is not 
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