WASHINGTON’S GARDEN 
after the moon is up, the June night is sometimes 
flooded with the tangled melody of a mocking-bird, 
weaving its silver mesh of song after all the other 
singers have hushed their last notes. 
Now the fireflies begin to gleam over the lawns and 
among the shrubbery. The shadows increase, and are 
full of the smell of honeysuckle. An exquisite blue haze 
rises and wraps itself about the tops of the trees, inter¬ 
posing an almost impalpable presence between the 
garden and the rest of the world. The moon shines 
white on the white house, sharply outlining the columns, 
and the night wind tosses the shadows about oddly. 
Murmuring with unseen life, moist and warm and fra¬ 
grant, the garden waits. . . . 
Is it a shade among the shades? Or really a tall 
figure in a cloak, with a three-cornered hat giving a 
glimpse of nose and chin? It seems to bend over a 
white mist-form as though in converse. Now both 
move slowly toward the house. A deep quiet broods 
throughout the garden, a welcoming silence. Surely 
the two figures are those of a man and a woman; see, 
he lifts his hat and raises his face toward the light with 
a movement full of dignity and peace ... or is it but 
the shimmering of a white lilac stirring to the breeze ? 
Fancy, deceiving elf, has lost her power, or you your 
true seeing. At all events, the trees are swaying again, 
the insects busy with flute and viol, and the heavy lilies 
nod their heads indifferently. 
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