THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 
sees to it that certain bushes with crimson or golden 
twigs, and others with ivory or scarlet berries, shall 
burn in a chill fervor the winter through. A holly 
hedge is finest in cold weather, its glossy leaves and 
glowing berries all the richer for the half-shrouding 
snow; while arbor vitae spreads its frondy branches 
with all of summer’s energy, still yielding a pungent 
perfume as you crush the stiff leaflets between your 
fingers. 
The little box borders along the paths are curiously 
packed with snow, the cheery little branches sticking 
up indomitably. And what a quaint primness dis¬ 
tinguishes those tender shrubs and small trees which 
the gardener, with careful forethought, has protected 
from the frost in thick swathings of brown and yellow 
straw. 
In the days of storm there is a wild singing in the 
trees. And a white night of moonshine and snow is 
worth a long journey to see. What immaculate purity, 
what faint grays and sharp blacks, and what an invio¬ 
lable silence! Nature at rest, not tired, not discour¬ 
aged, full of subtle life, at peace under the blanket of 
snow. 
Now and then, befalling like a spell, a sudden 
wizardry, winter achieves its greatest miracle of 
beauty. Various circumstances must combine in order 
to insure its perfection. Occasionally not at all, but 
usually once or twice in a season, this miracle is 
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