THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 
nificent mantle of ice is melted, fearful havoc may be 
wrought in the garden and the forest. As it is, many 
a slender bough or delicate shrub is too heavy-laden 
under its splendor, and may have to suffer for its hour 
or two of more than kingly pomp. Winter’s crown is 
the most brilliant set upon the garden’s brow, but there 
is danger in its gem-weighted beauty. 
So you pass slowly along the radiant paths, releas¬ 
ing the fettered plants from their load where this is 
possible. The sharp crackle of the frozen snow under 
your feet, and the tinkle of falling ice in every direction, 
make a keen music that harmonizes perfectly with the 
silver panoply. 
Toward sunset a deep rose kindles in the sky, flush¬ 
ing the snow-fields. A flock of snow-birds passes 
with a fluttering of wings, and the sparrows tweet- 
tweet under the eaves of the veranda, seeking shelter 
for the night. High up, a few loose golden clouds sail 
lightly, presaging a wind. But a wind from the 
south, and suddenly you realize that the temperature 
has already changed, is softer, milder. 
An infinite number of shadows begin playing about 
in the garden, purple, gray, and dusky. The fountain 
all day has looked like a twisted little gnome changed 
by some waving wand into a statuette of crystal. 
Now it suddenly begins to murmur and complain, and 
the edges begin to drip, making a tender crooning. 
The snow is softer underfoot, and each moment some 
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