antomime was
to the imaginative child--the dreamy child of long ago--a floral
paradise full of the most delightful surprises. Here, at Hennersley,
from out the quite recently ice-bound earth, softened and moistened
now by spring rain, there rises up row upon row of snowdrops,
hyacinths and lilies, of such surpassing sweetness and beauty that I
hold my breath in astonishment, and ecstatically chant a Te Deum to
the fairies for sending such white-clad loveliness.

And then--then, ere my wonder has had time to fade, it is summer. The
ground opens, and there springs up, on all sides, a veritable sea of
vivid, variegated colour,--scarlet, pink, and white geraniums; red,
white and yellow roses; golden honeysuckle; bright-hued marigolds;
purple pansies; pale forget-me-nots; wallflowers; sweet peas;
many-tinted azaleas; showy hydrangeas; giant rhododendrons; foxgloves,
buttercups, daisies, hollyhocks, and heliotropes; a floral host too
varied to enumerate.

Overcome with admiration, bewildered with happiness, I kneel on the
soft carpet of grass, and, burying my face extravagantly, in alternate
laps of luxurious, downy, scent-laden petals, fill my lungs with
soul-inspiring nectar.

My intoxication has barely worn off before my eyes are dimly conscious
that the soil all around me is generously besprinkled with the remains
of my floral friends. I spring hurriedly to my feet, and, gazing
anxiously about me, suddenly perceive the gaily nodding heads of new
arrivals--dahlias, sunflowers, anemones, chrysanthemums. As I continue
gazing, the aromatic odour of mellow apples from the Hennersley
orchards reaches my nostrils; I turn round, and there, there in front
of me, I see row upon row of richly-laden fruit trees, their leaves a
brilliant copper in the scintillating rays of the ruddy autumn sun. I
gasp for breath--the beauty of tint and tone surpasses all that I have
hitherto seen--it is sublime, the grand climax of transformation. As
the curtain falls with the approach of winter, I hurry to my Edinburgh
home and pray for the prompt return of early spring.

For many years my aged relatives, the Misses Amelia and Deborah
Harbordeens, lived at Hennersley. Rarest and kindest of old ladies,
they were the human prototypes of the flowers both they and I loved.
Miss Amelia, with her beautiful complexion, rounded form and regal
mien, suggested to my childish mind more, much more, than the mere
semblance of a rose, whilst Miss Deborah, wit