of beauty and of friendliness. I say truly, having now reached the point
in my life where it seems to me I care only for writing that which is
most deeply true for me, that I rarely walk in my garden or upon the
hills of an evening without thinking of God. It is in my garden that all
things become clearer to me, even that miracle whereby one who has
offended may still see God; and this I think a wonderful thing. In my
garden I understand dimly why evil is in the world, and in my garden
learn how transitory it is.

Just now I have come in from work, and will note freshly one of the best
odours I have had to-day. As I was working in the corn, a lazy breeze
blew across the meadows from the west, and after loitering a moment
among the blackberry bushes sought me out where I was busiest. Do you
know the scent of the blackberry? Almost all the year round it is a
treasure-house of odours, even when the leaves first come out; but it
reaches crescendo in blossom time when, indeed, I like it least, for
being too strong. It has a curious fragrance, once well called by a poet
"the hot scent of the brier," and aromatically hot it is and sharp like
the briers themselves. At times I do not like it at all, for it gives me
a kind of faintness, while at other times, as to-day, it fills me with a
strange sense of pleasure as though it were the very breath of the spicy
earth. It is also a rare friend of the sun, for the hotter and brighter
the day, the hotter and sharper the scent of the brier.

Many of the commonest and least noticed of plants, flowers, trees,
possess a truly fragrant personality if once we begin to know them. I
had an adventure in my own orchard, only this spring, and made a fine
new acquaintance in a quarter least of all expected. I had started down
the lane through the garden one morning in the most ordinary way, with
no thought of any special experience, when I suddenly caught a whiff of