close quarters, but when diffused is fragrance of ethereal delight. All
day long birds frolic in the trees, some to cull the nectar, some to
search for insects attracted for like purpose, some to nibble and discard
white petals. All the moist soil beneath is strewn with snowy flakes, for
at night flying foxes blunder among the branches, destroying more blooms
than they eat. But why grumble? Birds which nip off petals and musty
foxes which brush down whole posies in their clumsiness are but positive
checks to overproduction. Do they not avert the unthankful task of
carting away dozens of barrow loads of superfluous fruit? Last night at
dusk there was a sensation of the coming of rain, though the air was
still and the sky clear. I paused under the trees to expand my lungs with
their scented breathings. A semi-intoxicated bird twittered drowsily
among the branches,

"His happy good-night air,
Some blessed hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware."

Dozens of sphinx moths--big torpedo-shaped bodies carried by wings of
soft brown and dull red--floated about, sipping where and when and as long
as they liked. Sometimes the sphinx has almost an aggressive tone In his
flight--hasty, important, brooking no interference. Last night's note was
of supreme content. A rich and overflowing feast was spread and the
insects hovered over the posies and sipped and fluted like merry
roysterers, without a care or thought of the morrow. It was a love-feast,
for the still night seemed to invite the trees to give of their richest
and best; the psalm of the insects was audible, not to the distance
whence the perfume was dissipated, but for many a scented yard. The trees
seemed sanctified, and I stood bare-headed among them and gave my silent
praise for a delightsome experience. Expectancy and patience had been