tube of the jessamine, and hovering over the scarlet blossoms of the
geranium, whose bright colour seems reflected on its own feathery
breast; that insect which seems so thoroughly a creature of the air,
never at rest; always, even when feeding, self-poised, and
self-supported, and whose wings in their ceaseless motion, have a sound
so deep, so full, so lulling, so musical. Nothing so pleasant as to sit
amid that mixture of the flower and the leaf, watching the bee-bird!
Nothing so pretty to look at as my garden! It is quite a picture; only
unluckily it resembles a picture in more qualities than one,--it is fit
for nothing but to look at. One might as well think of walking in a bit
of framed canvass. There are walks to be sure--tiny paths of smooth
gravel, by courtesy called such--but--they are so overhung by roses and
lilies, and such gay encroachers--so over-run by convolvolus, and
heart's-ease, and mignonette, and other sweet stragglers, that, except
to edge through them occasionally, for the purpose of planting, or
weeding, or watering, there might as well be no paths at all. Nobody
thinks of walking in my garden. Even May glides along with a delicate
and trackless step, like a swan through the wafer; and we, its
two-footed denizens, are fain to treat it as if it were really a saloon,
and go out for a walk towards sun-set, just as if we had not been
sitting in the open air all day.

[1] Sphinx ligustri, privet hank-moth.

What a contrast from the quiet garden to the lively street! Saturday
night is always a time of stir and bustle in our village, and this is
Whitsun Eve, the pleasantest Saturday of all the year, when London
journeymen and servant lads and lasses snatch a short holiday to visit
their families. A short and precious holiday, the happiest and liveliest
of any; for even the gambols and merrymakings of Christmas offer but a