THERE is a garden where the dreamthoughts of children sometimes go, and whither they carry none of their troubles with them. It is a garden full of bright sunlight, but the sunlight is not of our world. As it slides between the leaves and flowers down upon the grass, it shapes itself into wonderful objects as of shining gold, and the children play with them. In the garden there are myriads of tender breezes, but they are not the breezes that blow over the earth. Each is a small creature knowing many new games that it is ever ready to play with the children. In the garden is a great choir of tuneful birds, but they are not the birds of the earth. They understand the child language, and the children understand the bird language, so the little winged creatures are not afraid. In the garden are infinite quantities of gorgeous flowers, but they are not such as grow in earthly soil. They never fade or die. When the children have pulled as many as they desire, have made them into wreaths and garlands, and have hung them wherever is most beautiful, there the blossoms grow and bloom forever. There is a lady who lives in this garden. She is the Mother of Wisdom. When the children tire of playing, they come to her and sit among the crocuses in the grass at her feet. She tells them many wonderful things. When she talks they hear nothing else, for the radiant sunshine and the lady's smile, the brightly colored flowers and the rainbow hues of the lady's garment, the clear songs of the birds and the gentle whispering of the winds, and the lady's voice-are all one. What she tells the children they understand perfectly. She knows all there is to know, and tells them what she knows. That is why children are so much wiser than grown-up people. The Sleeping Garden IN the languid warmth of the summer afternoon the garden lay sleeping, and the child slumbered in the midst of it. The many brightly hued flowers nodded their heads dreamily. The honey-bees, as they clung to the white clover blossoms, droned lazily. The insects, in the cool, short grass, hummed with drowsy monotony. Now and then the soft chirping that proceeded from the nest full of young robins in the tree above broke into a louder clamor, betokening the silent arrival of the parent birds. A gentle breeze blew through the garden. It rustled among the leaves of the trees, and drew strange notes from the pine-needle strings. It tilted the lazy butterflies as they hovered over the flower-beds. It wafted the flower odors through the sleepy air. It caught the golden drops of sunshine in the fountainbasin and shook them over the dark shadows below. It brushed together the dry grass-cuttings and whirled them to the edge of the garden walk. It wove the round patches of sunlight in and out among the grass blades, and waved the fringe of the hammock in which the child lay sleeping. By-and-by it caught the ribbon in the little one's hair and tapped it against her cheek. She opened her eyes and blinked for a moment into the checkered green and gold above. Then she sprang from the hammock-and the sleeping garden was awake. о |