My friend the robin was there betimes and took upon himself to sing a little song to cheer me. After that, with his bright eyes glinting, he hopped upon the bed and inspected my labours.
The gardener coming upon me glanced at the row of neatly placed tiles.
“I’m glad I thought o’ they,” he said.
“Hit him,” the robin chirruped.
“You think they look well?” said I.
“As soon as I thought of they tiles,” he answered, “I knew I’d a thought of a grand thing.”
So he took all the idea to himself, and went on solemnly pounding down the cinders with a heavy stone fastened onto a stick.
And now the path is finished, and curves smooth and sleek between the Rose trees, and answers firmly to the tread. All day long I have been planting cuttings of Violas alongside the path; and behind them are rows of Carnations.
I wonder who will walk upon my path in a hundred years time, and if by then they, whoever they be, will think our methods of gardening very old-fashioned and odd. And I wonder if we shall seem at all quaint to people who will come after us, and if our clothes will be regarded as odd and wonderfully ugly.
Once, I remember, I saw into the past in such a vivid way that I still feel as if I were living out of my date by living now. It was on the occasion of some fête in the country which was to be held in some big gardens. Certain ladies were presiding over an entertainment that set out to represent a series of Eighteenth Century booths. The daughter of the house where I was stopping had spent time, money, and taste in getting very accurate and beautiful dresses of about 1745. They wore these, powdered their hair, and placed patches on their cheeks, and prepared baskets of lavender tied up in bundles to sell at the fair.