to drop in the autumn. Or an arbour of Willows, beside a pond or brook at an old-fashioned country place, would be a constant delight; for the Willow leaves, like the Aspens, are always fluttering, and give one the sense of a breeze even when there is none.
My sailor husband tells me that in Bermuda, Oleanders, crimson, pink, and white, are planted in interlacing hoops to form a fence of this kind, and that the effect is beautiful. We tried it in Hong-Kong, but not with much success, as without coral soil in which to plant their roots, Oleanders do not seem to do very well.
In Yokohama, Tokio, Nagasaki, and many other places in Japan, hedges are much used instead of fences. The only wonder is that, in a country where so many Laurels are found, where Camellias and Cryptomereas have their feet on their native heath, and grow with a profusion unknown in other climes, one should ever see anything else. I confess that, in Yokohama, these—in winter—splendid great hedges are in summer a pathetic rather than a beautiful sight. In the August semi-dryness (for no season is really dry in Japan) their glossy leaves are dusty and dirty and dejected-looking, with the melancholy of a satin dress in the gutter, of a man who wears shiny broad-cloth and carries a sandwich board. Such sad spots as the rain leaves on them—the very stains of tears! But, if they are not always
