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296 and last but not least, for it grew with a spend-thrift's prodigality, the Chinese rose, a delicate frail stranger, yet the last to shed beauty on even our dark November. Below, the pond was covered with water lilies with the large green leaves that support the loveliest of ivory boats, fit for the fairy Queen and her summer court. But these were not the attractions of that solitary pond in my eyes. Its charm was a little island which seemed to float upon the dark water; one side of the pond was covered with ancient willow trees, whose long pendant branches drooped for ever over the same mournful mirror. One of these trees, by some natural caprice, shot out direct from the bank, a huge, straight bough that formed a complete bridge to the little island—at least so near that a rapid spring enabled me to gain it. There was only one tree on this miniature island—a curiously shaped but huge yew tree; it quite rivalled the laurel that used to be my favourite haunt. I would remain hidden in the deep