'Fishermen are muffs,' I
used to say; 'they talk about the wind as though it were an enemy,
just because it drowns one or two of 'em now and then. Anybody can
like sunshine; muffs can like sunshine; it takes a gull or a man to
like the wind!'
Such had been my egotism. But here was a girl who liked it! We
reached the gate of the garden in front of Tom's cottage, and then
we both stopped, looking over the neatly-kept flower-garden and the
white thatched cottage behind it, up the walls of which the
grape-vine leaves were absorbing the brilliance of the sunlight and
softening it. Wynne was a gardener as well as an organist, and had
gardens both in the front and at the back of his cottage, which was
surrounded by fruit-trees. Drunkard as he was, his two passions,
music and gardening, saved him from absolute degradation and ruin.
His garden was beautifully kept, and I have seen him deftly pruning
his vines when in such a state of drink that it was wonderful how he
managed to hold a priming-knife. Winifred opened the gate, and we
passed in.
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