If your garden be large enough you can let Nature have her 

 own way in certain parts of it." 



GEORGE MILKER. 



SEPTEMBER 



Roses in the garden 



Blossomed yesterday, 

 But their leaves are fallen, 



Withered on the spray. 



Green leaves on the branches 



Now with dew are grey ; 

 Gold leaves fill the meadows, 



Summer's passed away. 



Roseless is the garden, 



Green leaves turned to gold, 

 Thus is Summer ended, 



So the story's told. 



RAIN and ruin of roses," and thus the Summer ends. 

 Suddenly it comes one day 



" The change in the grey garden closes 



To the last stray grass of the strand, 

 A rain and ruin of roses 

 Over the red-rose land." 



As we look back, what has been our fairest garden 

 memory ? It is, perhaps, the tender harmony of flowers and 

 birds, light and soft winds, flower perfume and fragrant rains. 

 Even the tiniest demesne to some is 



" A miniature of loveliness, all grace 

 Summed up and closed in little." 



If we are lovers of reading, often in a garden will echoes be 

 heard, as it were, from pages that have delighted us that need 



A 



