" In a beautiful garden man tempers the hard-and-fast lines 

 of artificial selection by leaving something to natural 



Selection '" -ALFRED AUST.N. 



DECEMBER 



/ I V HE shortest day is over ; Winter is passing, and Christ- 

 mas gone with its accompanying festivities. Up 

 to the present we have had but scant signs of the wintry 

 season, or the presence of Christmas in our midst. Of late 

 the days have been filled with almost Maytime sunshine, and 

 Springlike breezes blowing across clear lands lying beneath 

 clear skies. Yet come what will, Christmas, with its sound 

 of bells, its visible cheer, its peaceful message, marks the 

 season of year and the flight of time. The garden, perhaps, 

 has a greener look than its wont at this period, holding many 

 bushes half in doubt whether to burst into leaf or to be wise 

 and wait. Every tree has reached its last stage of nakedness, 

 except those evergreens which form our decorations, for 



" The time admits not flowers or leaves 

 To deck the banquet." 



Although every leaf has fallen, each branch is preparing for 

 the Spring. The chestnut's branches are full of little closely 

 bound up knobs of brown, each one bright with a coating of 

 frost-resisting substance ; every twig of the larch is scattered 

 with tiny red jewels that will open when the true Spring days 

 are born. One tree remains unaltered the yew, speaking 

 to us its message in Summer sunlight or in Winter gloom : 

 " I change but in death." 



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