AUGUST 147 



grow naturally in and out between the 

 other plants, with now and then a sharp 

 gleam of roses in second bloom. How 

 obscure and dull is the thought-picture, 

 the best I can make of the Boccage border ! 

 Old Parkinson would paint it in a dozen 

 words ! He would just say, * the place is 

 like a piece of tapestry of many glorious 

 colours to increase every one's delight.' 

 Yet the colour is not all. A pervading 

 perfume works like a charm about the 

 place to bind in one sweet whole the out- 

 ward brightness of the flowers, and the 

 unseen soul of them, which is their scent. 



I wonder how many moles there may 

 be in the garden. The Gardener certainly 

 would borrow Keats's phrase, and echo 

 heartily ' the demon mole ! ' For they 

 burrow and throw up their earthworks, 

 and overturn stones, and uproot precious 

 plants, caring nothing for right or wrong. 

 For me, the mole is simply * the four- 

 handed mole,' the odd little persecuted 

 wild beast (one of the last left in England), 

 the little velvet-coated gentleman-navvy, 

 who excavates in darkness, carrying his 



