MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 93 



den-labor, one gets into a sort of com 

 munion with the vegetable life, which 

 makes the old mythology possible. For 

 instance, I can believe that the dryads 

 are plenty this summer: my garden is 

 like an ash-heap. Almost all the mois 

 ture it has had in weeks has been the 

 sweat of honest industry. 



The pleasure of gardening in these 

 days, when the thermometer is at ninety, 

 is one that I fear I shall not be able to 

 make intelligible to my readers, many 

 of whom do not appreciate the delight 

 of soaking in the sunshine. I suppose 

 that the sun, going through a man, as it 

 will on such a day, takes out of him 

 rheumatism, consumption, and every 

 other disease, except sudden death 

 from sun-stroke. But, aside from this, 

 there is an odor from the evergreens, 

 the hedges, the various plants and vines, 

 that is only expressed and set afloat at a 



