MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 177 



and the fertilizing, go on with something 

 of the hilarity of a wake, rather than 

 the despondency of other funerals. 

 When the wind begins to come out of 

 the north-west of set purpose, and to 

 sweep the ground with low and search 

 ing fierceness, very different from the 

 roysteriiig, jolly bluster of early fall, I 

 have put the strawberries under their 

 coverlet of leaves, pruned the grape 

 vines and laid them under the soil, tied 

 up the tender plants, given the fruit- 

 trees a good, solid meal about the roots ; 

 and so I turn away, writing Resurgam 

 on the gate-post. And Calvin, aware 

 that the summer is past and the harvest 

 is ended, and that a mouse in the kitchen 

 is worth two birds gone south, scampers 

 away to the house with his tail in the 

 air. 



And yet I am not perfectly at rest in 

 my mind. I know that this is only a 

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