XXI 



THE last day of May. After the usual " contrariness " 

 of life we have spent the hot span in London, and returned 

 here to find that ungenial norVest wind blowing in upon 

 us apparently over the same icebergs as a month ago. 

 We think with wails of regret of the long, golden, balmy 

 garden-days we missed/ of the full glory of the Azaleas/ 

 of those splendours of Rose Tulips which we should have 

 enjoyed, radiant in the sunshine, instead of seeing them 

 yawn their lives away in a hot town drawing-room. And 

 the Florentina Alba Irises, those delicate, fragrant, stately 

 things that look as if they were compounded of cobweb 

 and spun crystal and moonlit snow it takes but a day to 

 show them in their beauty and another to wilt them we 

 have missed their lovely hour too, of course. On long, 

 long stems, the Iris Siberica are congregating a little grove 

 of buds in the Blue Border/ only two curving purple 

 darlings having outrun the rest. We shall miss them, for 

 the fates have decreed that we are to leave the Earthly 

 Paradise in a day or two once more, and that for the flat 

 horizons of Lancashire. Well, the best of the Spring, early 

 and late, is over, and we do not grudge these intermediary 

 days so much, though we wonder how the bedding out will 

 get on without our stimulating presence. We shall not 

 even have a finger in the " Cherry-Pie/' Lengthy plans 

 will have to be made. The "Miss Wilmott" Verbena 

 must replace, by their delicate rose, the blue of the Myosotis 

 carpet as well as the wonders of the many-hued Darwins. 

 in the two centre beds of the Dutch Garden. And in the 

 border beds we project a fine gathering of Antirrhinums 

 150 



