60 A GARDEN DIARY 



or need that eternal process of renewal, and as a 

 consequence of disorganisation, which is the bane, 

 though I am willing to admit the unavoidable 

 bane, of nearly every flower-bed and border. 



Ideals are odd things, and this one of mine 

 seems, even as I write it down, about as ridicu- 

 lous and puny an ideal as any forlorn idealist 

 was ever driven into making a boast of! Such 

 as it is, however, I cling to it tenaciously. After 

 all what does it mean ? Written out a little 

 large it means repose of mind, and a freedom 

 from the strain of change ; it even means a 

 certain sense of finality, and that at a very 

 sensitive spot in one's small environment. 



To a greater or less extent we all sigh for 

 finality. Nobody has ever attained to it, that 

 I have heard of, and not many people would 

 perhaps relish it if they could do so. None 

 the less it remains, something haunting ; a 

 dimly descried presence, to us vaguely desirable. 

 To sit at ease under their own vines ; to be at 

 rest in their own shaded places, has from the 

 earliest days flattered the imaginations of men, 

 busy and idle ones alike. Dawdlers in sunny 

 places, and haunters of gardens like our- 

 selves are naturally assigned to the second of 

 these categories. Since we have to support 

 the reproach of idleness, let us at least then 

 take heed that we secure the comfort of it. If 

 Leisure is an acquaintance of ours he is an 



