A GARDEN DIARY 95 



brought from a distant common, where it could 

 be cut discreetly ; the entire bustle of the garden 

 has been brought to a condition of arrest. Into 

 the middle of our fussy little rhythm Nature has 

 dropped her own imperious full-stop. Against 

 that full-stop there is no appeal. In vain one 

 protests that one is really in a great hurry ; 

 that unless these flower-beds are made, unless 

 yonder piece of ground is got ready for grass- 

 sowing, March will be upon us, and close at its 

 heels, April ; that the spring is coming on, and 

 that we must get our work done. To this 

 remonstrance Nature merely opens her eyes with 

 a mildly sarcastic air, and replies, "Must you?" 

 It is the case of the old woman of the nursery 

 tale over again, who had to get her pig over the 

 stile in order to give her old man his supper. 

 In that case she did, after many repulses, find 

 a complacent beast, I think, who undertook the 

 task. The right spring was touched ; the spell 

 broken, and the whole state of deadlock dis- 

 solved at once. How we are to obtain so 

 desirable a dissolution I have yet to learn. I 

 see no spring to touch ; no bird, beast, or 

 element that could be appealed to with the 

 slightest hope of success. The sky, iron-grey, 

 with vicious, inky streaks across it, does not 

 seem promising ; neither does the wind, which 

 keeps to its beloved north-east. The earth is 

 invisible, consequently is for the moment out 



