222 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



drought or flood, or insect or mildew are past. 

 The spendthrift summer is gone, but it is a 

 poor story if we cannot find in the careful 

 hoardings of the autumn a beauty which the 

 prodigal June had not. A hedge of roses 

 on St John's Eve is a glorious sight, but a 

 handful of the pointed buds of the China 

 roses, set about with the crimson and purple 

 shoots which September has provided, is far 

 more precious. They have the added grace 

 of that pathos which envelops everything for 

 which we plan, and hope, and which, coming 

 at last, comes so late that Farewell treads close 

 upon the heels of All hail. 



Now that it is October in all the gardens 

 that the sun shines in ; the friendly sun, to 

 whom, says Thoreau, "the earth is all equally 

 cultivated, and a garden," we are inspired 

 with new virtues, and make haste to gather 

 up the fragments that remain, that nothing 

 be lost. We watch the skies for signs of 

 rain or frost. We are abroad both early and 

 late, because we know that idleness now 

 means that there will be no flowers for us 

 next spring. There is a touch of chill in 

 the air ; a prescience of coming change in the 



