258 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



Were there clouds in the evening sky, or was 

 there that frost-presaging clarity of the 

 atmosphere through which Aldebaran seemed 

 but a light on a watch-tower and Vega, far 

 westering, a sapphire which an earthly king 

 might almost seize and wear ? Shall we stretch 

 a length of cheese cloth on some light poles 

 to protect our loved ones ? The friend who 

 gave me that yellow flower tipped with bronze 

 used always to pin newspapers over hers on 

 threatening nights, and many a time, in old 

 village gardens, I have seen enswarthements 

 of blue gingham aprons about the bushes, 

 which would, I know, far gladlier have died 

 in a valiant hand-to-hand encounter with the 

 advancing foe than to have their lives pro- 

 longed by such humiliating means. It is an 

 involuntary tribute to its value that so many 

 pains are taken to prolong the day of the 

 flower. 



In almost every year there comes a day, 

 well on in November, when the garden is again 

 the haunt of perfect loveliness. From many 

 other gardens where the loose-petalled beauties 

 have dwelt from time out of mind, the feast has 

 been gathered. There are yellow flowers, 



