CHAPTER SEVEN 



WANING SUMMER 



"A something in a summer's day, 

 As slow its flambeaux burn away 

 Which solemnizes me." 



Emily Dickenson. 



THIS, August, is the month, when, if ever, the 

 gardener may claim a well-earned rest. The 

 vigorous determination of weeds seems some- 

 what daunted, staking is, or should be, done, all "bed- 

 ding out" is accomplished, and there is little to do save 

 watering and cultivating and the occasional guidance of 

 the seeking, reaching arms of climbing Roses and other 

 vines. Of course, the aster beetle may have arrived in 

 staggering hordes, moles may be tunnelling imperturb- 

 ably beneath one's most precious plants, or the garden 

 may be drying up in the fierce clutches of relentless 

 drought any of which misfortunes would keep one 

 busy. But these are not certainties, and ordinarily one 

 may spend a good deal of time wandering about the 

 garden, dreaming dreams of future improvement or just 

 idly enjoying the fruits of one's labours. Strange to 

 say, it is the time when I enjoy the garden least. I do 



not quite like this feeling that my plants are not so de- 

 ns 



