DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



warms the steaming earth smelling of growth : the 

 tragedy is over. Nature smiles on hosts of opening 

 buds, loosened by the rain and freed by the wind 

 of protective but now needless winter covering ; 

 under the beech trees we can sweep up the downy 

 pointed pale-brown scales, slow grow r th has made a 

 jump, spring is victorious, a chorus of happy home- 

 hunting birds shouts with joy and the tide of life 

 rolls on. 



But in these days we are so busy that we only 

 grumble at the hindering weather, which, in its se- 

 quence of changes, is just perfect for the new birth and 

 childhood of a countless host of tiny seeds hidden in 

 the brown soil. Its magic key sets free the imprisoned 

 life locked in these minute specks, and the earth again 

 is green. 



Thus sounds the waking summons to Nature's 

 THE ' weeds ' which hear the call, and the annual and 



ANNUAL 



many another flower hasten to clothe and paint our 

 fields and gardens with endless forms of wondrous 

 beauty. 



I know there are gardeners, I mean great and 

 undoubted plant lovers, who scorn an annual. How 



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