autumn, the perfume evanescent as the dreams 

 of youth or lingering as the memories of child- 

 hood, each has for this soul its message, sweet, 

 wholesome, and true. 



If only we could find words to tell just what 

 the flowers say to us! But they speak a lan- 

 guage not easy to translate into our common 

 speech. The thoughts of the flowers reach into 

 the heart of things, thoughts often too big for 

 words. 



Then, too, the flowers have their high re- 

 serves. Few have their full confidence none 

 who are not clean of heart. Only the real lover 

 of the flowers will understand their speech. 

 What Mrs. Hemans finely says of Walter 

 Scott among his trees at Abbotsford tells the 

 way we must learn their language, 



Where every tree had music of its own 



To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love. 



There is a converse of the garden that can 

 only be heard by "that inner ear that re- 

 members." 



[75] 



