216 GARDENS PAST AND PRESENT 



in the springtide, St Martin should unlock the 

 gate to winter, and, on the favoured south coast, 

 it may be so reckoned ; but in many parts of the 

 country, not so very far northwards, it is St 

 Michael who lays a stern hand on autumn's shoul- 

 der and bids him begone. 



That first sharp touch of frost, how sudden and 

 fell and needless it seems when it comes, blacken- 

 ing the dahlias and scorching the heliotrope, crush- 

 ing the nasturtiums under its relentless heel, 

 dealing out devastation without mercy or pity ! 

 But it is better so. In mild localities do we not 

 see these half-hardy things, long after their beauty 

 is over, missing the sunshine, shivering in the 

 dank, raw fog from which we are never altogether 

 free in any part of our sea-girt land, yet lingering 

 on in misery waiting for the final stroke. And we 

 share their misery. When once the blow has fallen 

 and they are gone, a few calm days of Indian 

 summer, bright and warm and still, often come 

 to cheer us. It is then that the freshness of the 

 crimson spikes of the Kaffir flag take us by sur- 

 prise, and the first yellow stars of winter jessamine 

 shine out among the green leafless stems, and we 

 are grateful for the pretty half-opened buds of 

 pink China roses, and enjoy them all while we 

 may. 



Then winter begins in earnest ; darkness falls 

 early, and by four o'clock in the dim afternoon the 

 invitation of blazing logs and the sunlight of acety- 

 lene, that modern boon of the country house, allures 

 us away from the slumbering garden. 



But there is no gloom in winter. The bare 



