COMMUTER'S WIFE 241 



porch at evening daintily apparelled. This is the 

 best time for labour, the time to disappear from 

 view and, collarless and wrapped in a russet apron, 

 delve and grovel until dusk conceals one altogether. 



For a woman, early morning is the time to gather 

 flowers, not to cultivate them. The gathering and 

 arranging brings their fragrance into one's life, but 

 weeding or kneeling among dewy plants, stooping 

 and moiling while the sun each moment blazes more 

 fiercely, is for the workman only. To the woman it 

 means fatigue before noon, and that sunken feeling 

 in the chest that whispers of indigestion or desire for 

 sodden sleep directly after luncheon. I have done 

 it and I know. 



May 30. Decoration Day. Evan at home. The 

 garden is time-true, and yields deep crimson peonies, 

 white iris, and blue lupins to be blended together for 

 the soldiers' graves, as it did of old. The peonies, to 

 be sure, are not true red, but they at least complete 

 the symbol. 



The hardy oriental poppies, scarlet with the black 

 eye, are fast unfurling from their green coverings, 

 and the long bed that we left all of a jumble is 

 bright with iris of many hues white, violet, purple, 

 wine-red, yellow, and variegated; in fact, the long 

 strip is a perfect iris rainbow. 



