WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 57 



thing, an error of the imagination, clouding hopeful en- 

 thusiasm and blinding the sight to visions of blooming 

 gardens. 



If the little breeze should cease playing interludes on 

 the wind harp on the sill, the curtain would be drawn in 

 an instant to shut out the inviting sunshine and the jeers 

 of blue jays, and the satisfied "cheer-up, cheer-up" of the 

 robins, all of which are a reproach and a warning. From 

 past experiences we know only too well that weeds grow 

 apace these fine mornings, and early birds levy taxes on 

 lettuce beds and give thanks after salad. 



Weeding time is here, alas! and fasting hours for 

 nature that flies or crawls. Rather a cushioned chair on 

 the sheltered side of the porch, a book or two, Omar or 

 Walden, and let the time fleet pleasantly, than a weeding 

 rug, the broad-brimmed hat, gloves, a basket, trowel, and 

 clippers. Yes, the secret of discontent is out weeding 

 time is here. 



Bestir yourself, idle gardener! Watchfulness is the 

 price of virtue, industry the foe of garden flowers. While 

 you have slept on your pillow and neglected reverence at 

 the shrine of a sunrise in June, selfish longings for com- 

 fort have filled your mind, and weeds have pushed roots 

 deep into the soil of the flower beds. Cutworms have 

 made cruel sport, and sparrows and doves have played 

 havoc with tender sprouts. 



Why should birds hunt seed boxes on bird tables when 



