176 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



grass; the leaves of the sassafras blush scarlet; and the 

 flower hunter, gathering them all, goes home through 

 the purple twilight laden with the spoils of the last of the 

 procession of flowers. 



Overwork should be counted among the unpardonable 

 sins. Too often the day of labor stretches beyond the 

 eight hours and cuts off the needed spell of leisure. 

 Many of us are so deeply dyed in this sin of incessant 

 work that the conscience does not trouble us while we are 

 pushing the spade or weeding with aching back, and for- 

 getting that we are not giving praise for fair skies and 

 sunshine. 



But just as soon as the play feeling comes upon us, 

 and we should like to be children once more, frolic with 

 the lambs, make crowns of oak leaves, and disport with 

 nature, up rises the warning voice, "Thou shalt labor," 

 and we are overburdened with the idea that all is wrong. 

 If by chance a friend comes along who believes in the 

 gospel of play and in the religion of leisure, our spirits 

 may take a holiday, yet never forgetting the sneaking 

 sense of guilt. 



There should be moments to gratify the longing for 

 joy, though common sense tells us the battle between 

 order and disorder is continuing among the pansies and 

 the dahlias as well as in the business marts. While Tho- 

 reau contemplated society from his solitude near Walden 

 Pond he made the conclusion that "a broad margin of 



