184 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



windows were shutterless, the doors of the tottering house 

 unhinged. 



The glass panes reflected the light with an unmeaning 

 stare, and, as the cloud shadows obscured the sun, myste- 

 rious presences seemed to look forth and vanish in the 

 vacant rooms beyond. The fitful breeze flapped the gar- 

 den gate, rustling the tangle of forgotten rosebushes, and 

 stirred the tall growth of asters as if a mysterious some- 

 thing came along the weedy paths and passed on to the 

 gloom of the forest road. 



A neglected garden is the best book on hardy flowers. 

 Its record is written by time, for only the fittest to fight 

 out a battle with dry seasons or wet, cold winters, hot 

 summers, and voracious insects and usurping weeds live 

 over a season. Here above the fence looked the coarse 

 yellow marigold, the sweet Williams had established 

 themselves in a community, and row upon row, all in the 

 pride of vainglory, grew the self-sown cockscombs, claim- 

 ing the right of numbers. 



Still triumphant amid the forlorn tangle of the deserted 

 garden, cockscomb awaits in defiance the approach of win- 

 ter. It holds its head high above its woody pedestal and 

 looks across the vacant spaces where goldenrod and mari- 

 gold once held sovereign sway. Gone are the flowery 

 train. Cockscomb alone retains a vestige of the splendor 

 of royal crimson. Though wounded by the midnight frost 

 and sadly battered by the gales, it seems to proclaim: 



