206 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



There was an abundant nosegay ready for our hands. 

 The last warm-hued asters, the mignonette, like a fragile 

 gentleman growing strong in the face of adversity, as fra- 

 grant as in summer; the graceful daisy-eyed cosmos; the 

 scented nicotina, the ruddy marigolds, and, shyly lying 

 close to the ground, the pansies still blooming cheerily. 

 The rose geraniums which usually blacken before the 

 frost gave sweet-smelling branches, owing to our fore- 

 thought in covering them, and the salvia had fringed 

 sprays of red to add to our treasures. 



Our little cemetery has been cleared of its unsightly 

 monuments, and the tablets are hidden, sunken in the sod 

 or hidden in shrubbery. It is God's Acre, where the 

 weary are at rest and sleep close to nature's heart, while 

 the souls are soaring on and on earth's fretful turmoil 

 over, and the earthly labors done to another life. 



The fall of the leaf and the fall of the year have no 

 sadness for the brotherhood of gardeners. The awaken- 

 ing of spring, the bursting of bud and the unfolding of 

 leaf, the glory of the flower and the ripening of fruit 

 with the perfection of seedtime and harvest that is all 

 of life. Our own cycle of infancy, youth, maturity, and 

 age is just like it the year but a little longer, the vicissi- 

 tudes of weather and of cultivators and pests only another 

 kind; and when the winter of life comes to us, as it does 

 to all, we too, like the lily of the field, may lie down 

 under the sod to pleasant dreams and a resurrection. 



