IN GOD'S ACRE 207 



The flower chaplets of All Souls' Day are emblems of 

 the wreaths of love and grateful recollections that ascend 

 invisible to the spirits of the dear ones gone before, who 

 may return on this day of days and join the communion 

 of saints. I cannot feel that they have left us. nor can 

 any who have tasted the joy of gardens believe that with 

 winter the flowers lie dead. They gave us a brief vision 

 of their beauty materialized, and then vanished to bloom 

 in other spheres. 



The last leaves are floating gently in the still calm 

 air, a golden vapor that spread abroad when the clouds 

 blew to the north at noon. St. Martin has returned to 

 walk in the autumn fields, and the piles of burning leaves 

 appear on every side. The slender columns of smoke, 

 blue as if snatched from the skies, arise as if from a thou- 

 sand altars of autumn to the feasts of All Souls and All 

 Saints. 



How shortsighted is the man who believes that the fall 

 of the year, and the fall of the leaf, end all. Every 

 clump of grass, the humblest weed, refutes such heresy 

 to the divine plan. Who that has worked in gardens 

 could cherish the thought for an instant? The scattered 

 rose to-day promises fairer beauty to-morrow, if the 

 worker has done his part. No melancholy hours are in 

 store, unless weeds and neglect have worn out the cour- 

 age of the plants, and they lie withered and dead, with 

 no shred of hope to bind them to to-morrow. 



