A GARDEN DIARY 39 
SEPTEMBER 25, 1899 
ci gardener seems to pass amongst his kins- 
folk and acquaintance for a rather feeble, but 
more or less meditative sort of man. His trade 
is held, I perceive, to be productive of some of the 
milder forms of philosophy. Like the angler he 
enjoys a rather supercilious consideration on that 
account from his more violently active brethren. 
“You are such a patient fellow,” they say. 
“You don’t care how long you stay pottering 
over one small spot. Such quiet ways of going 
on would never do for us/” 
This may be the case, but I cannot say that 
I have personally observed, either in myself, or 
other gardeners, any tendency to exhibit more 
placidity over the cares and crosses of a garden, 
than over any of the other cares and crosses of 
existence. As for philosophy, a certain sort of 
cheap moralising a garden is certainly rather pro- 
ductive of. It sprouts unheeded along the walks, 
and may be extracted with greater facility than 
most of the weeds. That ‘‘life is short”; that 
