60 A GARDEN DIARY 
or need that eternal process of renewal, and as a 
consequence of disorganisation, which is the bane, 
though I am willing to admit the unavoidable 
bane, of nearly every flower-bed and border. 
Ideals are odd things, and this one of mine 
seems, even as I write it down, about as ridicu- 
lous and puny an ideal as any forlorn idealist 
was ever driven into making a boast of! Such 
as it is, however, I cling to it tenaciously. After 
all what does it mean? Written out a little 
large it means repose of mind, and a freedom 
from the strain of change; it even means a 
certain sense of finality, and that at a very 
sensitive spot in one’s small environment. 
To a greater or less extent we all sigh for 
finality. Nobody has ever attained to it, that 
I have heard of, and not many people would 
perhaps relish it if they could do so. None 
the less it remains, something haunting; a 
dimly descried presence, to us vaguely desirable. 
To sit at ease under their own vines; to be at 
rest in their own shaded places, has from the 
earliest days flattered the imaginations of men, 
busy and idle ones alike. Dawdlers in sunny 
places, and haunters of gardens like our- 
selves are naturally assigned to the second of 
these categories. Since we have to support 
the reproach of idleness, let us at least then 
take heed that we secure the comfort of it. If 
Leisure is an acquaintance of ours he is an 
