A GARDEN DIARY 65 
never care to walk in, or to look at their gardens 
again. It may not be an actual garden, but at 
least it will be a figurative one ; some special plot 
of happiness ; some quarter-acre of habitual enjoy- 
ment. I hope, indeed I feel sure, that in the great 
majority of cases they will sooner or later enjoy 
it again. Father Time is at bottom a kindly 
creature, kindlier than when in trouble we are 
inclined to believe him to be. For the moment 
however the idea seems unrealisable, and would 
scarcely be welcome if it were realised. 
For hardly-pressed humanity there is, I believe, 
only one really satisfactory way of dealing with 
misfortune, which is—to refuse to believe in it! 
That is, I find, the method that our excellent 
Cuttle in the garden has adopted with regard 
to most of the recent events in South Africa. 
Anything exceptionally disagreeable, especially 
anything that has to do with the surrender of 
Englishmen, no matter under what circumstances, 
he simply declines to believe in. It is not that 
he is ignorant. He reads his paper diligently ; 
he knows everything that is in it, but he refuses 
to accept more of the contents than he considers 
proper. When, a few weeks ago, the first of 
our Natal mishaps occurred, and the number of 
English prisoners captured was posted up in the 
village hall, Cuttle informed me the next morning 
that he had seen it, but that there wasn’t a word 
of truth in it! I demurred, but he stuck to his 
F 
