A GARDEN DIARY 95 
brought from a distant common, where it could 
be cut discreetly ; the entire bustle of the garden 
has been brought to a condition of arrest. Into 
the middle of our fussy little rhythm Nature has 
dropped her own imperious full-stop. Against 
that full-stop there is no appeal. In vain one 
protests that one is really in a great hurry; 
that unless these flower-beds are made, unless 
yonder piece of ground is got ready for grass- 
sowing, March will be upon us, and close at its 
heels, April; that the spring is coming on, and 
that we must get our work done. To this 
remonstrance Nature merely opens her eyes with 
a mildly sarcastic air, and replies, “Must you?” 
It is the case of the old woman of the nursery 
tale over again, who ad to get her pig over the 
stile in order to give her old man his supper. 
In that case she did, after many repulses, find 
a complacent beast, I think, who undertook the 
task. The right spring was touched; the spell 
broken, and the whole state of deadlock dis- 
solved at once. How we are to obtain so 
desirable a dissolution I have yet to learn. I 
see no spring to touch; no bird, beast, or 
element that could be appealed to with the 
slightest hope of success. The sky, iron-grey, 
with vicious, inky streaks across it, does not 
seem promising; neither does the wind, which 
keeps to its beloved north-east. The earth is 
invisible, consequently is for the moment out 
