A GARDEN DIARY 199 
JUNE 2, 1900 
(hea revolving year has brought us back at 
last to June. Here is June, and here are 
all the June flowers. If June were only always 
really June, and if our hearts could always keep 
time to its weather, then were earth paradise, 
and any remoter one might be relegated to the 
remotest of Greek kalends. June however is 
by no means invariably June, while as for our 
hearts they are like our eyes, which have a 
fashion of blinking sometimes at the light, as 
those of owls are reported to do, preferring 
their own shadowy places, and the night, 
which at least brings kindly dreams. Yet are 
kindly dreams, it may be asked, realy the 
‘kindliest, seeing that we wake from them, 
and know that they are false? Are not ugly 
dreams, are not even terrible ones, better, 
seeing that we wake from them, and say to 
ourselves that matters, after all, are not quite 
so bad as ¢hat? It is a question, and, like 
