200 A GARDEN DIARY 
many questions, a good deal easier asked than 
answered. 
“Tf there were dreams to sell, 
Pleasant, and sad as well, 
And the crier rang his bell, 
Which would you buy?” 
It is not the time, however, now for dreams, 
or for dream thoughts. It is nine o'clock in the 
morning, and everybody ought therefore to be 
wide awake and smiling. The garden at all 
events is performing its duty in both these 
respects, and seems, moreover, to be making 
encouraging little signals, like some humble but 
rather impatient suitor, who wishes to observe 
that he has really been waiting a long time, 
and deserves a little attention. Perhaps it 
does. Perhaps, seeing that it is there, and that 
we are here, it ought not to fare worse at our 
hands than our own dull bodies, which have 
to be clothed and fed, put to bed, and taken 
up again, whatever the less material portion 
may be feeling at the time. Here on my 
table I see is a list of some of our latest 
seedlings. They are not alpines this time, only 
common border plants, with a sprinkling of 
candidates for naturalisation, of which this 
copse can absorb almost any amount, so long 
as they are of the right sort. It is not a long 
