A GARDEN NOTE-BOOK 



steadily on and fill the garden with bright gleams; 

 calendula, I can see from the little platform to- 

 day, has many level strata of gold; violet petunias 

 continue to throw forth long, arching branches 

 of buds and flowers; ageratum and all the gray- 

 leaved things give of their quiet beauty to the 

 garden still; and late-sown candytufts, both mauve 

 and white, are excellent in the beds. Grape 

 leaves on the trellises are yellowing to their fall, 

 elms are nearly bare; but lilacs are still leafy, all 

 but some transplanted ones. These, whose leaves 

 were stripped before transplanting and which 

 were well watered afterward, are, to my con- 

 sternation, not only making leaf and flower, but 

 unfolding them. What shall be their end ? 



A season unheard of, this of 1920 — a season 

 of summerlike weather almost to November. The 

 smell of mignonette is in the air, the smell of 

 apples as men pick all day the glorious fruit which 

 is our apple harvest this year from the two acres 

 around the house. And, as I sit in my garden, 

 thinking, reading, writing, but, more than all, 

 gazing, I feel that melancholy so perfectly tuned 

 to words in stanzas at the head of this bit of writ- 

 ing. For weeks past we have thought each lovely 

 day would be the last of its kind; now we know 



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