4 MY GROWING GARDEN 



any other season ever was until the insensible pas- 

 sage into the *^melancholy" autumn sets us tingling 

 with color joy in the happy maturity of leaves 

 and twigs, and shows us nature's color balance 

 of warmth for winter and "coolth" for summer. 

 Then we are sure that autumn is the best of all. 

 We see how the honeysuckle holds its glossy green 

 robe right through the frosts which bring down 

 the golden shower of horse-chestnut leaves; we 

 enjoy the berry brightness on the dogwoods and 

 the persistence of the chrysanthemums; we watch 

 the thermometer leaves of the big rhododendrons, 

 and we have learned to pick out the promise of 

 those fat, sumptuous buds on the lilacs, the for- 

 sythias, the deutzias and spireas, that are all 

 ready for the spring show, not so many weeks 

 ahead. Melancholy? We don't see it, or feel it, or 

 know it, here at Breeze Hill, in this growing 

 garden. 



Now I've named It, though it was my much 

 better half who did it first. It is the right name, 

 for we are on a hill, and surely the breezes that 

 reach us come straight from the distant mountains, 

 not often touching the rising smoke and dust of 

 the city a hundred feet lower. At first, we had a 

 whimsical reason for the name, in that a change 

 of but its first letter would be required to make it 



