MY GARDEN longings and stirrings. It is sometimes called 

 OF DREAMS "melancholy," but it is rather that far-away- 

 voices are calling. It is something like the 

 migratory instinct in a bird. A strange loneli- 

 ness steals over us — a vague homesickness of 

 soul. 



How eloquently still and prophetic autumn 

 is ! It is the deep rest of nature that stirs within 

 us the longings, and the hopes, and, perhaps, 

 the self-reproach. 



For autumn is a time of judgment upon our 

 work. The gardener understands this well. 

 There is in the falling-away of foliage a dis- 

 tinctness given to outline that lays bare de- 

 fects. Looking back over the garden year we 

 can see where the bare spots have been, where 

 there might have been constant bloom. In 

 some such way the thoughts that come with 

 autumn lay bare our lives. 



When nature's workmen have finished their 

 work and gone away, we are made acutely 

 conscious that there is something that we have 

 not finished. 



But autumn has its message of hope, even 

 to us, of unfinished work. 



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