86 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
You may almost figure it as brooding contemplative, 
like my stone garden god beneath the dark ilex in the 
rose-garden, dreaming, finger on lip, in this summer 
silence that breathes almost such slumberous airs as may 
have moved within the Sleeping Beauty’s palace; the 
birds stir between green boughs, among flowering 
bushes, furtive, confused, as in an ambuscade. There 
is even a certain stealthy flutter of indignation in their 
attitude, especially where the blackbird is concerned. 
“Tck, tck, tck,” he cries, surprised and angry; and 
I vow I can all but catch a glimpse of black cloak and 
sombrero as he flaps into some deeper shelter still. 
And yet, although the minnesingers’ golden lutes are 
laid aside, and sunrise and sunset alike find the pleas- 
aunce silent still, that very quality of silence wears a 
charm of its own—a quiet expectancy that seems full 
of vague and exquisite promise. 
The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is near at 
hand, while, in the meantime, pure, rich chords of 
colour sing from border and plot in heavenly harmonies, 
with now and again some sudden note of discord that 
yet is not discordant in reality, but only eloquent of the 
imprevu. The clear enamels of the turbaned zinnias, troop¬ 
ing all together, are amazingly pleasant to the apprecia¬ 
tive gazer. This is no flower of sentiment any more than 
its clean and hearty forerunner, the pyrethrum, or its 
close follower, the radiant dahlia. It is just a joy of clear 
and candid colour, a feast in itself of gorgeous gaiety, dear 
to the eye that is as sensitive to strictly decorative beauty 
as to that floral loveliness which combines aesthetic 
qualities and the traditions of human emotion in one. 
