94 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
unconsciously touched by their inopportunity; it is, so 
to speak, the memento mori that they seem to chant 
before the time. Out upon the moor and all along 
the heath-land, brakes, and hedges, the yellow-hammer 
flits and twitters forth his “ Kiss me, quick, quick, 
quick, and go, plea-ea-ease ,” a light-winged Ariel of the 
wilderness; and his oft-sung madrigal is as full of 
pleasant cheer as the songs that William Blake’s shep¬ 
herd went piping down the valleys wild. But he is no 
garden visitant, so we must even bid welcome to our 
robin, and prepare to make the most of what we yet 
may spend, undismayed by the vision he has conjured 
up before us. The sun shines, the roses are beginning 
to blossom anew ; there is an abundance of leafage upon 
the trees; summer is with us still, and the garden’s 
lease of gaiety does not close for many a long day yet. 
Indeed, for sheer radiance and riot of colouring, I am 
not by any means assured that this is not the brightest 
hour of all. A glance at the zinnia beds alone should 
go far towards carrying conviction as to this, and 
drowning any lingering pessimistic sentiments under 
deep seas of glowing colour. It is a mosaic of barbaric 
splendour that they present with their turbaned, or 
curled, heads, standing up proudly in the strong sun¬ 
shine. Dusky orange, sharp carmine, saffron, china- 
pink, rose du Barri, purple, white, and frankest of 
vermilions, they grow together gaudy and unashamed, 
with something of the magnificence, I think, of the 
old-time courts of Indian kings. Scarcely less brilliant 
of hue are the gaillardias that help to glorify the broad 
herbaceous borders with all manner of sunset stains. 
