116 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
and so on to rose-flushed white runs the short scale; 
short indeed, yet all delightful. The robin is a minne¬ 
singer of but few cadences, and just as you do not 
weary of hearing him sing them over and over, so, in 
like manner, there is no touch of monotony in these 
pleasant chords of narrow scope. Snow-white and 
rose-red, the little people of the ancient Mdrchen might 
well have been the fairy god-mothers of such blossoms 
as these. 
The lilies are practically over and gone, although 
here a stray belated wand of white, green-striped 
Kraetzeri, there a lingering sceptre of the stately Tiger 
Lily, stand in sheltered places, reminiscent of summer’s 
pride. Gone are the majestic Browni, with its sculp¬ 
tured beauty, the splendid Auratum, the incense-bearing, 
snow-white Longiflorum, the Rubrum’s lightly-frosted 
rose: one by one, almost as though by stealth, the long 
procession has passed before you are come to realise 
that for a long twelvemonth you shall see its blooms no 
more. Sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in 
the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe 
and spade. We shall be putting the scythe, or its 
noisy substitute, away ere long, for the grass begins 
already to spring with feebler impulse, and the season 
of the spade is soon to come—-that sturdy republican 
who shall dethrone the reigning flowers and prepare 
the way for the next dynasty. 
But the autumn fires are not yet lit, and Dahlia and 
Aster and the tall Star-worts, the little flowers of 
St. Michael, fill my garden with their transitory pomp. 
Violet and blue, amethyst, pink, topaz, pearl, gold and 
