120 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
with their scantly-sprinkled pearls, while the fiery 
nasturtium still riots amid its lusty profusion of flat 
green discs gemmed over with bright dew, and strong 
entwining tendrils. The scarlet and purple pimpernel, 
the Shepherd’s Weatherglass, has not yet forgotten its 
task beneath the season’s lessening light, but still lifts its 
friendly eye towards the autumn skies and me. 
“ The trees are Indian princes, but soon they’ll turn 
to ghosts,” and in the thought of this it is not entirely 
a sense of loss that predominates; we shall in all likeli¬ 
hood be weary enough of winter and its ensigns later 
on. But for the moment—and the moment is always 
all that should matter so far as the spirit of place is con¬ 
cerned and the sentiment of the season—there is content, 
exhilaration almost, in this subtle atmosphere of change. 
Evanescent, if you will, are the lovely sunset dyes on 
vine and tree, and trailing, glowing creeper, but what 
pleasure touched in any degree by magic was ever the 
less for that ? 
