THE SUNSET OF OUR YEAR 
Gone where the old moons go are all the strictly 
summer flowers ; summer’s lease is run out, and autumn 
takes possession of the garden. The lavender harvest 
has some while since been gathered in, and even the 
cry of the lavender pedlar, which, oddly enough, runs 
to the air of an ancient Breton hymn tune, is no longer 
heard about the streets. Larkspur and lupin, pinks, 
Mary lilies, and mignonette, together with many another 
fair and fragrant tenant of the prime, are already but 
memories—their candles are all out, and the flamboyant 
Torch lily rears its stately head above their graves. 
Autumn is come, indeed, open-handed as ever, and 
between her bewildering bounties of flower and fruit, 
the golden largesses of her lower sun, one is too much 
engaged by the present to consider over-curiously as to 
glories past. 
The rose garden is gradually awakening, with robin 
for its troubador, singing perhaps as sweetly as that 
“ old captive ” who, or ever the knightly years were 
gone with the old world to the grave, sung of Aucassin 
and Nicolete. Yet, decoratively speaking, the chief 
honours of the hour belong mainly to orchard trees; 
for here you have before you, glowing in the yellow 
sun, groves and bowers that bring to mind Aladdin’s 
legendary garden. 
Legendary, one says; but what reality has ever 
impressed itself more vividly than that fabled pleas- 
aunce ? Be that as it may, the fruit garden very 
