130 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
glories of rich sun-dyed browns and delicate yellows. 
But in town the change is almost over; flowers have 
withered under frosts, and leaves lie gold and red and 
dun upon the paths. Yet—the deep glory of the 
London sun is never realised in that clearer and purer 
air upon the open fields and hills. 
October marks the turn of the gardener’s year. Beds 
are being daily tidied, flowers which have bloomed and 
faded are being cut down, the broom is for ever plying 
on the walks, and all signs witness to the close of the 
horticultural year. All signs witness also to the opening 
of a new year. The season is dead; long live the 
season ! There is no rest for the conscientious gardener, 
as there is proverbially none for the wicked. “The 
flowers are in their grassy tombs, and tears of dew are 
on them all ”; but no sooner are they packed away in 
death than the gardener faces another year with hope 
and faith, and in mental vision beholds the bright 
prophecy—sometimes, alas, but the mirage—of a spring 
and a summer to come. Some, to be sure, of a sentiment 
too little robust, close down their interest in the open 
garden with this month. Thenceforward their thoughts 
turn inwards to the hothouse or the stove, where all the 
delights of exotic manufactures may be perpetually theirs. 
Yet this, I think, is a mistake, and one should encourage 
a heartiness of sympathy which will enable one to tread 
the accustomed paths between the haunts of vanished 
favourites, or walk by vacant copses without regret, but 
rather in the company of gracious memories. 
There is little in the garden in October that has not 
already flowered and spread abroad its beauty either in 
