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THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
October’s faded marigolds belie the poet this year, for they 
are still flowering ; and the calliopsis, so constant and so 
kind, pies the borders with its gipsy gems. In the warm 
and sheltered nooks of the garden the primrose opens her 
eye. I have known her to blossom from October on¬ 
wards until the full noon of April—not, of course, with 
generous and free-handed offerings, but rather as the gorse 
flowers, as a reminder, as a promise; for love and the 
furze die not, and the primrose is fain of life. 
Nature in her courses is for ever achieving fresh 
beauties and new permutations of loveliness. As I 
passed this morning through my kitchen garden the 
mist had but newly risen, the sky was palely and dimly 
blue under a shimmering curtain, and the tears of dew 
were upon the asparagus. The clustering red berries 
gleamed in the faint sunlight, and the tall, feathery 
bushes, six feet at least in height, were one great sheet 
of glimmering pearly glory, so delicate, so shy of look, 
and so magical in aspect as to seem derived of faery, 
and certainly in no wise calculated to remind one of 
hearty happy dinners long since gone, when spring was 
still young and asparagus was “ cheap to-day.” 
The beauty of the hops, too, is not yet over. The 
green has turned to brown, but the long loops and 
festoons look just as beautiful as ever, trailing up my 
verandah, and netting tree to tree after a manner that 
shames me before any practical and orderly gardener. 
But the garden is for enjoyment, rightly understood, 
and not for profit alone, or for the use and wont of 
definite and iron conventions. My hops shall grow and 
overspread what I please. 
