SUNDOWN 
133 
I find that a flower which I once contemned as pur¬ 
poseless, grown in a suitable way, can be very pleasing. 
I refer to the so-called autumn crocus, which, of course, 
is no crocus at all, but a colchicum. The name which 
I prefer is meadow saffron, so suggestive of spring and 
the sweets of the year. There are autumn crocuses, to 
be sure, but what is usually known as such is this pretty 
meadow saffron. It may be either purple or white, is 
leafless, and rises like a ghost from the dark earth—a 
ghost of March and its dead crocuses. Planted very 
thickly and over fairly large spaces, it has a handsome 
effect, salutes the eye at a distance, and tones wonder¬ 
fully with the dull purple-brown soil and the fading 
green. And there is so little now in the dwindling 
hospitality of the garden to greet us that one must be 
grateful to such a graceful flower that has braved the 
melancholy of this declining season. 
Now is the hour when every gardener is apt to tell 
the tale of his flowers, and some are found so shameless 
and so arrogant, so fussy and so important, as to write off 
to their favourite papers stating the number and quality 
of their blossoms. Dahlias, save in high and dry places, 
begin to show drab and dingy on their stalks; and here 
in my garden they are no longer. Nightly the smoke 
of the refuse fires ascends to heaven, and the bitter¬ 
sweet aroma of consuming stalk and leaf mingles with 
the smell of the damp earth. Auriculas are blooming 
afresh in the borders; but what of that ? The roses 
are dead, or all but dead, and the ashes of a thousand 
fragrant flowers are scattered to the winds. The 
Japanese anemones blow gallantly, white rose and red; 
