144 
THE WANING YEAR 
Above all, that ominous old saying, “ for every fog in 
October a snow in the winter,” comes to mind with a 
ring of menace, for this last October’s tale of fogs was 
large; a reckoning more liberal than pleasing to be 
chalked up against us on the wall of the year’s hostel and 
paid for in winter’s cold, white money. One is even in¬ 
clined to feel a little ill-used in advance at the thought 
of the fog-ogre’s jaunts at our expense, if indeed we must 
presently pay for a debt we never did contract. No, if 
the winter pilgrimage is to be more than usual long and 
cheerless, I, for my part, would be paying my shot, so to 
speak, with far better grace were the score run up for 
an extravagance of sunny days. That I would never be¬ 
grudge—but to think that the abhorred bete noire of 
autumn has disported himself to our cost is more than a 
sober-minded gardener should be asked to bear. How¬ 
ever, in all likelihood the prophets may be wrong; the 
most respectable auguries have proved fallible ere now. 
It is quite possible that the coming season may roar as 
gently as a sucking dove and show itself a marvel of 
moderation, in spite of all our forebodings; and, if not 
—why, the shrewd discipline may well serve to brisken 
us up; our fortifications are complete, and, anyway, I 
have for reassurement a long-remembered adage of the 
very first gardener of my acquaintance—“ snow fattens 
the land.” So that all is to be well, whatever may be¬ 
tide, for thinking shall make it so, whether the year’s 
last wear is white or green, whether the snowdrop and 
the winter aconite are to have pearl or emerald for set¬ 
ting. As I go from one parterre to another, casting com¬ 
placent glances from border to border, from plot to plot, 
