THE WANING YEAR 
H5 
my heart leaps up with something, I imagine, of the 
miser’s sense of power, of hoarded happiness. “ Felicity, 
inquire within ” might serve for sign-board to these sym¬ 
metrical brown barrows that entomb the secret gold of 
spring—the jewelled spheres, the ivory palaces that are 
to rise as from the dead at the enchanted hour, the magic 
word. My heart goes out in glad anticipation to that 
charmed moment when the spring wind shall sigh its 
fragrant “ Open Sesame ! ” 
Here, at least, I know that I do not reckon without 
my host; for whatever the blunders, the incertitudes, the 
deceits, that may wait upon the practice of the gardener’s 
art at large, I know that my bulbs will never play me 
false. This argosy will bring home its galleons faith¬ 
fully, whatever enemies may be abroad. As the plump 
russet or dun globes sank down to burial one by one, 
committed to the kind earth’s care, and the dark soil 
was made once more smooth above them, it seemed to 
me as though I had staked out a sure claim in some ex¬ 
quisite new country, or secured the title-deeds of a castle 
in Eldorado. So much for the far future; but mean¬ 
while the immediate present, the world of to-day and 
to-morrow, is by no means bare of interest. Up in the 
fruit gallery there are some shelves emptied already, and 
some thinning fast; while others still hoard their pleasant 
store, ruddy and russet, amber, orange-tawny and dark 
jade, against the still colder and more barren months to 
come. Of the many tiers of pears there are but com¬ 
paratively few left; but these cloistral shades are still 
perfumed with the incense of sweet memories. Gone 
are the scented Urbanistes, the Flemish Beauty, the 
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