AUGUST NINTH.-The following passage of Milton's I believe I ought to have written in Spring. But I cannot leave it out, and in one beautiful season of the year, it is good to dream of another season. When the seed is sown it is well to think of ripened corn, and when the ears are full of grain it is right to think of the Sower. A great writer says of these lines, "I know of nothing parallel or comparable to this passage to be found among all the treasures of ancient or modern poetry."

sung;

"Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ;
She all night long her amorous descant
Silence was pleas'd: now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires: Hesperus that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."

AUGUST TENTH.-I do not know the author of the following lines, nor do I know where I found them; but, right or wrong, I cannot leave them out of my Kalendar if the author sees them I trust I may be forgiven.

"A garden is a lonesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not-

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign !

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.”

; so

And the following came in a letter, copied, I believe,

from a daily paper.

"And I dream that these garden-closes,

With their shade and their sun-flecked sod,

And their lilies, and bowers of roses,

Were laid by the hand of God.

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth—
One is nearer God's Heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth."

AUGUST ELEVENTH.-Ruskin writes: "You have heard it said—and I believe there is more than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful one-that flowers only flourish rightly in the garden of some one who loves them. I know you would like that to be true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if your look had the power, not only to cheer, but to guard; if you could bid the black blight turn away, and the knotted caterpillar spare; if you could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind in the frost, Come, thou south wind, and breathe upon my garden!""

In Mason's poem on the garden, written in 1767, he describes the feeling a garden awoke in him :

and o'er my cradle drop'd

Those magic seeds of Fancy, which produce
A Poet's feeling, and a Painter's eye

Again, later in the poem he writes :—

"The art, which, varying forms and blending hues,
Gives that harmonious force of shade and light,
Which makes the landscape perfect. Art like this
Is only art, all else abortive toil."

"Gardening," says an eighteenth-century writer, "besides the emotions of beauty by means of regularity, order, proportion, colour, and utility, can raise emotions of grandeur, of sweetnesse, of gaiety, melancholy, wildeness, and even of surprise and wonder."

AUGUST TWELFTH.-"The Floure of the Sun" is simply shining to-day.

"The gaudy orient Sunflower from the crowd
Uplifts its golden circle."

That describes it well. It is a "gaudy" flower, and it uplifts itself so far above its fellows in my border.

"But one, the lofty follower of the sun,
Sad when he sets, shuts up her golden leaves,
Drooping all night, and when he warm returns,
Points her enamoured bosom to his ray."

I do not love the sunflower, and yet I am willing to allow that no garden in late summer is perfect without it.

"August bears the burden, September the fruit."

"A wet August never brings dearth.”

"It is reported, that to make hasty Growing CoppiceWoods, the way is to take Willow, Sallon, Poplar, Alder, of some seven yeares growth; And set them not up right, but a slope, a reasonable depth under the ground; And then instead of one Root, they will put forth many, and so carry more Shoots upon a Stemme."-BACON.

AUGUST THIRTEENTH.-To-day the mountain ash berries are scarlet in the sun. Great red bunches bearing down the branches. But alas! we shall not have them long. The trees are covered with birds feasting away greedily as if winter was already here. I think it really is disgraceful conduct on their part. They might have left the berries a little longer for me to gaze at. They look so glorious against the blue sky. I suppose they know full well that I shall feed them in the winter, and so they need not practise self-denial, and store such dainties against dark days. Blackbirds, missel-thrushes, and hawfinches are there. I fancy the baby wrynecks are feeding too, for I heard an old wryneck protesting. Also linnets and chaffinches and some of the smaller warblers are there. When they see me coming they do not fly away, but just hide behind the leaves, and peep out to see if I am angry or not. If I am angry they know I shall clap my hands, and that I have not the heart to do!

All the dear roses are beginning to bloom again, and the auratum lilies are coming, unfolding long white crinkled buds. My heart is heavy, for a rabbit has got into the garden and has eaten a conserve of monthly roses for his supper. Sometimes I think, like the man of old, I shall give up gardening and plant an orchard! There is still honeysuckle in the hedges and the heather is purple, royal purple. I have just seen a lovely border. Covering the wall at the back was Ceanothus in full flower. In front groups of white hollyhocks, scarlet cannas (with dark leaves), patches of pale yellow antirrhinum, and an edging of mauve heart's

ease.

P