burning leaves, borne now and then on
the wind, from the outdoor house-cleaning of the world.

There is perhaps no season of all the garden year that brings more real
delight to the gardener, no time so stimulating to the imagination. This
year in the garden has been good, but next year shall be better. All the
failures, or near-failures, shall of course be turned into successes, and
the successes shall be bettered. Last year there were not quite enough
hollyhocks, but next year there shall be such glories! There are seedlings
that I have been saving, over on the edge of the phlox. I dash across to
look them up--yes, here they are, splendid little fellows, leaves only a
bit crumpled by the frost. I dig them up carefully, keeping earth packed
about their roots, and one by one I convey them across and set them out in
a beautiful row where I want them to grow next year. Their place is beside
the old stone-flagged path, and I picture them rising tall against the
side of the woodshed, whose barrenness I have besides more than half
covered with honeysuckle.

Then, there are my foxgloves. Some of them I have already transplanted,
but not all. There is a little corner full of stocky yearlings that I must
change now. And that same corner can be used for poppies. I have kept
seeds of this year's poppies--funny little brown pepper-shakers, with tiny
holes at the end through which I shake out the fine seed dust. Doubtless
they would attend to all this without my help, but I like to be sure that
even my self-seeding annuals come up where I most want them.

Biennials, like the foxglove and canterbury bells, are of course, the
difficult children of the garden, because you have to plan not only for
next year but for the year after. Next year's bloom is secured--unless they
winter-kill--in this year's young plants, growing since spring, or even
since the fall before. These I transplant for next summer's beauty. But
for the year after I like to take double precautions. Already I have tiny
seedlings, started since August, but besides these I sow seed, too late to
start before spring. For a severe winter may do havoc, and I shall then
need the early start given by fall sowing.

As I work on, I discover all sorts of treasures--young plants, seedlings
from all the big-folk of my garden. Young larkspurs surround the bushy
parent clumps, and the ground near the forget-me-nots is fairly carpeted
with little new ones. I have found that, thoug