The unlucky age.

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SEPTEMBER IN MY GARDEN.

There are few things I find so sorrowful as to sit and smoke and reflect on
the splendid deeds that one might have been doing if one had only had the
chance. The PRIME MINISTER feels like this, I suppose, when he remembers
how unkind people have prevented him from making a land fit for heroes to
live in, and I feel it about my garden. There can be no doubt that my
garden is not fit for heroes to saunter in; the only thing it is fit for is
to throw used matches about in; and there is indeed a certain advantage in
this. Some people's gardens are so tidy that you have to stick all your
used matches very carefully into the mould, with the result that next year
there is a shrubbery of Norwegian pine.

The untidiness of my garden is due to the fault of the previous tenants.
Nevertheless one can clearly discern through the litter of packing-cases
which completely surrounds the house that there was originally a garden
there.

I thought something ought to be done about this, so I bought a little book
on gardening, and, turning to September, began to read.

"September," said the man, "marks the passing of summer and the advent of
autumn, the time of ripening ruddy-faced fruits and the reign of a rich and
gloriously-coloured flora."

About the first part of this statement I have no observation to make. It is