Pot-pourri from a Surrey garden

The dear, bare branches of my favourite Polygonum cuspidatum, here planted in a hole in the grass, look lovely now at this time of the year, red in the sunshine against a background of evergreens. I have now on the table before me — cold and grey as it is out of doors — Marigolds, Tea-rose buds (that are opening in the room, and looking so pretty with a shoot of their own brown leaves), Neapolitan Violets, some branches of small white Michaelmas Daisies, and of ^course Chrysanthemums — those autumn friends we are half tired of, and yet we could so little do without. Another striking feature in the garden just now are some small Beech- trees, quite small, grown and cut back as shrubs are pruned. In a soil where Beech-trees do not grow naturally, it is well worth while to have them in this way, because of their peculiarity of retaining on their branches the red dry leaves more than half through the winter, causing a distinct point of colour against the evergreen shrubs. November 14£/&. — This is my last day in the country, calm and warm. I eat my luncheon by the open window. All Nature is very, very still, the silence broken now and then by the chirp of a bird and the distant crow of a cock in some neighbour's yard ; the sky is pearly and grey, and soft light-grey mists hang about, just enough to show up 206 POT-POURRI FROM A SURREY GARDEN the glory of some autumn bush or leaf. In front of the window there are some little delicate leaves of one of the shrubby Spiraeas, planted on purpose to shine, coral and gold, late in the year. It does not matter about its being planted in a choice bed, as its growth is not coarse ; if it looks a little dried up in summer, it is not noticed when all the flowers are about. The dear little black and white pigeons — ' Nuns,' they are called — with outspread wings, are flying down to feed. The flight of a pigeon is so beautiful ; no wonder Dante immortalised it in the famous lines in the Paolo and Francesca episode. That old cynic, Voltaire, used to say that Dante's fame would always grow, because he is so little read. As I sit and watch, the low yellow winter sun bursts out, illuminating all things. To-morrow he will not shine for me, as I shall be in that horrid dark London. One other morbid little poem, appropriate to this time of year, I think I must give you, for it used to be a great favourite of mine in past days, before the cheerfulness of old age came upon me. If I ever knew who was the author, I have forgotten it now :— LA MELANCOLIE Que me dis-tu, morne vent d'automne — Miserable vent ? Toi dont la chanson douce et monotone Jadis charmait tant ? Tu me dis, helas ! qu'amour et jeunesse M'ont fait leurs adieux . . . Et du fond de Tame un flot de tristesse Me d6borde aux yeux ! Tu me dis, trop bien, ou le sentier mene Que 1'espoir a fui . . . Et ton chant piteux, traduisant ma peine, Triple mon ennui. NOVEMBER 207 Ce mal qui courbait sur mon foyer vide Mon front desole — Ta complainte, 0 vent, et ton souffle humide Me 1'ont revele ; C'est le mal des ans— c'est la nostalgic Des printemps perdus : Et ton vieux refrain n'est qu'une elegie Sur ce qui n'est plus 1