It is dark now in the mornings when we rise; the beginning of those long months of morning labour in the dark, which is one of the disagreeables of farm life. I go out to out to see if there are any blooms left in the garden. It is not a kindly garden for it has a northern slope, and there are trees to the south, and the house to the west which cut off the sun’s rays at this season of the year.
There are still a few belated nasturtiums, violas, yellow chrysanthemum and purple clematis; even the Japanese anemone is tawdry and the Michaelmas daisies are too tall and the storm lays them. There are newer dwarf kinds which I must get. This year, the “pokers” or Tritoma Maria, have been a failure; they are only beginning to bloom now, and look apologetic.
As a solace for my own gardening failures, I read for an hour in Gertrude Jekyll’s “Home and Garden” and construct a dream picture garden for myself, which gives me the purest pleasure, for nothing there ever goes wrong, nothing enter it to defile and I do not labour and weary myself in vain.