COUNTRY LIFE
IN all parts of the country where there are gardens the raking up of fallen leaves from lawns and paths is now in process. Who _does not know that happy-melancholy task, seemingly so leisurely and peaceful, in fact so back-breaking and lumbar-muscle-stretching ? For days it goes on as an unequal combat with the trees, who scatter their outworn currency of dubious gold faster than the poor misers beneath can gather it. But gradually the store on twig and branch becomes exhausted, and the moment comes
" When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do bang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang."
Then the human with the rake gains the day, and the last, or almost the last (for there is never quite a last leaf), desecration is removed from the jealously tailored lawns and carried down to the compost heap, there to be turned in under a little soil and lime, to prevent the wind scattering it again, and to ensure that it shall fall into its final worth, which is more even than real gold. But still some people burn their leaves, as though they were living in an age of opulence, with stable manure to be had for the asking, g, and phosphates from the village shop. We ought to deprecate this, and to frown upon such unconservative methods. Marxian principles will not do in the garden.
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