In . My Garden These are unpardonable comments, much too abstract,
especially at a time of year when work in the garden should be as nearly a whole-time affair as the breadwinner can contrive. This is the month for thinking ahead, studying the catalogues, ordering seeds, bulbs and new perennials. I intend to be ruthless this year in the matter of clearing out old stock. Beds of bush-roses planted on El Alamein day, November 15th, 1942, are to be re-stocked, in spite of the high prices, and the fact that many of the bushes have flowered profusely this summer. But rust and black-spot have been spreading, ignoring several washings with sulphur. The soil is obviously infected, and I intend to clear the beds, dig a disinfectant powder in during the autumn, and set the new plants before the end of the year. Living in an upland valley, on the .south side of the slope, in generous Kent, I can afford to be tardy in sowing and planting. Winter hardly begins before Christmas here.
The wet summer has been kind to the lawns. It has been particularly welcome because last spring I made a bold attack upon moss, which had spread alarmingly during the drought of 1949. But the immediate result was an eye-sore. After the removal of the dead moss (killed by lime) under repeated rakings, the bare patches ruined the appearance of the terraces. I ruffled up the surface, sowed new seed, sprinkled sand over it, and lay a dressing of sifted compost enriched with farm manure. This interested the sparrows, who have been a pett this year, and continuous sentry work has been put in, with a .410 shot gun. Tomatoes having finished in the greenhouse, the soil has been bolstered up, limed and disinfected, and the house itself sprayed with carbolic and a touch of paraffin. After a week I shall put in the chrysanthemums which have been out of doors during the summer, cuttings from last year's stock. Too many of them, owing to my clumsy dis-budding, have been flowering prematurely, and we have tried to fill the rooms of our home with handsome blooms out of season, at a time when the garden offered abundance of other blossom for decorative use. How I envy those zealots who dedicate their whole gardening lives to the chrysanthemum. Within their own faculty they are happy masters of a special craft—and with what results! But then I feel the same about lilies and sweet peas. I have a neighbour who is a sweet-pea addict, and every spring I go up to her garden on the hill opposite my own, and study the ritual of her sacred rows of sticks, with a pampered darling at the foot of each. But no sooner do I get home than my enthusiasm is called to some other speciality, and I end by being that most pedestrian of creatures, an average
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