In the Garden
I have just found some belated mushrooms under a yew hedge by the entrance of the vegetable garden. The find reminds me of a secret source of supply which I frequently enjoyed while in chambers in Old Square, Lincoln's Inn. Under a seat in the garden there, near the wall that divided us from The Fields and the twentieth century, I used frequently to take half a dozen fine mushrooms which nobody else appeared to be interested in. I recall going out one September night to gather them— to the hooting of an owl !
I am contemplating with some dismay the plan-ravaged rose-beds The bushes are all earthed-in behind the greenhouse, and preparations are now toward for the washing of the ground with tar-distillate, when the fruit-trees are sprayed. It is an unpleasant task, for, no matter what way the wind may be, or even with no breeze at all, there is always a blow-back that stings one's face and eyes. Old Home Guard trousers (if surviving still) are useful for this job, worn with gum boots and an ancient leather vest.
The heavy rains have held up any really progressive work this week. Even to go down to cut a cauliflower is an aqueous event. The only flourishing thing in the garden is the viburnum fragrans, which has been in flower since long before it shed its leaves. The perfume, in the moist air, is heavy. Sgme bulbs are already spiking their way through the soil, and I shall expett aconites by Christmas, unless the weather sets in for
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