Time has run away with us, and the garden chronicle has been silent. The Ramblers have blazed in the garden, more especially the indefatigable “Dorothy,” till one has grown almost tired of such a repetition of vivid pink.

The Mistress of the Villino has been planning “toning-down effects” for next year and means to run a border of Catmint or Dwarf Lavender against the “Dorothy” hedge.

The Lily Walk, which we shall have to call by another name, since, with a few exceptions, the Lilies decline to have anything to say to it, is, should the scheme contemplated be successful, to show a cool vista of greys, lavender blues, and “rose mourante” behind the arch where the same irrepressible Perkins flaunts herself in such splendour. The Delphiniums, which have done so well there, will have spent their hour of glorious life before the arch enters upon its triumph.

What a mausoleum that Lily Walk has proved itself! It has been one of our tragedies! Adam is quite dispassionate, and says “it’s the Lily disease; and there’s a deal of it about.”

By one of those freakish accidents that will occur in the best regulated gardens, a batch of Fairy Lilies was planted behind the ramping Alstrumerias. This was discovered too late, when these bold Peruvians were succumbing.

But besides the amount of sickly, straggling “Candidums,” “Auratums,” and “Tigers” that have disgraced the border, there is the unaccountable number of bulbs that have been swallowed up in it! The whole thing must be dug out this autumn. And the scheme is now to grow Ceanothus “Gloire de Versailles” up the wooden trellis at the back between the Roses the foliage of which is always blighted, and to have a pillar of Blush Rambler at the end, by the side of the Wellingtonia which closes the border. Bushes of Ceanothus Azureas, as well as the successful “Gloire de Versailles”; a drift of Achillea, shading from the palest pink to deep carmine; bushes of Catmint; the new pale pink Spirea, perennial Gypsophila; mauve Galiga Salvia, Miss Jekyll recommends; Sea Lavender and a couple of clumps of Eringium will complete the effect. Perhaps there shall be Moon Daisies, pale pink and mauve Penstemons, and one or two groups of “Cottage Maid” Antirrhinums to fill up the gaps. But what we feel is needed is the grey, mauve, silver, and lavender-blue tinting against which Dorothy Perkins may be as flaming as she likes.

It is rare to find Rose Achilleas anywhere. Yet they are as pretty a thing as we have ever seen in a border; the blossoms seeming to drift on their slender stems, one above the other like little sunset clouds.

What has been for once a complete pleasure is the wide bed under the drawing-room window. The Ceanothus—which loves us—has been a treasure of delicate bloom; and, against it, the great old bushes of lavender have thrust their spikes in profusion. Just the right tone to harmonize. Then the Longiflorum Lilies—excellent, sturdy, conscientious darlings!—have lifted their satin shining trumpets above the Heliotrope that loves us too; and Lobelia, the one vivid line of colour, has rimmed the thick cushion of “Mrs. Sinkins’” foliage most artistically. The grey-green gives the finishing touch to a really reposeful combination. There are also two or three clumps of Nicotiana Affinis, softly mauve, and faded purple crimson. To gaze at that corner against the amethyst of the moor is a never-ending delight.

But another garden disaster has been the annihilation of all the seedlings which we sowed in the open border! It is laughable now, but sad too, to turn back the pages and read the vainglorious project of running a dazzling ribbon of Nemophila against the Dorothy Perkins hedge. It might have been frightful; so perhaps Providence kindly intervened! But that Nigella “Miss Jekyll” should have refused her mysterious and pretty presence in the Blue Border is a deep disappointment.

We are again gnashing our teeth over the Blue Border. The fact is, we suppose, it is too much to expect beauty all the year round, no matter how boastfully garden writers inform you of their artifices in that direction: how cleverly, for instance, the annual Gypsophila will bury the unsightly decay of the Iris leaves, or how you can pull branches of “Miss Mellish” down over the Delphiniums.

Why do not our Delphiniums bloom twice? Every garden book and every catalogue cheers your heart by promising a handsome second bloom to the industrious clipper-off of seed-pods. But never a Delphinium has responded to our kind attentions in that direction. Perhaps our soil does not give them strength enough for such exertion. But it is idle speculating. One must learn what one’s garden will do and what it won’t do—and make the best of it.

The greatest of all the tragedies that have befallen us lately is indubitably the passing away of poor old Tom. We are now catless!

Poor little friend! Where has that quaint, faithful, dutiful identity gone to? Juvenal says Heaven would not be Heaven to him if he were not to meet his own dogs there—a sentiment which we have, we believe, ourselves set down elsewhere. St. Francis the Poverello saw God in all His lesser creatures. It is not possible to think that we shall lose anything in a completer world.

Tom was the most conscientious of cats. He now lies beside Susan. We are going to get two little tombstones made for us by the Watts Settlement at Compton. Susan’s epitaph has already been mentioned. Nothing more to the point could be imagined:

“Here lies Susan, a good dog.” “Here lies Thomas, for eighteen years our faithful cat-comrade.”

So shall it stand recorded over the new grave.