"Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds; And see the spangled branches shine, And mark the moss of many a hue, That varies the old trees' brown bark, Or o'er the gray stone spreads; And see the cluster'd berries bright Amid the holly's gay green leaves; The ivy round the leafless oak, That clasps its foliage close. So virtue, diffident of strength, Clings to religion's firmer aid; So by religion's aid upheld Endures calamity."

Southey.

WHEN "Chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day," it does indeed seem as if all the pleasures of the garden were over; we turn our thoughts now to indoor work, indoor enjoyment, and leave our once cherished plots and haunts to be dealt with as wild winter chooses, casting now and then a hopeful thought forward to the first snowdrop and spring's sweet prime. Still, though we may agree with Wordsworth, that storm and fog "Announce a season potent to renew, 'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, And nobler cares than listless summer knew;" we must be allowed to plead on behalf of our garden that its pleasures are not by any means all gone; there is enjoyment still to be had among the bare branches, and on its gravel walks and grassy lawns, by those who know where to look and how to find the kind of enjoyment we speak of. To those who allege that in this drear season there is nothing enjoyable in the garden, I would say, in the words of a writer in a popular scientific periodical - "Have you thoroughly examined all the nooks and crannies, all the shadows and depths, all the surface and substrata of the domain, be it small or great, which you happen to call your own 1 Are you accurately acquainted with the contents of your own garden ?" In observing and studying the subjects connected with the garden - its entomology, its winter botany, its geology - may be found those "nobler joys " referred to by the poet; but even if we have not the desire to carry on such studies, we must admit that some slight knowledge of these subjects would give much additional interest to our garden, where we cannot now linger long, but from whence we may bring in materials for many an hour's pleasant occupation.

There are some peculiar beauties, too, at this season; about the most beautiful of which is the effect of hoar frost. The twigs and branches of shrub and tree are adorned as with diamonds ; but it is among the fallen leaves that rustle under our feet that the most lovely and varied effects of frost's magic fingers must be studied. What a contrast from yesterday, when a dull fog hung around, and the damp, dead leaves lay rotting on the path, noisome things, but to be swept away and perish! A clear, bright morning with slight frost lures you out, and what a change meets the eye! Every brown leaf is veined and bordered as with frosted silver, each bearing a distinct character; some are only edged, some filigreed all over, some curled up so curiously, but all beautiful exceedingly. Not only are the leaves thus transformed, but the broken twigs lie among them like silver rods. All look of desolation is gone from the garden, the bitter breath of frost has clothed with an unexpected beauty the despised things of yesterday; reminding us how often times of trial and sorrow draw forth traits of courage and kindness, unsuspected and perhaps unfelt till now, beautifying many a character we thought had little attraction in it before.

Even in midwinter there come sometimes a few mild days, when the feeling of spring is awakened in our hearts - days which "Bring hope with them and forward-looking thoughts."

We walk round the garden looking for the points of snowdrops and crocuses peeping through the dark earth, and longing for the time in which we will be working among them again. If there is anything to be done in the way of transplanting or putting in order, it is as well to take advantage of this transient foreshadow of spring, and get it done now. Spite of the doom of those who "will not plough by reason of the cold," it must be admitted that there is little amateur work in the garden in winter; and even the pleasure of seeing alterations made and improvements planned in summer now carried out, is much interfered with by the damp walks, the chilly air, and the discomfort of standing still while overlooking the work of another. Still, I must class this watching the progress of work doing as one of the winter pleasures of the garden, even if it is reduced to a short visit every morning, just to see what has been done.

The value of a small greenhouse, or even of a window filled with plants, is decidedly more felt in winter than at any other season, not merely from the shelter given to the plants, but because we are sure of finding something to do among them daily. No doubt patience and hope are the chief characteristics of winter-gardening, indoors or out; but to those who really like to work among their flowers, there may be many opportunities of this pleasure. One plant even of Tropceolum tricolor, if started in autumn, will afford daily amusement in training its quick-growing, flexible steins over its trellis; it submits to be turned about in any way, and as it is apt to make a rapid spring and get too soon to the top of its support, it requires to be kept low at first, and its stems may even be turned down from the top, when they will begin again quite cheerfully to climb up from the lowest place. In order thus to have some slight garden work in winter, a little forethought in summer and autumn is necessary; as, if our seeds are not sown, and our bulbs not planted, at the right season, we shall look in vain for this pleasant employment when the dark days come upon us. Thinking in time is a most necessary part of gardening work, though not always easy; for in the full blow of summer we are apt to rest satisfied with the present profusion of beauty, and can scarcely realise the dead, deserted feeling of winter, and so neglect to make the arrangements we might for brightening up some of its hours with tending growing plants. One of my favourite winter flowers is the tree mignonette, both from its sweetness when grown, and the work it gives in training and tying it up. Many people lift a plant of this flower in autumn, before it has done flowering, and pot it, when the blossoms linger long, if the seed-pods are cut off as they form; but the little trees I mean are different from this, and yet are so easy of culture that no one who has even a window to set the pots in need be without these plants. I got the receipt for making them in the Cottage Gardener, and have never been without several in the greenhouse since; they are easily transferred thence to the drawing-room or to a sick friend's window, and come into flower before hyacinths and spring bulbs, though they last in bloom longer than these, if managed rightly. About the end of April is said to be the best time for sowing mignonette for this purpose, and the soil should be a good rich compost, two-thirds mellow loam and one-third very rotten cow-dung, with a little sand and a few bits of mortar the size of peas. For those who cannot get this compost, and yet may wish to toy this branch of window-gardening, it may be said that the plants will grow in common garden soil, though of course they will not be so luxuriant.