"With all, as in some rare-limn'd book, we see Here painted lectures of God's sacred will. The daisy teacheth lowliness of mind; The camomile, we should be patient still; The rue, our hate of Vice's poison ill; The woodbine, that we should our friendship hold; Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold." --[Henry Peacham.] The old man stopped from his work, as the musing figure of his guest darkened the prospect before him, and said: "A pleasant time, Sir, for the gardener!" "Ay, is it so ... you must miss the fruits and flowers of summer." "Well, Sir,--but we are now paying back the garden, for the good things it has given us.--It is like taking care of a friend in old age, who has been kind to us when he was young." Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea. "'Tis a winning thing, Sir, a garden!--It brings us an object every day; and that's what I think a man ought to have if he wishes to lead a happy life." "It is true," said Walter; and mine host was encouraged to continue by the attention and affable countenance of the stranger, for he was a physiognomist in his way. "And then, Sir, we have no disappointment in these objects:--the soil is not ungrateful, as, they say, men are--though I have not often found them so, by the by. What we sow we reap. I have an old book, Sir, lying in my little parlour, all about fishing, and full of so many pretty sayings about a country life, and meditation, and so forth, that it does one as much good as a sermon to look into it. But to my mind, all those sayings are more applicable to a gardener's life than a fisherman's." "It is a less cruel life, certainly," said Walter. "Yes, Sir; and then the scenes one makes oneself, the flowers one plants with one's own hand, one enjoys more than all the beauties which don't owe us any thing; at least, so it seems to me. I have always been thankful to the accident that made me take to gardening." "And what was that?"