In "Indian summers " the September garden is a place of joy. The delicious, dewy mornings have the freshness of April, the noons have the warmth of June, the evenings are mild and sweet. Statisticians might reply to any rhapsodies on Indian summers by the production of figures which prove that they are rare in Great Britain, but what gardener ever takes any notice of a statistician? Horticulturists are a class unto themselves, and if they elect to make their plans as though every September could be trusted to give the ideal conditions for gardening, who will declare them foolish and misguided? Is it unwise to provide that the garden shall be pleasant through every hour of September? Is it misguided to put late-blooming, fragrant plants near a favourite seat? No, no. If some days are wet, others are fine, and at the worst the flowers can be cut and carried into the house. My view is that we should wring the last drop of enjoyment out of a garden. We should never let our interest in it slacken while there is one plant blooming, or one blade of grass growing, or one fruit on the trees, or one pod left on the Scarlet Runners. We should work in September, weather permitting, with as much zest as if the year were beginning. The fact that sportsmen of the classes have begun partridge shooting, and of the masses football; that the regatta season is over, and the great outdoor exhibitions are announcing their last few days; that a cricket team is taking ship for the Antipodes, and that pleasure steamers are going into winter quarters - all these things have no bearing on garden operations. The great facts with us are that Dahlias are at their best and early Chrysanthemums beginning; that Michaelmas Daisies are opening rapidly and bulb catalogues arriving by every post. Then, too, there is that bed of tuberous Begonias which languished a little during the hot, dry days of July, but which freshened up so marvellously under the August rains. See it now, a glorious mass of blossom; white, blush, pink, rose, salmon, and scarlet. The salmon tints in the double Begonias are indescribably lovely.

The Begonia bed alone would be the making of the garden, but the Sweet Peas, constantly picked throughout the hot weather, are still full of bloom; Dorothy Perkins Rose is nearly as fresh as ever, and the Water Lilies are only inferior to their former glory in that the flowers are a little smaller - the colours are as bright and clear as they were in July.

We cannot help a few falling leaves. Foliage will thin down as the summer wanes. And there is much beauty in the leaves that remain.

Do some readers confess to a slight feeling of depression when summer flowers have to be cleared away, and the fact comes home that the rearguard has been called up? Do they carry the foresight that becomes a second nature in gardening to the extent of realising that when the Dahlias, Begonias, Chrysanthemums, and Michaelmas Daisies are done, there will be nothing to take their places? Let me offer an unfailing specific - it is instantly to project some scheme of improvement for next year, and forthwith plunge enthusiastically into it, even if no more can be done for the moment than to make a rough plan on paper. Perhaps there is an exposed strip of garden which we can persuade ourselves would be the better for a rustic fence, and this, covered with rambling Roses, would add a new charm to the garden. Or we have an idea for a belt of shrubs, or a new woodland path. Thus simply can we suppress the ugly spectre of depression, and feed the sacred flame of garden love.