At last the sun disappears, flaming to the last in crimson and gold, orange and red. The breeze gets lustier after the sun has gone under, and a squirrel comes scampering head first down a tall fir-tree, in search of a delicious toadstool that he sometimes finds at its base. Pheasants strut up out of the coppice, and roam about the pasture.
Imperceptibly, you know not whence it comes, there steals over the earth the cool, refreshing scent of dew-drenched bracken, mingling with the sweet wistful evening incense of some late honeysuckle.
And as you watch the fading after-glow of pink and saffron, sea-green and tawny-rose, you sense that in some mysterious way the face of the garden has entirely changed. Gone is the fire of the scarlet geraniums; lost is the vermilion of the nasturtiums; even the sunflowers hang their heads, and the hollyhocks have turned off their lights. The marigolds have closed their eyes, and the eschscholtzias have folded up their brave flowers, the tired little heads bowing over, thankful for this respite.
Then, as the montbretias toll the Angelus from crowds of golden throated bells, the evening primroses, silently, gratefully, open a thousand blossoms and bathe the garden in a wondrous gleam.
Such a clear, clean yellow it is; so quiet and yet so penetrating; it seems in some strange way to hold the radiance of heaven and focus it on the sleeping Flower-patch, subduing all that would strike a glaring note, hiding the ragged deficiencies of fading leaves and withering seed-pods.
By day one scarcely noticed the straggling plants at all, save perhaps to remark on their rather shabby appearance. But now they shine from terraces and wall-tops; from crannies in the rough stone steps they send up tall shafts, bearing aloft their evening lamps; about the garden beds, among the currant bushes, at the edge of the gravel walk, between the stones in the paved path, wherever they can find root-room, they have taken hold—for they were ever wanderers, and given to exploring the farthermost corner of any garden wherein they have made themselves at home.
The last rose-pink flush has faded from the clouds; not even a sleepy twitter is heard from bush or bough; the wind soughs softly in the pine-trees, those harps of endless strings. From out her hidden stores of abundance, Nature has given moisture to the grass, refreshment to the fainting foxglove leaves, and damped the forest fern. Then, breathing quiet on a weary world, has bidden it take rest.
Yet all are not asleep. Standing like sentinels through the darkest hours of night, the evening primroses, adding scent to scent, flood the garden from end to end with a veritable glory of swaying, gleaming moon-gold.