Perhaps I don't really mean happiness, but rather that condition Of strength and courage when all the events of life can be accepted as one and it is perfectly clear that sorrow is only the cloud drawn over the sun, or that certain watery joys are like the misty moon, foretelling days of rain. In the garden one is glad of rain. Indeed, one is glad Of everything, except, perhaps, caterpillars, slugs, blight, June frosts, weeds, and incompetent seeds men; and then even these blackest Of all evils serve only to make success all the sweeter when it comes, and the July pride of a garden is a very mighty thing.