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GARDENERS' CHRONICLE 



The Landscape or the Signboard? 



BERTHA BERBERT-HAMMOND 



FOR those who possessed ample leisure and the im- 

 portant requisite, plenty of money, to migrate an- 

 nually used to be quite the fashion, and among 

 "social climbers'' it was deemed almost a necessity. To 

 go "abroad'' and achieve being "presented at Court" was 

 an 'open sesame'' to pass the portals of the "elite." But 

 the recent war has made a change in this, as it did in 

 many other things. Those who became afflicted with 

 "wanderlust'' had, of necessity, to limit their wanderings, 

 and, through sheer ennui, some began to get acquainted 

 with the many wonderful natural beauty spots of their 

 native land. They found that our country has within its 

 limits, scenery that, for grandeur and diversity, equals 

 that of the Old World. The scenery along the Hudson, 

 for instance (barring possibly the charm contributed by 

 picturesque old castles), is very similar to that along the 

 justly famed Rhine. The wild, scenic beauty of Yellow- 

 stone and Yosemite is matchless, and the sunny slopes and 

 blue skies of Southern Europe find duplicates here. In- 

 deed, within the boundaries of our vast country can be 

 found beautiful scenery of every type. 



As people traveled about this country they realized that 

 while they had been neglecting the great possibilities of 

 their native land, the American bogey. Commercialism, 

 had not been idle, and that the aggressive advertiser had 

 industriously secured, by the lure of gold, the privilege of 

 defacing and obscuring the scenic beauty of our highways 

 and detracting from the grandeur of the handiwork of 

 Nature. No wonder "G. D. C." breaks forth through the 

 columns of the Boston Herald with the following lament : 



I do not like the colored signs 



In every vacant lot. 



They mar the landscape far and wide: 



I wish that they were nut. 



In city or town, tlie countr} 'luund. 

 In snnlight and in shade. 

 Are scouring twins, the cook that grins. 

 And pancakes "Auntie" made. 



The salad oil time cannot spoil. 

 .\nd fountain pens by scores. 

 Prime canned fish for all that wish, 

 Polisli for waxing floors. 



Then gum and jam and ham what am. 

 With pickles crisp and green : 

 The biscuits round, the cornmcal ground, 

 .\nd Boston's famous bean. 



Pure family soap and cigarette dope, 

 Varnish that lasts for years ; 

 Home-made bread, chickens milk-fed. 

 It drives one quite to tears. 



I do not like the colored signs. 

 They don't appeal to me ; 

 America has scenery. 

 I'd really like to see. 



The signboard nuisance has grown so flagrant and an- 

 noying that some decisive steps, other than legislation, 

 must be taken to curb its growth and restrict its despolia- 

 tion. Local signboard ordinances have not decreased the 

 number or toned down the gaudy coloring and bizarre 

 designs. These offensive signs are to be found in con- 

 spicuous places almost everywhere. The advertiser, on 

 these vantage-grounds, resorts to all sorts of clever or 

 unique tricks to catch the eye and hold the attention. By 

 noting the articles so glaringly forced upon the sightseer. 



and registering a vow never to purchase the articles ex- 

 ploited at the expense of marred natural beauty, the sign- 

 board may be made to act as a boomerang, and fail in the 

 very purpose for which these blots on the landscape are 

 erected. It is certain that as soon as this sort of adver- 

 tising fails to pay, it will be promptly discontinued. 



Those persons who, for a consideration, agree to per- 

 mit the use of property for the purpose of defacing the 

 landscape, are accomplices, and deserve the contempt of 

 the community. Perhaps if the interpretation of the 

 shrewd farmer, who surmised that his neighbor "was 

 losing money on his produce, or he would not let the sign- 

 man paint his barns," were to be accepted, there would 

 be a decrease in the popularity of sign-covered outbuild- 

 ings and fences, — an outward sign of poveity of aesthetic 

 appreciation, at least. 



The powerful weapon of public sentiment used in re- 

 taliation, can quickly abate this intolerable nuisance and 

 make it possible to view the countryside without distrac- 

 tion, and every American can say, with pardonable pride : 



I love every inch of her prairie land, 



Each stone of her mountain-side, 



I love every drop of the waters clear 



That flows in her rivers wide : 



I love every tree, every b!ade of grass. 



Within Columbia's gates : 



The Queen of the Earth, is the land of my birth, 



My own United States. 



FLOWERS OF A SUMMER NIGHT 



MATUR.-\LISTS tell us that there is never absolute 

 silence in the woodland, that the songsters, broad 

 awake ere the dawn, filling the still air with the 

 magic of their music until nightfall, and myriads of in- 

 sects hovering o'er the streams with the first glimpse of 

 sunlight, are all succeeded by other creatures that sally 

 forth only in the gloaming to play their part and live 

 their life under the curtain of night. So, too, at the hour 

 of twilight, there are certain denizens of another king- 

 dom — that of the flowers — which make their presence 

 known, not so much by the splendor of their petals — that 

 to the casual observer would scarcely be noticed by day — 

 but through the sweet and subtle avenue of fragrance, as 

 if shy of revealing their faces in the light. It is at the 

 evening hour, when the after-glow still lingers in the 

 western sky, when the day's work is done and quiet 

 reigns, that it is pleasant to take one's ease in a garden. 

 You may have left a city office, with its din of traffic 

 without, and its more than accustomed worries within, 

 or some large establishment w-here the duties have been 

 unusually exacting and trying, you may even admit — to 

 yourself — the day has gone badly, and you have left a 

 longing for a respite from it all : yet when you have 

 reached the seclusion of home, and entered your garden, 

 you begin after a while to experience, what you have 

 felt many a time, a sense of peace and rest akin to con- 



tentment. E.xplain it, someone 



says? 



Impossible ! It 



may be .strange philosophy, but we can give it no other 

 designation than influence — the influence of the flowers; 

 for are we not reminded that they 



"Tell us with ingenuous grace 

 Of things splendid and undreamt of"? 



^^'ho shall sav that flowers, some of which emit their 



