VII 



[HOUGH the old garden has a it requires 

 quaint attraction from its very 

 antiquity, the effort to make its 

 successor the subject of a chap- 

 ter reminds me of the remark of a literary 

 man, who paid his only visit to Scotland 

 in the winter-time, that he realized more 

 fully than ever before how great was the 

 genius of Sir Walter Scott, which had 

 given world-renown for picturesqueness to 

 those low, round, bare, uninteresting hills, 

 the Trossachs. Lacking that genius, I 

 am somewhat dismayed at telling the 

 story of my very unimportant little gar- 

 den. Our late, cold springs render it 

 rather a dreary object of contemplation 

 even in the month of May, and with only 

 the power of words to help the reader's 

 enjoyment, I shall have to ask indulgence 

 for the meagre record of its very simple 

 charms. 



77 



