A Little Maryland Garden = 25 
like tiny roses. They are flowers with a 
charm, but they have a way of blooming so 
late that the frost nips them. 
When I was a child I used to visit a 
ranch, where tall oaks draped in English 
ivy stood before the house, and pale lavender 
and dark purple heliotropes, higher than I, 
made the air heavy with perfume like the 
vanilla bean. This garden was laid out in 
flower beds of all sorts and shapes, and on 
the sunny side of the house were long beds, 
with wooden borders, filled and spilling over 
with gillyflowers, the single form of stocks. 
They were pink, white, and lilac, and for a 
wide space about them the air was spicy with 
their clove-like scent. Behind them was a 
giant fig-tree, in whose roomy branches I 
used to sit, eating purple figs and looking 
down on the gillyflowers. In our town 
garden we grew the double ones, in all the 
queer esthetic shades of dull rose, red, 
and purple. But that was in a country 
where flowers developed in the warm sun- 
shine at their leisure, and no ‘‘cruel, 
