OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



living blue! Such daintiness of form! So lightly 

 poised are they that it seems they must sail away on 

 the wings of every passing zephyr. But no; they only 

 bob their small curtsies and settle back somewhat 

 breathless as the breeze departs. 



What would a garden be without phlox, the inevi 

 table, the incomparable, the old-fashioned yet ever-de 

 sirable phlox? White, cherry, rose, and a kind called 

 blue, it fulfills its mission in our sunny border with an 

 abundance, a freedom which cheers the heart of the 

 Enthusiast. Dependable, with no roving tendencies, 

 at the same time almost to a day each year it appears 

 above the black earth and blossoms until blighted by 

 the frost. One big group has reverted to its original 

 magenta, but its flowers are so large and the heads so 

 luxuriant that I cannot bear to remove it. If it 

 blossoms at the same time as its cherry neighbors, I 

 mercilessly cut it all back, thus providing myself with a 

 huge brass bowl of gorgeous color for the house; and 

 later in the fall, when the cherry phlox has gone, my 

 magenta flowers make a fine show beside the pale 



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