22 THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



a man. What if the records of The Garden, You, and I 

 should turn into a real book, an humble shadow of "Six 

 of Spades" of jovial memory ! Is it possible that I am 

 about to be seized with Agamemnon Peterkin's ambition 

 to write a book to make the world wise ? Alas, poor 

 Agamemnon ! When he had searched the woods for an 

 oak gall to make ink, gone to the post-office, after hours, 

 to buy a sheet of paper, and caused a commotion in 

 the neighbourhood and rumour of thieves by going to 

 the poultry yard with a lantern to pluck a fresh goose 

 quill for a pen, he found that he had nothing to say, 

 and paused thereby, at least, proving his own wisdom. 



I'm afraid I ramble too much to be a good recording 

 secretary, but this habit belongs to my very own garden 

 books that no critical eyes can see. That reminds me ! 

 Father says that he met Bartram Penrose in town last 

 week and that he seemed rather nervous and tired, and 

 worried about nothing, and wanted advice. After look- 

 ing him over a bit, father told him that all he needed was a 

 long vacation from keeping train, as well as many other 

 kindsof time, for it seems during the six years of his mar- 

 riage he has had no real vacation but his honeymoon. 



Mary Penrose's mother, my mother, and Lavinia 

 Cortright were all school friends together, and since 

 Mary married Bartram and moved to Woodridge we've 



