284 THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



journey, and, having spent three whole days from 

 home, I am able for once to tell you something 

 instead of endlessly stringing questions together. 



We also have been to the Cortrights' at Gray Rocks, 

 and through a whiff of salt air, a touch of friendly 

 hands, much conversation, and a drive to Coningsby 

 (a village back from the shore peopled by the de- 

 scendants of seafarers who, having a little property, 

 have turned mildly to farming), we have received 

 fresh inspiration. 



You did not overestimate the originality of the 

 Cortrights' seaside garden, and even after your intimate 

 description, it contained several surprises in the shape 

 of masses of the milkweeds that flourish in sandy 

 soil, especially the dull pink, and the orange, about 

 which the brick-red monarch butterflies were hover- 

 ing in great flocks. Neither did you tell me of the 

 thistles that flank the bayberry hedge. I never real- 

 ized what a thing of beauty a thistle might be when 

 encouraged and allowed room to develop. Some 

 of the plants of the common deep purple thistle, that 

 one associates with the stunted growths of dusty 

 roadsides, stood full five feet high, each bush as clear 

 cut and erect as a candelabrum of fine metal work, 

 while another group was composed of a pale yellow 



