EH Mcloe ^ Mo&er 



she had breathed " Oh ! " innumerable times over sud- 

 denly revealed beauty, she said, " Your garden is 

 the Garden of Surprise." If you have a clump of 

 evergreens, let the path wind sinuously through, 

 bringing you out suddenly on, say, a clump of shim- 

 mering white mountain laurel, and I assure you it 

 will make you gasp with delight. 



A very little girl once visited our garden and 

 afterward begged her mother to take her back to 

 " the place of the many little paths." 



We haven't a broad walk in the Wilderness, be- 

 cause to begin with we only had trails, half-hidden 

 paths where we had to push through tangles to find 

 some beautiful spot; so the paths remain as irregular 

 and winding as if we were cows. Then, too, I don't 

 want strangers to know how to get about my garden 

 alone. The stranger's feet step on things. I pre- 

 fer to lead, and have the path so narrow visitors 

 are prohibited from walking abreast, having no 

 choice but to humbly follow the gardener. 



Paths mean intimacy, not publicity. The path is 

 a trail in which to wander, leading the imagination 

 gropingly with promise of mystery. And a garden 

 must have material for mystery. We felt this so 

 convincingly we refused to discover all our Wil- 

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