My Garden in Spring 



in a vacant spot in a newly-arranged border kept empty 

 for a month or so for some choice plant. I have very 

 seldom come across a gardener who does not complain of 

 his soil or climate, or both, and there are but few so 

 happily placed that his complaints would be easily detected 

 as absurd and groundless, for there can always be too 

 much lime for some Rhododendrons or too little for an 

 exacting Clematis or two. Yet in grumbling at my 

 gardening conditions I do not feel a parallel case to the 

 lunatic who, in spite of believing himself in heaven, was 

 never happy, and told an inquirer it was because he had 

 a second-hand halo that did not fit and his harp was out 

 of tune, and I turn and rend any who base their claims 

 for pity and indulgence for starved plants on the possession 

 of a sandy soil, for well do I know the way trees make 

 long tap roots and find moisture deep down in most 

 varieties of sand, in which, besides showing an honest re- 

 spect for the nutriment allotted to surface rooters, these 

 tap rooters anchor themselves so pleasantly and save much 

 labour and worry of staking. But here young Conifers 

 and hobbledehoy Eucalypts are sources of anxiety and 

 often of farewell lamentation at every equinox. So on 

 most days in the year I would barter my smooth, firm 

 paths for a good deep sand, with its storage of moisture 

 deep down. 



Of water there seems to be plenty, for the New River runs 

 right through the very centre of the garden ; but though it 

 may carry many millions of gallons through it, clever 

 Sir Hugh Myddleton made its clay banks so strong that 

 even after 300 years they let no water soak away, and I 

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