OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



mysteriously, never seems to increase. There is also a 

 shrubby bit where you will behold a wild rose tree / two 

 nondescript flowering evergreens/ a darling little Scotch 

 Briar, one mass of yellow Pompons, entrancing by their 

 wild scent / those disappointing bushes known as Altheas, 

 so eulogized by garden chroniclers / and a Rheum. 

 We planted the Rheum last year. This March it 

 astonishes us by the leaf buds it has produced. They 

 are like stormy, sinister, crimson blossoms with gaping 

 yellow mouths, and look poisonous and tropical: alto- 

 gether out of place in a Surrey moorlandespecially with 

 the innocence of the grey Lavender plant that grows 

 beside them. What a thrilling thing a garden is and 

 how full of surprises !do Rheums always do this, we 

 wonder ? 



All the Compton pots along the terrace are filled with 

 blue Hyacinths and Forget-me-nots/ all the beds about 

 the house are stuffed with Tulips and 

 again Forget-me-nots. Now, some people 

 <we read in a garden-book the other day) 

 escnew tnis Pl ant ' Myosotis silvestris, 

 because "it spreads so rapidly that it 

 may almost be regarded as a weed/' We 

 are the kind of people who like our 

 flowers to spread like weeds / espe- 

 cially when, as in the case of this attractive sinner, every 

 bed becomes a delicate cloud of blue from which on long 

 stems the Darwins rear their cups of wonderful colour. 

 A little later on, we mean to make the same use of 

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