OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



She has also a desire to get a dozen Clematis, chiefly 

 Jackmanni, in the mauve and purple sorts, and plant them 

 in their pots the only way, she believes, in which even 

 the commonest sorts will grow in this ungrateful soil. 

 Honeysuckle, we know, thrives here. One summer we 

 took a house on a hill near this, a little house buried in a 

 wood, and the whole place was exquisite with the scent 

 of Honeysuckle. It was grown all about the house, and 

 over archways in the garden. Horrid archways made of 

 wire they were ; but it didn't matter, the Honeysuckle was 

 the thing. We wanted all we could get of it, for there 

 were other odours, not at all so nice, that lurked about. 

 The owner of the house, thrifty soul <at least we suppose 

 it goes with a thrifty soul), waged war against moths 

 with naphthalene and Bitter Apple, which are anathema 

 maranatha to us. We have had our nights poisoned in a 

 house in Scotland with the reek of Bitter Apple in the 

 blankets. We don't know what people's noses are made 

 of that they can voluntarily surround themselves with 

 such a pestilential atmosphere. The owner of the awful 

 blankets also keeps her furs with the same evil-smelling 

 precaution / and we can trace her entrance into the most 

 crowded winter tea-party in London if she has as much as 

 passed up the stairs. 



Besides Bitter Apple inside the honeysuckle-covered house, 

 there was a pig outside not on the premises hired by us, 

 but in the adjoining place, where there was a school for 

 little boys. When the wind blew from the direction of 

 that school, the garden was odious, Honeysuckle and all. 

 The first day we hoped it might be accidental. Then 

 Saturday came, and we suppose the odd man did a turn 

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