THE SIX OF SPADES. 147 



cheerful rubbish. If, I asked myself, we once admit 

 this tea-garden trumpery, where are we to stop ? I 

 have seen, in the grounds of a suburban drinking- 

 house, an Araucaria imbricata done in cast-iron, and 

 painted appropriately a bottle-green. What if the 

 idea should spread ? What if somebody, with " no 

 end of tin " and no beginning of taste, should " go 

 in," regardless of expense, for a metallic winter 

 garden, electro-plated Silver Hollies, Gold-leaf Yews, 

 and real Copper Beeches ? Why limit the collection 

 to hardy shrubs and trees ? Why not a Battersea 

 Park at Christmas ? Why not all the beautiful foliage 

 of the stove ? Why not Alocasia metallica in real 

 bronze ? Nay, why foliage only ? Why not flowers 

 and fruits ? Why not purple grapes, and blushing 

 peaches, and all the glowing splendour of August, 

 defying 20 of frost ? 



Seriously, there is but one legitimate winter garden, 

 and that, no doubt, an enjoyable luxurj* to those who 

 can afford it I mean, under glass. But why should 

 we crave it ? Though we had neither greenhouse nor 

 stove, we might be well content to rest with our 

 plants and trees ; to rest and be thankful for the past, 

 to rest and be hopeful for the future. Some, of course, 

 will say, " Ye are idle, ye are idle. You gardeners are 

 always resting on your spades, always sitting under 

 your vines and fig-trees, instead of pruning and 

 thinning." We need not make answer for ourselves. 

 All who possess a garden and know anything about 

 it, know this also, that never in the history of horti- 

 culture was so much required, and so much realized 

 from the gardener. 



