INTRODUCTION 



It is the eve of Christmas Day a holy day. The 

 lights from stained windows of All Saints Cathe- 

 dral are reflected in my office. Liberty Hyde 

 Bailey's "The Holy Earth" and the manuscript of 

 "The Home Garden" are before me. Against the 

 snow-banked walls of the church the ivy is sleeping 

 and the ground around is frost-pierced. It is not 

 a day for walking in a garden except for the rose 

 berry or bright barked shrub or barberry. It is 



rather an evening for sauntering a la sainte terre, 



& 



as Thoreau puts it a sauntering amidst memories 

 of gardens past and visions of gardens to come 

 towards a home merry and wholesome on the Island 

 by the Sound. 



I am thinking of the Lady of the Garden, as I 

 like to call the author of this book, and of her three 

 children and of the Man-Out-of-Doors, and to- 

 night my memories carry me back to the garden 

 home of these people with its wealth of fruit and 

 flowering shrubs, vegetables, trees and animals. 



A garden is an intimate affair very. And 



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