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is to regard the garden as a battle - ground ; 

 colour, size, brilliancy, height, as so many tests 

 of their own personal victory, and every plant, 

 species and hybrid alike, as objects for them to 

 shape and manipulate at their own good pleasure. 



Will these two divergent schools ultimately 

 combine into one harmonious whole ? Will the 

 over-strenuous science of the second strengthen 

 and reform the airy, somewhat weed-encouraging 

 grace of the first ? Will the aspiration after 

 beauty of the one, in time relax the utilitarian 

 tension of the other ? These are questions which 

 must be left to be resolved in the still unplumbed 

 future. Possibly the gardener of the twenty-first 

 or twenty-second century may be able to reply 

 to them ! 



Pending that desirable, but still rather remote, 

 contingency, I have left the lanes, and returned 

 homeward, and am now looking down at our own 

 somewhat chaotic little garden, with its small 

 brown beds, each edged with a neat white frost- 

 frill. Poor little garden ! I have felt so oblivious 

 of it of late that a certain compunction comes 

 over me as I look at it. After all, gratitude for 

 such good things as have come in one's way is 

 an undoubted part of decent living, and the most 

 practical way of showing that gratitude is to 

 make the best of them. Well, the year is still 

 young ; there will be time enough for fulfilling 

 that, and every other small social obligation in 



