THE GARDEN AND ORCHARD 127 



able; but that the third should grow into a snowy 

 sweet pea, the fourth into a scarlet zinnia or 

 bronzed snapdragon, beats me. Miracle or mystery, 

 we try to have some flowers every month of the 

 year. Next to children nothing livens up a house 

 like flowers. 



Without a greenhouse our winter flowers are 

 limited to potted plants and bulbs. But seven 

 months of the year we have the flowering trees 

 and shrubs, the borders, the space-fillers around 

 the house and out-buildings, and a not-so-awfully- 

 formal garden, a "look piece" as our Tudor an- 

 cestors may have called it that, however modest 

 its beginnings, we hope some day may approach 

 the garden Francis Bacon so graphically describes. 

 The permanent cadre of this formal garden is 

 composed of the perennial root and bulb plants- 

 iris, phlox, peonies, delphiniums, roses, and the 

 like. It is backed by a grape arbor that, until the 

 Japanese beetles were sent to plague us, afforded 

 outdoor privacy in those months when it is better 

 to live out of doors. On the north side of the 

 garden is a grove of self-seeded pie-cherries. From 

 time to time the ranks of the perennials are aug- 

 mented with seedlings of annuals thinned from 

 the number two flower garden. But its chief fault 

 continues to be that implied by Ruth Draper in 

 one of her monologues: everything in the garden 

 will not bloom at the same time. When the peonies 



