THE PRIVATE GARDEN 



cart, bloomed — not by right of lease, but by 

 permission of the railway company — a wealth 

 of annual flowers, the lowest (pansies and such 

 like) at the outer edge, the tallest against the 

 unsightly fence. This was the prelude. In the 

 alley the fence was clothed with vines; the win- 

 dows — of which there were two — were decked 

 with boxes of plumbago — pink, violet, white 

 and blue, and of lady-ferns and maiden-hair. 

 The back yard was a soft, smooth turf wher- 

 ever there were not flowers. Along the back 

 doors and windows of the house and the low- 

 roofed wing a rough arbor was covered with a 

 vine whose countless blossoms scented the air 

 and feasted the bees, while its luminous canopy 

 sheltered a rare assemblage of such flowers as 

 bloom and thrive only for those whom they 

 know and trust. But the crowning transforma- 

 tion was out in the open sunlight, in the space 

 which had been the hen-yard. Within it was a 

 holiday throng of the gardening world's best- 

 known and loved gentles and commons, from 

 roses down to forget-me-nots. Its screen of 

 poultry-netting had been kept in place, and no 



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