O U R COUNTRY HO M E 



Here, where tne sun never comes and no flowers can be made to 

 grow in the long window-box, the graceful Boston fern was planted, 

 flanked on either end by maiden-hair from the woods. Five brown 

 papier mache vases, such as florists use. were sunk at irregular 

 intervals in the earth in order to be invisible. In these were placed 

 lilacs or snowballs, flowering blackberry sprays, tall lilies or 

 hydrangeas, wild asters or goldenrod, plumed poppies or crab- 

 apple branches, according to the season. 



I wonder that long before now someone has not sung the praises 

 of the impatiens sultana with its masses of deep shell-pink flowers, 

 blossoming steadily from June to frost, and in the shade. We put out 

 a long triangle of them at the edge of the terrace among the low 

 winterberries and yellow-root shrubs. A glint of morning sun and 

 at evening one brief half-hour seemed to be enough to make these 

 brave bright flowers hold up their small heads proudlv and laugh 

 with each answering breeze. They were such a gay lot the whole 

 summer long. All of this I owe to the generosity of a certain 

 good dame in our nearest village. Passing the house one dav. I 

 could not help exclaiming at the exquisite shade of what I thought 

 was dwarf phlox. Mustering up my courage, it was earlv in 

 our garden experiences and I did not know then the free-masonrv 

 among all true nature-lovers, I knocked at the side door in friendlv 

 fashion and asked the name of the shell-pink flower. 



''I don't know its name, but you are welcome to it if you 

 want some." 



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