Within My Garden Walls 47 



as candytuft, sweet alyssum, cornflower, Linaria marrocana, 

 or catchfly, I do not plant the seed; I look about my walks un- 

 til I find them and then transplant them. This is where I get 

 my best specimens to fill the gaps made by cutting down early 

 perennials after they have bloomed. I do not have to coddle 

 these sturdy plants; they have stood the test of winter and a 

 frosty spring. Any one who has watered seeds to young plant- 

 hood has a genuine admiration for self-supporting walk- 

 grown plants. 



" But," exclaims the Tidy Woman, she who maintains an 

 orderly top bureau drawer though the heavens fall, "how 

 disorderly your garden must look all cluttered up that way." 



"Indeed it does, Madam, at times; so much so that Adam 

 files an injunction to restrain me from further neglect, and 

 threatens to hoe the walks himself if it is not done by a certain 

 day." 



"My path is literally strewn with flowers," I protest to him 

 sentimentally, and I remember various church weddings with 

 little pages and flower girls strewing posies down the aisle; 

 they were but a symbol, and this the real thing. 



My words have no visible effect upon my neat Adam. He is 

 a worthy man, but he has no eye for nice distinctions existing 

 in seed leaves. He does not know at sight a new-born lupine 

 or columbine or asperula or forget-me-not. He simply can't 

 be trusted in my walks unless disarmed of hoe and shovel. 

 Sometimes I am forced to accompany him. 



"Ipse Dixit, I'll not wait another day; your walks are 

 disgraceful," he announces suddenly; his determined voice 

 has a long-suffering undertone that I respect. 



I well know what this means, and leave any important do- 

 mestic situation to act as body-guard not to him, but to the 

 intended victims. 



He always wants to begin at the entrance, and work steadily 



