AUGUST 189 



father's face and our mother's smile, it is the 

 old garden where we played to which the soul 

 looks backward and forward, since that which 

 hath been shall be. 



When I think of children in gardens, it must 

 be confessed that I think of little girls. Boys 

 belong to the larger world of fields and woods 

 and the hardier joys of trapping and nutting 

 and fishing. Orchards belong to them, but I 

 do not think that the smaller, more orderly 

 domain which fills the common idea of a garden 

 appeals seriously to a healthy-minded boy. 

 In the cherry-trees, among the strawberry beds, 

 or the melon patch or even in a turnip field 

 there is something to be done by way of 

 gratifying that perpetual hunger which is a part 

 of being a boy, and to which nothing comes 

 amiss. Flowers, however, mean but little to 

 them. They like to go for water-lilies, because 

 there is the water, there is the boat, and there 

 is an almost certain opportunity to become 

 both wet and dirty. They like to go for ferns 

 or laurel, because there are the woods and the 

 rocks against which to try their strength, and 

 there is the absolute necessity of tearing their 

 clothes in getting the armsful of fronds or of 



