268 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



which is sacred to violets. Tall glasses which 

 come from that haven of thrifty poverty, the 

 ten-cent store ; a Grueby bowl, a Dedham 

 plate for the flat bouquets I love to arrange 

 in hollyhock time, all these stand on the shelf. 

 None of them have any special value, but all 

 are good work-a-day friends, giving me service 

 when I ask it, and keeping fresh and fair the 

 remembrance of the blossoms they have held, 

 long after the blossoms themselves are gone, 

 in a way no vase could possibly do were it 

 used indiscriminately for whatever flower might 

 chance to be mine. 



After all, our gardens mean more or less to j 

 us as we have more or fewer associations 

 connected with them and their fair denizens. 

 I have long held a most unorthodox pity in 

 my heart for Adam and Eve, since in Eden 

 there was no chance for him to ask, " Do you 

 remember?" or for her to question, "Have 

 you forgotten ? " Roses were only roses to 

 them, not links with that which had been. 

 Violets and lilies were nothing but lilies and 

 violets, not personalities who had known love 

 and death, and so not a part of their inner- 

 most selves. The walks were not haunted 



