44 MY GROWING GARDEN 



To be sure, there are a few nurserymen who keep 

 transplanting and root-pruning all the time, and 

 who can in consequence ship large shrubs, with a 

 "ball" of earth burlaped about the roots. But 

 these fine things are hardly "my size," for I must 

 make each garden dollar count to the utmost. 



March is passing while these experiences are 

 being told. About the opening day of the almanac 

 or official spring, on the twenty-first, it is allowable 

 to look for evidences of the sun's power. Under the 

 old arborvitae hedge, and along its southern border, 

 I am accustomed to find some white sweet violets 

 that are there happily naturalized. Their fra- 

 grance is as delightful as it is significant of things 

 doing in the bosom of Mother Earth. The crocuses 

 are likely to pop open suddenly some one of these 

 mornings, nor will a snow flurry or a sharp frost 

 discompose them in the least. Of course the snow- 

 drops are up and doing; they seem to prefer to 

 invite comparison between their whiteness and 

 that of the frozen water that gives them name. In 

 sunny facings, the Golden Spur narcissus buds 

 show richly yellow, and they promise an early 

 April glow. The pussy-willow buds are well along, 

 as the first of the bees soon discover, and those fat 

 lilac buds are almost bursting. There are signs 

 and scents and sights of spring all about the 



