CHAPTER ELEVEN 

 COME AND SEE MY CABBAGES 



1 HE vegetable garden is not, or it need not be, 

 less beautiful than the flower garden — certainly 

 not less interesting. I am sure that my rows of hy- 

 brid beans, clinging to poles eight feet high, and a 

 mass of silver-white pods, six to eight inches long, 

 and three in circumference, have inherently the 

 combined beauty of nature and art. A row of 

 Savoy cabbages, with exquisitely fretted leaves and 

 heads of solid lusciousness, is both picturesque 

 and suggestive of winter's comfort. The old- 

 fashioned vegetable garden included herbs and 

 nasturtiums, and marigolds and johnny-jump-ups. 

 Gradually these have gone, mostly over to the 

 flower garden; and it is just as well, for there is 

 poetry in potatoes, and lots of sentiment in Brussels 

 sprouts and carrots. There are no sprays for your 

 bouquets to surpass carrot leaves, and I do not re- 

 call any prettier sight than a row of blossoming 



