DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



formed by the hand of one who had the rare gift of 

 future sight in planting. It was a summer afternoon 

 and a friend had called to see my father. I had 

 walked w r ith them up a winding path, and, as the 

 setting evening sunlight fell on the many fine trees, 

 my father's companion repeatedly exclaimed at their 

 beauty. 



In one particular opening I see it now the 

 slanting rays lit up a group of foliage of varying hues 

 compelling admiration. ' Yes,' said my father, ' I can 

 imagine nothing more beautiful in heaven than there 

 is in this w r orld, if only it is not marred by the hand 

 of man.' 



The words sank into my life. In my childish mind 

 I had pictured a different heaven ; but of a truth our 

 minds cannot conceive anything more beautiful than 

 the sublimely perfect work of God's creation : without 

 the blot of man, for he alone it is that mars. But a mer- 

 ciful Nature is never tired of trying to cover up and 

 hide man's disfiguring handiwork ; as he scores her 

 sides and scars her face, she smiles and dumbly sets 

 to work to obliterate and even to grace his clumsy 

 meddling. She will coil her trailing growths of creeping 



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