LAWNS— BOX-EDGING 



blackbirds and meadow -larks were singing 

 their refrains; the brave plants were pushing 

 their way through the earth to new life, and 

 I thought how good it was to be alive, to 

 have a garden to dig in, and, above all, to 

 be well and able to dig. 



With work in the garden care and worry- 

 vanish. The cook (as some cooks of mine 

 have done) may announce that "'tis a woild 

 waste of a place. I be lavin' the mornin'." 

 The hamper of meat does not arrive on the 

 one train from town, or somebody smashes 

 something very dear to your heart, — just go 

 to the garden, tie up some Roses or vines, 

 or poke about with a trowel, and though 

 murder may have been in your thoughts, in 

 half an hour serenity will return. And what 

 does it all matter, anyway ? Another maid 

 can cook for a few days, and there are 

 always bacon and eggs. 



Philosophy is inevitably learned in a gar- 

 den. Speaking of eggs, I think of hens. 

 Living on a farm, of course there have al- 



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