THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 



so much with the hope of their being avoided, for they 

 are usually incurable, but simply as more or less in- 

 teresting phases of human weakness or depravity. 



There is the man who believes every one else to be 

 as hipped as he himself over the immature processes of 

 his garden, and who routs out his luckless guest in the 

 dim, damp hours of dawn to show him a series of ut- 

 terly uninteresting squares of soil, while the dew, as he 

 expresses it, "is still pearling each leaf and flower." 

 This admiration of dew is a disagreeable trait found in 

 many otherwise reasonable gardeners, and is capable 

 of leading them into the worst excesses of early 

 rising, with a consequent moving forward of the break- 

 fast hour that necessitates every one being dressed for 

 the day by half-past six at the latest. 



This type of man will drag you out through the wet 

 grass, and balance you on narrow, slippery paths while 

 he points out minute bits of green, designating them by 

 Latin names that you do not understand. If you inad- 

 vertently set a heel on some absurd two-leafed driblet 

 of a plant, he bounds to the assistance of the flattened 

 seedling with a shriek of dismay, shouldering you into 

 a puddle with a vicious twist of the shoulder. Of course 

 you apologize, and he receives the apology; but at 

 breakfast he is gloomy, and when your hostess inquires 

 whether you didn't find the garden looking very promis- 

 ing, he replies, with a palpably forced hilarity, "Sam 's 

 a great gardener, he is. Managed to flatten out an 



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