CHAPTER XI 

 WINTER WONDER 



E' no one lay to his soul the comfortable thought, 

 as he turns from his garden in the late fall 

 toward the stone and iron city, that a gar- 

 den amounts to precious little in winter, and that he 

 will miss nothing pleasant in deserting the familiar 

 ways. That, truth to tell, it will be but dank and 

 dreary and the wind never 'still, and that to tread the 

 snow-encumbered paths were the forlornest method of 

 insuring a smart attack of the grippe. 



Let him go. Duty calls, perhaps. But let his de- 

 parture be miserable, a tearing of the heartstrings. 

 For a garden in winter is a lovely thing, a place of 

 radiant surprises, an exquisite harmony of the most 

 delicate color tones, and a revelation of the superb 

 drawing of tree and shrub, the marvel of their intricate 

 design, the power and spring of their branches, and the 

 wonderful shadows they throw. Far into December 

 the garden is still green, for the honeysuckles will not 

 let loose their leaves, and many a strong perennial 

 keeps its vigor undaunted. The wise planter, also, 



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