SUMMER 97 



holes with square human pegs in them. 

 If a plant is not rightly placed, it simply 

 dies and gets out of its trouble. Yet some- 

 times, when we think it dead, it is only in- 

 valided and is biding its time. It is a 

 plant that loves sand and sun, and has got 

 into a shaded piece of muck ; or it wants 

 shade and repose, and its foothold is hot 

 and windy : but a few days of drought or 

 rain, or warmth or coolness, will revive 

 the forlorn little thing, and it pops back 

 into daylight once more, puzzled, maybe, 

 but robust and glad. 



And how seldom has a misplaced man 

 an experience like this ! Even our yard is 

 not a hermitage. If only the jangle of the 

 door-bell did not penetrate to this seclu- 

 sion of phlox and petunias ! It is the 

 world's demand to be let in to play the 

 spy and gossip. It is the analogue of 

 the Westerner who, rinding a cabin in the 

 wilderness with curtains drawn, reached 

 through the window and brushed them 

 aside, inquiring, " What 's going on here 

 so darned private ? " In a sense it re- 

 minds us of an alleged and supposititious 



