Gardener's Pride 



of humility which dabbling with the earth imposes 

 on all nice human beings (and it makes the nasty 

 nicer than they would be otherwise), for it is per- 

 haps the one positive achievement I have to show. 

 Therefore, I show it to the world in much the same 

 spirit in which my cat, Peter, shows me the moles 

 and fieldfares he has caught (he despises them as 

 food), or as my friends among children display their 

 staggering drawings, with legends in drunken 

 capitals to inform me that the lines and smudges 

 are a cock, a house, or a steeple with a dog climb- 

 ing it to eat the weather-vane ! 



So I present this book of words as my garden, 

 though it may be that it is no more like my lawns 

 and trees, and borders and flowering shrubs, than 

 my friend Hookie's lines of green and red are like 

 a horse. Still, perhaps there will peep out of the 

 pages what the garden is to me, and, with a careful 

 study of it, historically, geographically, geologic- 

 ally, romantically, sentimentally, and sensibly, 

 something of its brilliance as it shines in green and 

 mauve and blue. Or the dark glimmer of the pine- 

 trees may gleam forth, and its pattern be imprinted 

 on the minds of others who have felt the charm of 

 growing things. When Hookie, a small imp, with 

 an angel's face, brings me his drawings of green and 

 red — his pattern — I feel closer to him. He gives 



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