The Happy Garden 



Down the lawn once more — (I wouldn't throw 

 the croquet ball for Billy, if I were you. He'll like 

 you for it, but it isn't worth it) — to marvel over the 

 giant lilies which grow, according to Miss Jekyll, 

 in deep beds of rich vegetable mould in the Hima- 

 layas. It seems inhospitable, therefore, to invite 

 such lovely exiles to grow in my light sandy soil, 

 but I have done my best. A bed four feet down has 

 been dug for them : a great grave filled up with 

 farmyard stuff, and clay, and chalk, and leaf -mould, 

 and the bulbs have been laid carefully just below 

 the surface — and, wonder of wonders, they have 

 prospered. No mother ever took greater care of 

 her children. Last year, through ignorance — not 

 neglect — I gave them too much shade, for they 

 need to be protected from the morning sun. I 

 buried them much too deep. They grew up heroic- 

 ally, hung out three glossy leaves, and rotted ; and 

 I had my only comfort in the knowledge that the 

 same tragedy hung over the house and garden of 

 my nearest rival, who is a formidably scientific 

 gardener, armed cap-a-pie with all the books, all 

 the newest inventions, and all the latest French 

 dodges ; and she has the advantage of a rich clay 

 soil. The two tragedies were simultaneous. The 

 exiles from the Himalayas pined and withered ; 

 tragedy indeed ! for when they live they are ten 



60 



