FOREWORD 



homes has of late increased greatly, and the garden 

 is but the home out-of-doors. In fact, wherever there 

 is one, there should, if possible, be the other. The 

 summer home without a garden seems like a city 

 without the clang of bells, the shriek of whistles, and 

 the busy, throbbing traffic of humanity. 



It is not difficult to fall under the domination of 

 a garden, to the charms of which one becomes, indeed, 

 a most willing captive. The first step, perhaps, is 

 taken in admiration of a neighbor's garden; the second 

 may be made with a few experimental plants, or a 

 handful of seed packages; the third follows with the 

 care of these, wherein lurks the desire to have them 

 grow, to see them bloom, and to walk among them as 

 one's own. Once these three steps are taken, few 

 would turn back. Each year the number of plants is 

 increased; the boundaries of the garden are extended, 

 and the care and attention which it demands form 

 a source of pleasure that few wish to relinquish. 



While riding last summer in a dusty train, through 

 the full length of Long Island, I heard a man tell 

 his little daughter to remain quietly in her seat while 

 he went into another car to smoke a cigar. 



On his return he asked her if she were tired. 



"Oh, no," she answered; "I have been counting 

 the gardens. There is another! That makes one 

 hundred and twenty." 



The train had passed by a hundred and twenty 

 gardens while this man was smoking a cigar. 



These were not the gardens of fine estates, but 

 of very small houses bordering the railway. Some 



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