no GARDENS PAST AND PRESENT 



dew pond is the only make-believe for a pool, 

 and water so superlatively precious that driblets 

 only can be grudgingly spared for any garden 

 purpose. In that sort of country, those only know 

 who have put it to the proof how delicious it can 

 be on a day in the early year, when the springs 

 have broken under the chalk hills, to drive through 

 a water lane in the valley, to hear the splash of 

 the horses' feet as they daintily lift up each drip- 

 ping hoof out of the purling stream, to see the 

 lush growth of the new-sprung herbage, the earliest 

 white violet, the shining celandine, the rathe prim- 

 rose, bending down through the starting fern- 

 crooks to the life-giving runnel which tinkles with 

 joy as it laves their roots. Or, once more, what 

 happiness in a water-bearing country like Wales, 

 after a long drought ending in heavy rains, to 

 stand on a still evening to listen to the music of 

 a thousand rills hastening to swell the river below 

 as it rushes down to the sea. What would we not 

 sacrifice at such a moment if some of that quicken- 

 ing stream might flow through the garden that 

 we love. Water lilies, alack ! To folk in the 

 predicament of being practically suffering from 

 water famine it is almost an insult to utter the 

 name. But let us look at the other side of the 

 picture and consider the compensations. How 

 many a time has it not been said by dwellers in 

 the valley, " Oh that I lived on the hill !" Those 

 copious springs, of which in passing we only see the 

 beneficence, are apt to well up in untoward places 

 within walls, and at times may swamp both house 

 and garden. The river, so charming to watch as 



