CHAPTER X 



THE BULB GARDEN 



IN that little world of miracles which we call a 

 garden there is nothing more wonderful, except, 

 perhaps, some tiny seed, than a bulb or tuber at 

 rest. As we hold in our hand a hyacinth bulb, 

 let us say, or a tuber of some fine scarlet anemone, 

 a feeling of reverence, of mystery, steals into our 

 thoughts, for we know r that within that dry, useless- 

 looking thing there lies hidden potential life and 

 beauty of form and colour beyond all that fancy 

 could have painted if the fact were not placed 

 beyond doubt by common experience year by year. 



To plants belonging to the great natural divi- 

 sion to which bulbs belong we owe much of those 

 shifting changes and colours which redeem the 

 garden from monotony and seem to robe it in 

 ethereal textures not of this earth. 



Bulbs, indeed, are at once the delight and pride 

 of the gardener's heart and his despair. Foremost 

 comes the joy. How we love the tufts of early 

 snowdrops, the gold and purple masses of crocus 

 in March, the paler citron of nodding daffodils, 

 the scarlet and crimson of lordly tulips ! How we 

 feast on the exquisite grace of lilies during the 

 brief season of their stay ! But, when the colour 



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