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THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS 



ONCE, I remember well, when I was hungering for a 

 breath of country air, a woman, brown with the caresses 

 of the wind and sun, brought the Spring to my door and 

 sold it to me for a penny. The husky rough scent of 

 those Primroses gave me news of England that I longed 

 to hear. When I had placed my flowers in a bowl and 

 put them on the table where I worked, they told me 

 stories of the lanes and woods, how thrushes sang, and 

 the wild Cherry Blossom flared delicately across the 

 purpling trees. 



A flower often will reclaim a mood when nothing else 

 will bring it back. 



To garden, to garner up the seasons in a little space, 

 is part of every wise man's philosophy. To sow the 

 seeds, to watch the tender shoots come out and brave 

 the light and rain, to see the buds lift up their heads, 

 and then to catch one's breath as the flowers open and 

 display their precious colours, living, breathing jewels, 

 is enough to live for. But there is more than that. A 

 man may choose the feast to spread before his eyes, 

 may sow old memories and see them grow, and feel the 

 answering colours in his heart. This Rose he used to 

 pass on his way to school ; it nodded to him over the 

 high red wall, while next to it a Purple Clematis clung, 

 arching over, so that, by standing on his pile of school- 

 books, he could reach the flowers. This patch of Golden 



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