THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



I wonder who will walk upon my path in a hundred 

 years time, and if by then they, whoever they be, 

 will think our methods of gardening very old-fashioned 

 and odd. And I wonder if we shall seem at all quaint 

 to people who will come after us, and if our clothes will 

 be regarded as odd and wonderfully ugly. 



Once, I remember, I saw into the past in such a vivid 

 way that I still feel as if I were living out of my date by 

 living now. It was on the occasion of some fete in the 

 country which was to be held in some big gardens. 

 Certain ladies were presiding over an entertainment that 

 set out to represent a series of Eighteenth Century 

 booths. The daughter of the house where I was stopping 

 had spent time, money, and taste in getting very accurate 

 and beautiful dresses of about 1745. They wore these, 

 powdered their hair, and placed patches on their cheeks, 

 and prepared baskets of lavender tied up in bundles to 

 sell at the fair. 



I saw them one morning start for the place where the 

 fair was to be held. They came into the garden all dressed 

 and in white caps, and they walked arm-in-arm down a 

 path bordered with Pinks and overhung with Roses, and 

 the sun gleamed on their flowered gowns and on their 

 powdered hair. I could almost hear them say " La, 

 Mistress Barbara, but I protest it is a fine morning." 

 There was nothing incongruous in sight, just these 

 walking flowers passing the banks of Roses, pink as their 

 cheeks, and the Pinks white as their powdered hair. I 

 felt at my side for my sword, and put up my hand to my 

 neck to smooth the fall of my lace ruffles, but, alas, nor 

 sword nor lace was there. 



In the ordering of paths such as I have written there 

 are many ways, and some are for paths all of grass, and 

 some for tiles, and some for flags of stone, some for 

 gravel, and some for brick laid herring-bone ways. 



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