THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



the hang-head Snowdrop. Zinnias have the melodious 

 colours of the East ; Jasmine and Honeysuckle hold the 

 spirit of the porch. Sweet Peas, all laughing and chatter- 

 ing, are like a bevy of young girls ; while the proud Hya- 

 cinth, erect up his stem, his hair tight curled, his breath 

 strong and sweet, is to me like some hero of the days of 

 William of Orange, a hero in a curled full-bottomed wig. 

 The Iris has the poetry of river banks ; the Sunflower 

 peering over a cottage garden wall, spells rustic ease. 

 Fuschias I count very Victorian, like ladies in crinolines ; 

 Geraniums also are prim and most polite. Wallflowers 

 I place as gipsy-like, a scent somehow of the wind on the 

 road ; while the Snapdragons have a military spirit and 

 grow in brightly uniformed regiments. Carnations are 

 courtiers, elegant, superbly dressed, yet with a refine- 

 ment all their own ; and Larkspurs, like charity schools 

 of children, all dressed alike and out for a walk, on the 

 tall stalk. Primulas, deep -coloured or pale, I feel some- 

 how to be the flowers of memory ; and Sweet Sultans are 

 like Scots lords in foreign clothes. There are a hundred 

 others, all with some little fanciful meaning to those who 

 grow them, but all, I think, are full of joy ; no flower is 

 sad. It is the trees, the voices whispering in whose 

 leaves bring deeper thoughts. 



There are those who say that happiness would come 

 could we but find the Blue Rose ; and others that there 

 are places one must need find like El Dorado ; and others 

 that a magic charm will bring us the joy we desire. They 

 are all wrong. Happiness lies in the Rose at your hand, 

 El Dorado is at your door, the magic charm ! listen, 

 there is a thrush singing. 



THE END 



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