VI 



A RAINY DAY 



AFTERNOON 



October 31 (afternoon). I have already declared 

 that I am about to try the joyous uncertainty of an 

 American Garden. I desire the most flowers at the 

 least cost, as befits the frugal wife of a commuter. 

 Flowers for the table, flowers to go to town with 

 Evan and whisper home to him as he sits in his 

 office. Flowers for village brides, for the children, 

 and for church festivals, and flowers to make the 

 silent journeys from the hospital, that some must take, 

 less dreary for those who follow them. 



I know what I may expect and what I must not. 

 I do not seek to duplicate Kew Garden on the side 

 lawn, or to start an elaborate scheme and en- 

 deavour to copy in a few years what has taken gen- 

 erations of old-world growth to produce ; for like the 

 copy of an old master the imitation garden must 

 lack the freedom of touch of the original, and before 

 time has mellowed it, the unrest that is in a sense 

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