240 THE GARDEN OF A 



a Maypole, the neighbours have had their share and 

 to-morrow I take a clothes-basket of little bouquets 

 to the hospital. 



I think if we were to fall asleep for ten years, the 

 whole place would be overgrown with these lovely 

 flowers, the soil suits them so perfectly. 



The resting time is over for garden and gardener. 

 All is push, excitement, and hurry, the relentless 

 hurry of growth. Every day something is planted, 

 some long-watched bud unfolded. After the twen- 

 tieth it will be safe to move the seedlings from the 

 hotbeds and set out the bedding plants, geraniums, 

 heliotrope, and such-like that this year I've ordered 

 from a wholesale florist in town. 



One and all we rush outdoors twenty times a day, 

 the dogs rebelling at the curbing of their liberty, 

 " Down ! charge ! " being the order of the season. 

 Bluff alone is discreet enough to be allowed within 

 garden bounds at planting time, and he has learned to 

 tread gently ; often he is meekly apologetic for 

 even overstepping on the grass border beside the 

 path. 



The breakfast table is drawn into the bay window 

 looking toward the garden, and on balmy evenings 

 we take our after-dinner coffee under the Mother 

 Tree. Gardeners may not sit idly on the front 



