270 THE GARDEN OF A 



and sound, I was no longer the commuter's wife who 

 breakfasts at seven, and is obliged to, partly at least, 

 observe the conventionalities, but a Lotus Eater lis- 

 tening to the nightingale. I'm not at all sure that 

 flower and bird inhabit the same country, but I'm 

 sure they ought to. 



I did not care a particle as to which flowers gave 

 the perfume or what birds the music. I was simply 

 saturated with both, and resolving not to move until 

 afternoon, I must have fallen asleep; for the next 

 thing I knew, I was startled by an emphatic bump 

 on the head, caused by a falling apple and Bertie's 

 voice, which said, " The young cabbage-flowers are of 

 the beautifullest. It should much pleasure you to see 

 she." 



Vegetables are a most wholesome and necessary 

 a.djunct to a flower garden, though of course there 

 are people who would transpose this sentiment. I 

 went immediately to see the cauliflowers, and at 

 once became enveloped in a contrasting atmosphere 

 of bean poles, pea brush, tomato trellis, and cab- 

 bages, where mathematical preciseness and the 

 straight lines of beets, carrots, lettuce, and parsley 

 drew my wandering vision into focus again. As to 

 the cauliflowers, I could honestly admire " she," milk- 

 white in a crisp green setting, and surely the rosy 



