AN ISLAND GARDEN 25 



to pieces the clods of earth left by the overturn- 

 ing spade, to work into the soil the dark, velvet- 

 smooth, scentless barn manure which is to furnish 

 the best of food for my flowers ; it is a pleasure 

 to handle the light rake, drawing it evenly through 

 the soil and combing out every stick and stone 

 and straw and lump, till the ground is as smooth 

 and fine as meal. This done carefully and thor- 

 oughly, the beds laid out neatly, with their sur- 

 face level as a floor, and not heaped high enough 

 to let the rains run off, then is the ground 

 ready for the sowing of the seeds. 



The very act of planting a seed in the earth 

 has in it to me something beautiful. I always do 

 it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe. I 

 watch my garden beds after they are sown, and 

 think how one of God's exquisite miracles is 

 going on beneath the dark earth out of sight. I 

 never forget my planted seeds. Often I wake in 

 the night and think how the rains and the dews 

 have reached to the dry shell and softened it ; how 

 the spirit of life begins to stir within, and the in- 

 dividuality of the plant to assert itself ; how it is 

 thrusting two hands forth from the imprisoning 

 husk, one, the root, to grasp the earth, to hold 

 itself firm and absorb its food, the other stretch- 

 ing above to find the light, that it may drink in 

 the breeze and sunshine and so climb to its full 

 perfection of beauty. It is curious that the leaf 

 should so love the light and the root so hate it. 

 In his " Proserpina " John Ruskin discourses on 

 this subject in his own inimitable way. All he 

 says of this is most interesting and suggestive : 



