T the Isles of Shoals, among the 

 ledges of the largest island, Apple- 

 dore, lies the small garden which in 

 the following pages I have endeav- 

 ored to describe. Ever since I could remember 

 anything, flowers have been like dear friends to 

 me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to 

 cheer. A lonely child, living on the lighthouse 

 island ten miles away from the mainland, every 

 blade of grass that sprang out of the ground, 

 every humblest weed, was precious in my sight, 

 and I began a little garden when not more than 

 five years old. From this, year after year, the 

 larger one, which has given so much pleasure to 

 so many people, has grown. The first small bed 

 at the lighthouse island contained only Marigolds, 

 pot Marigolds, fire-colored blossoms which were 

 the joy of my heart and the delight of my eyes. 

 This scrap of garden, literally not more than a 



