8 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



A torrent of spring rain is dashing upon the window- 

 panes, and the icicles tinkle like silver bells as they fall 

 from the balcony above and are shattered on the stone 

 sill. How they glittered, outdoing crystal balls in sun- 

 shine this morning, reflecting in their shining depths the 

 flowers soon to parade in the garden below! Here is 

 magic that we can make without wand or incantation; 

 we have dreamed the color scheme, invited many to the 

 tableau, and if to-morrow's day is fair the earthen beds 

 shall be turned with a spade. 



Though inefficient and feeble in many things, poor 

 blind mortals that we are, here is a certainty, and we can 

 actually steal a march on nature and defy the weather 

 by going about our gardening betimes. So often our best- 

 laid plans have fallen to rack and ruin that it is no 

 wonder we cast a thought in the direction of adverse 

 demons. 



Does the wind howling through the trees, shaking the 

 doors with ghostly hands does the wind know that we 

 have tried to get ahead of nature and have packed the oak 

 leaves thickly above the snowdrops and first hyacinths? 

 Does the Nemesis of a late spring spy the plantlets that 

 were struggling to light in the hotbeds a week ago, just 

 waiting for the melting of the last snow*? 



The answer is here in the flower basket of leaf mold 

 lifted from the sunny slope of the ravine. The brown 

 matted covering is broken, and in the warmth and the 



