12 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



to the depths, and yet, while doing its freakish worst, we 

 would count the year a desert without it. 



Weather wisdom, like Dogberry's scholarship, comes 

 by nature. Its first intuitions may be instilled in the 

 child who finds the sky a field for his observations as ex- 

 citing as the back yard or the neighbor's lot which makes 

 up his play world. He looks from his little garden to the 

 sky, and somewhere in his wondering mind grows a rever- 

 ence for the omnipotent power hidden behind the blue 

 firmament. 



If puffed with conceit that man is the master of his 

 fate, uncover the hotbeds on a sunny March day when 

 the changed skies are soft and warm, and note what 

 happens before dusk. March is on the lookout for human 

 planters, and he who "bides a wee" is safe. He is 

 cautious about lifting the frames and raking off the bulb 

 beds, or taking shelter from the perennials; and, when 

 the season permits, employs the waiting hour making the 

 rounds of the lawn and grounds with a notebook, to think 

 of the things that ought to be done and the things he 

 would like to do, and to write them down. 



Where the lawn sweeps to the road, an expanse of 

 green may be depended upon to frame an aristocratic set- 

 ting to the house. It is no light matter to keep a lawn in 

 order, to banish the weeds and coarse grass, shut off the 

 explorations of moles, and keep the sod shaven and even. 

 However charming grass may be, the presence of flowers 



