AS FANCY FLIES 73 



own plantations. When no one is spying he plants a 

 vine, a traveler's joy, a trumpet creeper, or a wild grape 

 along a fence to adorn the road and give pleasure to all 

 that pass thereby, especially to those on whom the 

 world's work bears heavily, leaving no time for garden- 

 ing, but whose hearts are aching with stifled longings for 

 beauty and natural things. 



It is the generous act of a minute to plant a wayside 

 flower, and the sin of the weed-grown waste is on our 

 heads if we neglect it when for a farthing and a thought 

 we might make it a beauty spot. 



It is the fulfillment of a loyal natuie to treasure a love 

 for old-fashioned flowers. If childhood has left any 

 pictures of youthful fairyland, there is sure to be some 

 lore of fragrant May pinks and flowers in an old garden 

 which has woven a thread enriching memory in company 

 with strains of old songs and snatches of 'verse more 

 beautiful than any that we have known in later years. 



Perhaps the garden was a clover field in June, a hill- 

 side white with daisies, a rock bed where the red colum- 

 bine swung its trumpets, or a meadow with shooting 

 stars; and this, linked to the little beds of posies we 

 called our own, made a haunt never to be forgotten. 

 Childhood is a precious season, eager and hopeful, and 

 he who may instill flower love in children gives a magic 

 gift and unlocks a sympathy with nature beyond the 

 effacing hand of time or fortune. 



