THE ODORS OF ARABY 85 



spreading its beauty in the marshy hollows, and amid the 

 ripened grasses are little colonies of boneset, everlasting, 

 horsetail, and the first black-eyed Susans. 



While this beauty caught the eye it required no un- 

 common self-control to refrain from talking to the slim 

 young woman in black who carried the sprig of rosemary. 

 Would it have been an intrusion*? A short, fierce con- 

 flict raged between the formal sense of propriety forbid- 

 ding converse with strangers and the friendly impulse to 

 exchange comment on the summer pageant with one who 

 also liked rosemary. But the rare moment fled; before 

 the shell of self was broken she had left the car, and a 

 lonely little woman in black was taking her path down 

 the dusty road between the fields of clover. Who knows 

 but that we missed entertaining an angel unawares! 



Back within our garden gate we speedily greet our 

 own rosemary tree. No one can ever accuse a devoted 

 gardener of gardening for appearances. When this hap- 

 pens by chance the garden tells on its maker in unmis- 

 takable terms. It is artificial, it is empty of sentiment, 

 and it is a fictitious thing. The true garden is the 

 comfort of those who hunger for friends. Just as there 

 are book friends and picture friends for our moods, so 

 there are flower friends. In as fine a sense they are as 

 dear and, it may be, as consoling as you who are best 

 beloved among the human friends that walk the earth. 



Every child remembers the flower of his youth, and to 



