g8 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



flower garden with hollyhocks, foxgloves, mignonette, 

 and sweet-smelling and gay-looking blooms congregate 

 where the sun shines. If joy is overabundant, then we 

 can afford to hedge ourselves in with tall lilacs or mock 

 orange, but one with the true beauty hunger would like 

 a window to peep into his neighbor's orchard, and an 

 opening where the neighbor could look in. Joy is a 

 neighborly spirit, and a rambling company of rugosa 

 roses bearing flowers for June and fruit for December 

 for a pretending barrier, with outlooks here and there, 

 would keep life's business in a summer mood. 



On the lawn where the grass had been clipped away 

 from the iris bed to let the sun warm the earth about the 

 plant roots, a morning-glory seed sown by the wind had 

 taken root and sent 'up a graceful stem full six inches in 

 length that reached out a sensitive terminal bud to grasp 

 a spray of iris about unfurling its purple bloom. Hard- 

 ness of heart must be a virtue of a weeding woman. No 

 good, aspiring soul realizes the seeds of cruelty buried 

 deep within it until, in the guise of a gardener, duty 

 points to pulling roots, slaying grubs and slugs, scaring 

 sparrows and predatory kittens, and shooing chickens and 

 the investigating child. 



A stern sense of the survival of the fittest bars out the 

 quality of mercy. Either admit sparrows, kittens, and 

 youngsters, and make heyday with them while bidding 

 farewell to neat garden beds, or maintain a firm front 



