172 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



and it is free and pleasant in the shade of an old apple 

 tree. 



It is a fete day when Barbara comes to our garden. 

 The architect had no hand in its planning, and near the 

 close of the summer its beauty shows the wear of a season, 

 though some plants are blossoming valiantly enough. 

 The strip of bed set apart for Barbara's pleasure gives fun 

 to fill a week of holidays. It is thick with original plants, 

 and, as I think of it, it reminds me of the jolly company 

 that gathers for an annual picnic, each one with his own 

 basket and his bag of jokes and a riddle book. No feeble, 

 characterless creature was invited in. The lady's-slippers 

 brought their trees of flowers and bursting seeds, Job's- 

 tears carried silver beads, the balloon vine strung inflated 

 green bubbles along its climbing stem, the flycatcher 

 spread its molasses around its stem to trap the little ants 

 and gnats, and a big clump of four-o'clocks opened 

 promptly with the clock, and then slept late in the morn- 

 ing sunshine. 



Among the evils to be trampled down in the ascent 

 to the higher life the poet Longfellow prayed to be de- 

 livered from "irreverence for the dreams of youth." In 

 those youthful dreams are the forget-me-nots, the sensi- 

 tive plants, bachelors' -buttons, Canterbury bells, colum- 

 bines, love-in-tangle, snapdragons, dusty millers, ragged 

 robins, immortelles, and black-eyed Susans that the 

 garden architect scorns. 



