DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 195 



the blue of ageratum and forget-me-not, the white of cos- 

 mos and daisy. 



Now they have gone their way to the pine grove, little 

 human flowers escaped from gardens, we take up our task 

 again, wondering why more human hearts do not grasp 

 the larger gardening in life. What nobler work for the 

 isolated on farms who complain of loneliness than that 

 of transplanting children from asylums in the city to 

 country homes ! The childless man and wife could gather 

 a company of ten about them, and know loneliness never 

 again. The battle with weeds of character in the adopted 

 plants is not so desperate as the battle often is with self 

 and discontent. And by and by the harvest comes, when 

 the boys and girls of a few years' culture and pruning go 

 elsewhere to make other gardens and to call their guar- 

 dians blessed. 



Life would be a fairer fabric if we could cut away 

 barren stalks and dried leaves, and gather up the waste of 

 a season ready for the burning. We never seem to know 

 when to let go, and keep out half-dead begonias and pot- 

 ted herbs to deface the order of the front windows. It 

 takes courage to pull up a sickly rosebush or chop out a 

 lilac that has harbored molds for years. We know it 

 ought to be done, and do we do it as many times as we 

 should? 



Moralizing is inspired by fall weather. When the 

 cleaning spell is upon me not a corner of the fence escapes, 



