THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS 



Apples and Medlars were arranged in rows, while by 

 his side, placed on the window ledge to catch the sun, 

 were fallen Nectarines, Peaches and big yellow Plums 

 set to ripen. 



What curious things a garden store-room holds ! 

 The tins, slopped over, of weed-killer, of patent plant 

 foods, of fine white sand. The twisted string, criss- 

 crossed upon a peg of wood, covered with whitewash, 

 the string that serves to guide the marker for the tennis- 

 court. Then an array of nets to cover Currant bushes, 

 and bid birds beware of Gooseberries, Cherries and ripe 

 Strawberries. A barrow, full of odds and ends, baskets, 

 queer little bags of seeds, a heap of Groundsel gathered 

 for a bird and lying there forgotten. Like a Dutch 

 picture, half in gloom with bright lights on the shears, 

 and along the edge of the scythe, and on the curved 

 wire mesh made to guard young seedlings. Empty seed 

 packets on the floor, bright coloured pictures of the 

 flowers on the outsides, a little soiled by the earth and 

 the gardener's thumb. 



Plant memories, indeed ! A man may plant a host 

 of them and never then recapture all his joys. There's 

 his first love garnishing a rustic arch, a deep yellow Rose, 

 beautiful in the bud — William Allen Richardson : she 

 wore them in her sash. He can laugh now and see the 

 long yellow hair floating in a cloud behind her as she 

 ran, and the twinkling black legs, and the merry pretty 

 face looking down on him from between the leaves of 

 the Apple-tree she climbed. He grows that Apple in his 

 orchard now, and toasts her memory when the first ripe 

 fruit of it shines on the dish before him at dessert. 



The Clove Carnation with its spice-like scent he bought 

 from a barrow in a London slum, brought with care — 

 wrapped in paper on the rack of the railway carriage — 

 and planted it here. This Picotee he hailed with joy 



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