THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS 



There is that in the hum and business of a garden that 

 makes for peace ; the senses are softly stirred even as 

 the heart finds wings. No greeting is as sweet as the 

 drowsy murmur of bees, in garden, lane or open heath. 

 No day so good as that which breaks to song of birds. 

 No sight so happy as the elegant confusion of flower- 

 border still wet and glistening with the morning dew. 



I heard a man once deliver a learned lecture on the 

 Persian character, full of history, romance and thought- 

 ful ideas. Towards the end of his discourse I began to 

 feel that he, indeed, knew the Persian inside out, but 

 that I could catch but a fleeting and momentary glimpse 

 of his knowledge. Then, by way of background to an 

 anecdote, he mirrored, with loving care and wealth of 

 detail, Oriental in its imagery and elaboration, the 

 gardens in a palace. There was a stream of clear water 

 running through the garden, and the owner had paved 

 the bed of the stream with exquisite old tiles ; white 

 Irises bloomed along the banks, white Roses, growing 

 thickly, dropped scented petals in the stream. I have 

 as good as lived in that garden ; I saw it so well, and 

 what little I know of the Persian I know from that 

 description. Omar is more than a dead poet to me now ; 

 I can smell the Roses blooming over his grave. 



There should be a sundial in every garden to mark 

 the true beginning and the end of day ; some noise of 

 water somewhere ; bees ; good trees to give shade to 

 us and shelter to the birds ; a garden-house with proper 

 amount of flower-lore on shelves within; a walk for 

 scent alone, flowers grown perfume-wise ; a solitary 

 place, if possible, where should be a nest of owls ; a 

 spread of lawn to rest the eyes, no cut beds in it to 

 spoil the symmetry, and at least one border for herbaceous 

 plants. If this is greedy of good things leave out the 

 owls — that's but a fanciful thought. Do you know 



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