THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



at nights. Isn't a garden just such a dream-treat to 

 some of us ? There are golden Marigolds for the sun 

 we live by, and silver Daisies for the stars, and blue 

 Forget-me-nots for summer skies. Heaven at our 

 feet, and angels singing from birds' throats among the 

 trees. 



Sometimes we see one cottage garden, next to a 

 Paradise of colour, flaunting Geraniums, and all the 

 summer garland, and in it a poor tree or so, a few ill- 

 kept weedy flowers, overgrown Stocks, a patch of 

 drunken-looking Poppies, a grass-grown waste of choked 

 Pinks : the whole place with a sullen air. What is the 

 matter with the people living there ? A decent word 

 will beg a plant or two, seeds and cuttings can be had 

 for the asking. Is it a poor or a proud spirit who re- 

 fuses to join the other displays of colour ? Knock at 

 the door, and your answer comes quick-footed ; it 

 is the poor spirit answers you. Of course, there are 

 men who can coax blood out of a stone, and find big 

 strawberries in the bottom of the basket ; and others 

 who cannot grow anything, try as they may. It is 

 common enough to hear this or that will not grow for 

 so-and-so, or that man makes such a plant flourish 

 where mine all die. There's something between man 

 and his flowers, some sympathy, that makes a Rose 

 bloom its best for one, and Carnations wither under his 

 touch, or Asters show their magic purples for one, and 

 give a weak display for another. No one knows what 

 speaks in the man to the Roses that bloom for him, or 

 what distaste Carnations feel for all his ministrations, 

 but the fact remains — any gardener will tell you that. 

 So with your man of greenhouses, so with your humble 

 cottage gardener, and, looking along a village street, the 

 first glance will show you not who loves the flowers 

 but whom flowers love. 



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