THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



time when the graveyard shall begin to be green with 

 the shafts of their first leaves. Besides these, there 

 are the headsticks to the Carnations, but this patch 

 of the graveyard is different since the tufts of Carna- 

 tion grass make long grey lines against the brown 

 earth. Somewhere, in each of these grey tufts, is 

 hidden the beautiful germ of life that is growing, 

 growing all the time, and the wonderful chemical pro- 

 cess is at work there (for all the plants look so silent 

 and quiet), that is mixing colours and rejecting colours, 

 and is secreting wax, and preparing perfume. Of all 

 moments in a garden this is to me the most wonderful. 

 No glory of colour or variety of shape ; no pageant 

 of ripe Summer, or tender early day of Spring appeals 

 to me quite in the way this silent time does, when a 

 thousand unseen forces are at work. I have often 

 wondered (being quite ignorant of the chemical side 

 of this) what happens to that drop of fresh colour the 

 bee brings like a careless artist flicking a brush. Some- 

 times in a Carnation of pure white, one flower, or two, 

 will show a crimson streak — a sport, one calls it. But 

 more curious still is the fringe edge of the Picotee. How, 

 I have often asked myself, does the colour edge find 

 its way to its proper place ? How does the plant 

 manage to produce just enough of that one colour to 

 go round each of its flowers ? I have stood by a row 

 of these plants that I have just planted in some new 

 bed, and wondered at the amazing industry going on 

 within them. They are fighting disease, supplying 

 themselves with proper nourishment, mixing colours, 

 and building buds and stems. It is a regular dock- 

 yard of a place except that there is no sound. I imagine 

 (quite wrongly, but merely because an instinct causes 

 me to do so) a lot of orderly forces like little drilled 

 men hard at work in green-grey suits. Those who 



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