friends interwoven with one's tastes, preferences and 

 character, and constitutes a sort of unwritten but 

 withal manifest autobiography. Show me your gar- 

 den, provided it be your own, and I will tell you 

 what you are like. ^^^^^ j^^^.„^ 



Cl^e loije of jflotoetjs 



" Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps ; 

 Perennial pleasures plants and wholesome harvests 

 reaps." 



You have heard it said — (and I believe there is 

 more than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass 

 for a fanciful one) — that flowers only flourish rightly 

 in the garden of some one who loves them. I know 

 you would like that to be true ; you would think it 

 a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into 

 brighter bloom by a kind look upon them ; nay, 

 more, if your look had the power, not only to cheer, 

 but to guard; — if you could bid the black blight 

 turn away, and the knotted caterpillar spare — if you 

 could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought, 

 and say to the south wind in frost — "Come, thou 

 South, and breathe upon my garden that the spices 

 of it may flow out!" John RusMn. 



As I work among my flowers, I find myself 

 talking to them, reasoning and remonstrating with 

 them, and adoring them as if they were human beings. 



Celia Thaxter. 



" Thou bearest flowers within Thy hand, 

 Thou wearest on Thy breast 

 A flower ; now tell me which of these 



Thy flowers Thou lovest best; 

 Which wilt Thou gather to Thy heart 

 Beloved above the rest ? " 



