IN PRAISE OF GARDENING 



"There be delights," says an ancient writer, "that will 

 fetch the day about from sun to sun and rock the tedious year 

 as in a delightful dream." Thus, and very much after this 

 manner, the charming old prose-poet, amiably garden-mad, 

 continues, page after page, to describe the "1,000 dehghts" 

 to be found in the "flowery orchard" of his century — describes 

 them with an abandon of happiness that suggests the rapture 

 of St. Bernard when hymning the New Jerusalem ! 



In fact, barring the equally ancient and aUuring pastime 

 of going a-fishing, no hobby has a stronger grip on its devotees 

 than gardening. At four o'clock of a summer morning Celia 

 Thaxter could be found at work in her radiant little island 

 plot, a sister in spirit to old Chaucer when on his knees in the 

 grass at dawn to watch a daisy open. And these were not 

 exceptional, not extraordinary cases of devotion; they were 

 merely typical exponents of the true gardener's passion. 



Nor is this tense enthusiasm fleeting. Not in the least! 

 It is no more transient than the bibhomaniac's passion, no 

 more evanescent than the collector's zeal, which only death 

 can quench. It is no sudden, youthful fervor; indeed, it is 

 rarely found in youth at the storm-and-stress period, while it 

 may be observed to be strongest in those for whom the days 

 of wild enthusiasm are over. The bachelor clergyman or the 

 quietest of spinsters, for whom other passion is non-existent, 

 will yet lavish on their gardens enough devotion to have won 



