II 



MAEINO THE LITTLE FLOWER GABDEN 



I LOVE to sit out under the trees of 

 Everyman's garden. Now and then a 

 whiff of clover-fragrance, of perfume 

 from the lovely fields beyond, cuts keenly to 

 our retreat, and the master of the garden 

 shakes his head laughingly and gives warning 

 that his flower-children will be jealous. So they 

 are ; the next fluttering of leaves is turned by 

 zephyrs scented with the subtle incense of the 

 Columbine, the Honeysuckle or the strange, 

 sweet breath of the Dahlia. Then I tell the 

 rn aster of this garden all the hopes and fears 

 I hold for my own. For two seasons now, I 

 tell him, I have been striving to rear my treas- 

 ured plants and bring them to maturity, that 

 they may frame the garden of my dreams. 

 He leads me to an old back porch screened with 

 Honeysuckle, Clematis, and stringed Morn- 



