Garden Airs and Graces 



central bud. My iris needs transplanting. 

 Surely I can see that its tuberous roots have 

 crowded to the surface in the search for space. 

 Phlox needs to be divided yearly, if I am to keep 

 grass from its roots. And she hopes that I won't 

 mind. She can't resist a weed. There! Out it 

 comes, yanking with it a whole tuft of columbine. 

 Then as she thrusts back a naked root, her eye is 

 caught by a suspicious silvering on the larkspur's 

 lower leaves. Mildew! And in her bated breath 

 there is the horror of pestilence and death. 

 What a pity that my plants are done for. But 

 possibly I may still save them by administering 

 Bordeaux. That's good, too, for rust on holly- 

 hocks. She has noticed that mine have it. Hers 

 she has kept safe from taint. 



Before she can go further, I turn her to the 

 praise of her own garden and save the remnants 

 of my own. An act of malice, envy, and bad 

 temper, I admit it. Had she come to rifle me, 

 I should forgive her. I could bail out a robber 

 for the comphment he paid me by his act of theft. 

 But how be generous to one who passes by your 

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