This Thornbush, My Thornbush 



the tangled arch above the brook. The crowning 

 achievement, however, in my eyes — ^possibly as 

 a mere muscular feat — I remember that I be- 

 stowed upon myself masculine names — Titan, 

 Samson, Hercules, for my presumption — ^was our 

 first little cedar. How I digged and delved, how 

 I wrestled with its tap root, how I tugged it 

 home, struggling with it over stone walls and 

 sultry meadows, my arms scratched and my face 

 streaming. 



There are many I know who will criticize this 

 incongruity of gardening, this mixture of city 

 folk and country cousins. But to them my 

 answer is, that there is no more beautiful com- 

 bination in my garden than the rudbeckia, 

 backed as they are now by spires of pale blue 

 larkspur and masses of white phlox. The iris, 

 moreover, has had the grace to spread among 

 the yellow daisies. 



But in addition to such chance good fortime, 

 there are pleasures to be derived from this kind 

 of gardening which can be had in no other way. 

 When in spring, I make my first eager trip to 

 poke beneath the matted covers, I look first for 



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