A§ we motor through dull, grey, monotonous streets 

 in an unknown town suburb, our hearts go out in- 

 stinctively to those houses where a plant in a pot 

 stands in the window. We know that here dwells a 

 brother or sister gardener, one who has much in common 

 with us, love for the same tender, living thing, a wish to 

 protect that which is dependent. Thus, as we whirl by, 

 a warm thought-wave goes out to such a kindred spirit. 



Many are the varying pictures we carry in our minds 

 of garden windows. In smoky London, a model of a 

 tiny gateway and fence in coloured wood oftens keeps the 

 flower-pots in position. This child's plaything seems as 

 familiar as the ramping white horse in clay that adorns 

 the doors and windows of so many small houses. We 

 wonder how they both became the fashion. 



In Northern France we see in cottage windows a row 

 of flower-pots painted with a thick coat of very bright red 

 paint. Saucer and all is shiny with it. At once childish 

 days are recalled to mind, when we were taken as a great 

 treat to Covent Garden to see all the wonderful flowers 

 and fruit, and to choose, or make believe that we helped 

 to choose, what was to decorate the dinner-table. The 



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