Within My Garden Walls 47 
as candytuft, sweet alyssum, cornflower, Linaria marrocana, 
or catchfly, I do not plant the seed; I look about my walks un- 
til I find them and then transplant them. This is where I get 
my best specimens to fill the gaps made by cutting down early 
perennials after they have bloomed. I do not have to coddle 
these sturdy plants; they have stood the test of winter and a 
frosty spring. Any one who has watered seeds to young plant- 
hood has a genuine admiration for self-supporting walk- 
grown plants. 
“But,” exclaims the Tidy Woman, she who maintains an 
orderly top bureau drawer though the heavens fall, “how 
disorderly your garden must look all cluttered up that way.” 
“Indeed it does, Madam, at times; so much so that Adam 
files an injunction to restrain me from further neglect, and 
threatens to hoe the walks himself if it is not done by a certain 
day.” 
“My path is literally strewn with flowers,” I protest to him 
sentimentally, and I remember various church weddings with 
little pages and flower girls strewing posies down the aisle; 
they were but a symbol, and this the real thing. 
My words have no visible effect upon my neat Adam. He is 
a worthy man, but he has no eye for nice distinctions existing 
in seed leaves. He does not know at sight a new-born lupine 
or columbine or asperula or forget-me-not. He simply can’t 
be trusted in my walks unless disarmed of hoe and shovel. 
Sometimes I am forced to accompany him. 
“Tpse Dixit, Pll not wait another day; your walks are 
disgraceful,” he announces suddenly; his determined voice 
has a long-suffering undertone that I respect. 
T well know what this means, and leave any important do- 
mestic situation to act as body-guard—not to him, but to the 
intended victims. 
He always wants to begin at the entrance, and work steadily 
