Mine Enemies 119 
stone wall, to covering the bier of my victim with green leaves, 
until now—in the words of the beloved Nelson—the garden 
expects every woman to do her duty and she does it. Three 
things denote the experienced gardener: ability to pluck a 
handful of squirming rose-bugs without qualms and despatch 
them neatly in a kerosene bath; with a sharp trowel in hand to 
play at cross-purposes with grubs and cutworms and to win 
the game; to stand unflinchingly while all sorts of bees, wasps, 
hornets, green, yellow, striped and red-headed flies gambol 
about one’s head and face. These are the tests that prove the 
veteran of many summers. Any one cherishing qualms and 
fears, revulsions and nerves, may chatter glibly about botan- 
ical names and cultural directions; but if she cannot stand the 
fire of exigency that meets her at every turn, she will never 
fight the good fight involved in successful gardening. 
But where shall I begin the enumeration, I, who love the 
heavenly blue and black velvet coat of the web-worm, who 
gaze with undisguised admiration on the iridescent metallic 
beetles, the coppery green armor of the dogbane beetle, the 
humming-bird moth with its bird-like whiz and movement, 
on silken butterflies, from the tiny white bride-like ones that 
hover over the filament stems of the Asperula, to the great 
yellow and black that hatch all sorts of unmentionable 
broods? It is hard to believe that these are real enemies—but 
they are. We must forget our natural history if we would en- 
joy the fluttering butterflies, balancing themselves on the edge 
of a flower. If these lovely creatures would only sip sweets 
perpetually and emancipate themselves from domestic duties, 
we should greet them cordially. Butterflies have but two 
lawful functions—to act as a poetic supplement to a fragrant 
flower, and to serve as a text on immortality. 
The first pest of the season is the little stiff whitish worm, 
less than an inch long, found under the leaves used as mulch 
