148 Hardy Plants for Cottage Gardens 
family has had time to read it. Jellies and pickles never ripen 
on their cellar shelves, for they are sent as a glad tribute to 
neighbors. They will dig up anything, and strip their mos* 
precious possession to give to any passer-by, who seldoi 
troubles himself to carry it as far as the gate. When such a 
one meets a person gluttonous of things, sad is the havoc 
wrought. For example: in the early days when I was study- 
ing not only flowers, but the habits of mortals let loose among 
them, this conversation took place. Said a Gluttonous One: 
“My daughter and I were calling upon Mrs. -—— who has a 
beautiful garden, and she told us that we could help ourselves 
to anything we liked; and my daughter gathered white fox- 
gloves—the greatest quantity—as many as she could hold in 
her two hands,” and she related the atrocity with all the relish 
of a cannibal who had just eaten a missionary. I imme- 
diately called her attention to a certain view of the moun- 
tains and gently but firmly led her a safe distance from the 
garden. 
Incidentally let me confide that this same mountain view is 
my trump-card. Some people—strangers in our part of the 
world—have come to look upon us as public property, and not 
a few have even been known to visit us as they would a boul- 
der or a glen. Their arrival is not always coincident with my 
convenience. They may come at the critical moment when 
the dressing for my truly delicious mustard pickles is thicken- 
ing; when, at my ablutions, my ear alone catches the sound 
of the knocker, and I have no way of communicating either 
their coming or my helpless condition to Adam in the gar- 
den, or my maid who may be hanging out the clothes. 
They come at dewy morn when I am transplanting; they 
come when we are at dinner—a matter not half so tragical 
as arriving just as dinner, for three only, is ready to be 
served. They come in rain, and when the thermometer stands 
