Some Gardeners I Have Known 149 
at 95° and the entire family is in dishabille. No wonder I 
have had to resort at times to defenses against strangers, 
and this is my decoy, used particularly when my guests 
wear clean white gloves and natty little silk coats, and carry 
a lorgnette. Recognizing enemies of my convenience—they 
generally come in squads—I welcome them with great hos- 
pitality, not, however, asking them to sit down. I make 
a pretense of showing some new thing of interest about the 
room, and suddenly say,—“Let me show you something 
in the garden,” holding them in leash at the edge, then wheel 
toward the aforesaid mountain view always conveniently at 
hand, wait until the adjectives are expended, then turn back 
to the lawn. There is nothing left to do; their carriage is ob- 
viously waiting for them, and they are encouraged to mount 
their chariot; they are down the lane before they realize that 
they have inadvertently stepped upon my inclined plane 
which gently bows an intruder down and out without hurting 
the feelings of anybody. Pray do not make the mistake in 
thinking that this device is used often. It is only when cir- 
cumstances force the worm to turn, and never after three 
o’clock in the afternoon. 
I have drifted from my subject, and return to the conserva- 
tive gardener, who lives by tradition. She, it is, who preserves 
a remnant of her grandmother’s garden, who has a natural 
antipathy toward all innovations as pernicious. She is an 
archive of the past. Her lettuce is always eaten with sugar 
and vinegar, never with a French dressing. Her culinary 
heavens rest upon the two pillars of baked beans and brown 
bread Saturday night, and Indian pudding in the middle of 
the week. No one ever need stumble over her furniture in the 
dark; for, from time immemorial, the chairs have been placed 
just so. Yet dear and sweet and true is she in all her aspects— 
if a little rigid; for it is she who has retained for us the old- 
