A GARDEN NOTE-BOOK 



the brick, also only against the curves, we placed 

 a narrow line of Iris pumila, the deep violet one. 

 Beyond this little platform I shook out bag after 

 bag of bulbs of daffodil, and tulip Orange King, 

 for a spring picture, to be seen stretching away from 

 this little new place. Puschkinia is already nat- 

 uralized there; tulip Kaufmanniana gives an early 

 glow to the earth below the lilacs; and now and 

 again a cluster of species tulips, the remnant of 

 generous plantings of years gone by — Clusiana, 

 Greigii, viridiflora — make their own interest, too. 

 I leave the reader to judge if snow can cool the 

 prospect of the spring when one has managed to 

 plan just one small meeting-place like this. It 

 should be really poetic; but one can hardly plan 

 for poetry — that happens or not. A little focal 

 point for friends to use among flowers — that must 

 result in something happy. This reminds me of 

 one of the most charming invitations of my life, 

 an invitation given in a California city, the words 

 said in the sweetest of American voices, the voice 

 of the South — "Come and see my daphnes." It 

 has haunted me as a line of poetry will do. 



Who is not familiar with April cold — that chill 

 in the air which in our Northern States seems 

 more unsuitable because of the marvels of color 



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