AN ENGLISH GARDEN IN SPRING 



end of the garden, flagged with stone, and at one 

 end a sitting-place, from which a vision of blue 

 water and purple mountain is a surprise and a de- 

 light. When I had the happiness of seeing this 

 simple but beautiful and personal garden, frost had 

 browned it. There remained only smouldering 

 embers of flowers, embers which but a week before 

 had been tongues of flame. No matter. Here 

 was a garden speaking to the heart as well as to 

 the eye. Charm was in its every line and frag- 

 ment of composition. Above all, the words which 

 leaped to one's mind within its boimdaries, words 

 which should be applicable to every garden, were 

 those most precious ones, seclusion, tranquillity, 

 peace. 



I shall endeavor, now to describe three flowery 

 vistas. In these I have but two supports to 

 which to refer. Miss Jekyll's own printed words, 

 and the memory of a certain afternoon at Mun- 

 stead Wood in July some years ago. Then, in 

 company with a dear little girl of ten, whose in- 

 terest lay mainly in Miss Jekyll's pet cats, I had 

 a few hours of that pleasure imique among plea- 

 sures, of seeing the lovely place and walking there 

 with its distinguished and hospitable owner. This 

 was sixteen years ago, but the picture is as fresh as 



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