[Synopsis of preceding chapters: Roseberry Gardens is the name of a nursery of the old type, with azaleas, magnolias, etc., in profusion. The owner, Mr. Worthington, is a stately, scholarly 

 gentleman of the old school, yet an advanced thinker, a plant lover always anxious to succeed with new introductions. Rudolph Trommel, the foreman, a Swiss, grows plants rather because he loves 

 them than from any business instinct, and indeed takes exception to Michael's having sold a certain plant because it was such a fine specimen. He also is a shrewd judge of human nature. Among 

 the customers is Maurice J. Herford, a dilletante admirer of plants, an artist. Roberta Davenant is secretary to Mr. Worthington and the protege of old Rudolph Trommel, through whose intro- 

 duction she procured the position and who is constantly instructing her in garden craft and plant' knowledge. From time to time Michael so arranges things that Roberta has to act as guide and 

 saleswoman to Maurice Herford. Roberta is self reliant, unconventional and somewhat jolts the old time residents of the place. Paul Fielding, a landscape student and relative of Major Pomerane, 

 a resident, is another visitor to the Nursery. He would go horseback riding with Roberta in the early mornings, to the secret delight of the Major, who twits his cousin with remarks concerning 

 Roberta's interest in the plants of the Nursery and of Maurice's interest in those same plants! One August day Michael suggests teaching Roberta how to bud and incidentally talks about the 

 popular use of a few of the commonest hedge plants to the neglect of others better but less used. Settling down to the work of budding, Michael becomes reminiscent and tells of how a year ago 

 Mr. Herford came, suggesting he go with him to Europe. The lesson in budding progresses. Paul Fielding, discouraged by Roberta's indifference, receives advice from his cousin. Major Pomerane. 

 Paul visits Roseberry Gardens the following morning and to his delight is asked by Roberta to help her in making an inventory of the plants in the nursery. He seizes the opportunity to tell her of 

 his southern home. Roberta is interested. Mr. Worthington returns from abroad and he and Mr. Trommel visit the houses.] 



YES, yes, that is so! but we haf not yet assured 

 ourselfes of its hardiness." 



"Nineteen years we have had plants in the speci- 

 men grounds, and no climate change has injured 

 them in the least," answered Horace Worthington, 

 enthusiastically. 



Old Trommel nodded. "It iss a wicked and un- 

 grateful climate. Nineteen years, yes; perhaps 

 twenty und that climate says 'no'." 



Horace Worthington sighed. It sometimes seems 

 as if the Lord dealt with modern Americans in the 

 matter of gardens, as with the Egyptians, and for 

 the same reason 'because of the hardness of their 

 hearts' and sent plagues and difficulties upon them. 

 When I was a boy, fruit growing was easy. Lus- 

 cious, beautiful fruit we had, apricots and peaches 

 and grapes; now it is obtained only at the price of 

 eternal vigilance! " 



"It iss inefitable," responded Trommel. "We 

 reap what we haf sowed. Nature — she iss inexor- 

 able, we haf destroyed the balance with our destruc- 

 tion of birds und of trees und so fort, und we pay. 

 The Herr Gott iss very heafy on people who blunder. 

 In nature it iss better to be efil and know your work 

 than it iss to be virtuous and blunder. 



"Trommel, Trommel," said the old gentleman, 

 reprovingly, "that's a most immoral doctrine!" 



"It iss true," said old Rudolph, calmly. "Und 

 the trouble with most doctrine is that it iss not true. 

 It iss based on theory and not on experience. That 

 iss why so many good people are fools; they haf not 

 the courage for experiment." 



Horace Worthington sighed. " Intelligence is not 

 a moral quality — nature demands intelligence and 

 skill. That's all, and the truth is with the dreamers 

 and the poets, Trommel; the visionaries of one gen- 

 eration are the leaders in thought of the next, the 

 men who can see." 



The two old men passed out of the little houses 

 and along a broad grassed path to the open frames 

 where were the young grafted plants, set out from the 

 houses for their first winter — young magnolias, 

 Japanese maples, rare evergreens. "Not one has 

 been lost," said Rudolph Trommel, proudly. 



"Look at the color, Trommel!" exclaimed Mr. 

 Worthington, with a wave of his hand toward the 

 plantation of euonymus they were approaching, 

 where the symmetrical, stiff branched alatus had 

 turned a deep, brilliant rose color, from the base to the 

 topmost leaf. "Our gardeners do not know how to 

 avail themselves of it. They cannot look squarely, 

 unbiasedly at the future or the present — they copy — 

 copy — English gardens, when our climate will not 

 encourage the English rose garden, and Italian 

 gardens. The letter, always the letter, when it is the 

 spirit they should take! The ordered beauty of the 

 English garden — yes, by all means! And the gar- 

 den brought close to the house; the proportion and 

 balance and sense of values of the Italian gardens. 

 But the material must be our own. 'The spirit 



maketh alive, the letter killeth. ' " Let them take 

 from the old gardeners their impulse, their sincerity, 

 their readiness to experiment with new things, their 

 belief in their own taste! We are servile, afraid to 

 trust ourselves! People's minds are hampered by 

 the past. They look at the present with precon- 

 ceived notions. They cannot visualize the future. 

 Not yet have we the type of gardening that fits this 

 country." 



Rudolph Trommel nodded. "But when you haf 

 a climate that iss in some parts Siberia und iss in an- 

 other part the Riviera, it iss not easy to fit with a 

 type of gardening." 



"But that is just it," said the old gentleman, ea- 

 gerly; "variety, Trommel, variety, that is the key 

 for our gardening; and our landscape men know 

 nothing, practically nothing of our Silva, they are 

 ignorant of dendrology ! This country of ours could 

 be a marvel for the scope and range of its horticul- 

 ture. Nothing in England or the Continent is com- 

 parable to our American spring. Our gardens could 

 be exquisite with rapid, wonderful changes from 

 March until late June. Our summers are hot with 

 a fierce sun; what we then crave in our garden is 

 shade, coolness, restfulness. A chance for the 

 'green thought in a green shade.' And do we have 

 it? Look at the elaborate, noisy blare of color in 

 August in our most elaborate gardens — and the 

 family, naturally and inevitably, stay on the Beach 

 or go to the mountains. Our landscape men have 

 each his preferred type of garden; he applies it to 

 whatever house falls under his control." 



"That iss so!" responded Trommel. "They are 

 afraid to experiment; afraid to use what intelligence 

 they have." 



"If they would even obey their instinct, it would 

 be better. Look at the old sea-coast New England 

 towns; what the gardens there most sorely need is 

 shelter, protection. They have needed it for more 

 than two hundred years; not yet has it been given 

 them. When the owners of small places, of little 

 gardens, become genuinely interested in horticulture, 

 then we shall have American gardens of interest and 

 variety. It must be a growth, that interest, and I 

 believe from that class. So shall we escape from the 

 deadly monotony." 



"Mr. Worthington," said old Trommel slowly 

 placing his hand on his portly stomach, "I belief I 

 know the reason why the aferage man of the small 

 place iss so little interested in horticulture. The 

 reason may surprise you, but it iss true. It is the 

 lawn- mower!" 



"The lawn-mower!" echoed Horace Worthing- 

 ton. 



"Yes. When the aferage man comes home from 

 work in his office and wishes to divert himself by 

 work in his garden, what offers itself as needing im- 

 peratively to be done? Is it to prune his roses, to 

 stake his dahlias, to inspect his rare plants? Some- 

 thing that requires skill, intelligence, insight, and 



' 47 



therefore iss interesting? No! It iss to push the 

 lawn-mower. Always when he thinks of work about 

 his place, it is the idea of that excellent and useful 

 instrument that presents itself. His work iss pro- 

 bably machinelike, und when he tries gardening that 

 is machine also. No intelligence required, just per- 

 sistence. 



"Und when he has it done, there iss no sense of 

 accomplishment, no feeling that he has assisted in 

 the efolution of something beautiful. No! The 

 lawn looks better; that iss all. In two or three days 

 he must do it again. Whatefer impulse he had to- 

 ward gardening iss thus diferted by the constant and 

 exclusif presentment of the uninteresting, the me- 

 chanical, the onerous." 



"That may be true, Trommel," said Mr. Worth- 

 ington, reflectively. 



"It iss true," asserted the other, "und that iss 

 why the interest of women in gardens iss greater. 

 They are not expected to operate the lawn-mowers. 

 That task falls upon the husband, or reluctant son, 

 or it iss hired. When an American first has a little 

 place, he wished to 'beautify,' and all he can think 

 iss lawn and annuals. The annuals iss weeding und 

 watering; the lawn iss lawn-mower. By the time he 

 would learn to think something different, his interest 

 iss exhausted. 



"For mineself, I rest myself in my little garden. 

 I haf an arbor, one, two, three comfortable chairs. 

 I sit und smoke und think. From where I sit I over- 

 look my garden. I see a branch of my espalier iss 

 growing wrongly. When I finish my pipe, I go und 

 put it right. I go back; I smoke again; I am 

 pleased. I say to myself, "to-morrow morning, 

 early, I will stake those chrysanthemums. " It is no 

 effort, no burden; it iss easy; it combines itself with 

 rest and enjoyment. The usual garden combines 

 itself only with labor. That iss a mistake. We are 

 told that a man must earn his bread by the sweat of 

 his brow. That iss well, but when he sets about en- 

 joyment, there should be as little sweat of the brow 

 as possible." 



Chapter XVIII 



Michael O'Connor came in the office for his 

 usual chat in the late afternoon; the young secretary 

 was arranging papers and putting the desk in order 

 preparatory to leaving. He sat in the big chair be- 

 side a table covered -with horticultural magazines, 

 stroked his white Bismarckian mustache and smiled 

 to himself, watched her in silence for some minutes, 

 then heaved a sigh. 



"Ye miss so much that's useful and instructive, 

 Miss Davenant, be stock-takin' in the mornin's wid 

 the long lad that's pursuin' Horticulture (though 'tis 

 my opinion he'll never catch her). 'Tis a shame! 

 'Tis here in the office that things happen." 



"What did I miss, Michael," she asked, "Mr. 

 Maurice J. Herford!" 



'"Twas no one av importance," said Michael, 



