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[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. 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, 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 and unconventional. 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. Later, 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. Meanwhile the inventory is completed. Roberta, on an early morning walk a little later, meets Paul Fielding, who announces his coming return to his own home. She and 

 her aunt Adelaide accept an invitation to visit the Fieldings at Christmas.] 



There was a quick tap, tap, of a cane on the gravel, 

 the click of a latch, and the Major entered through 

 the little private gate that had always been between 

 the two gardens. 



"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "it's the lady of 

 Roseberry Gardens! Michael here was sniffing as if 

 there were some extraordinary interest. 



" What makes you come so soon? 

 You used to come at six o'clock 

 And now in the afternoon!" 



the Major quoted cheerfully, adapting Mother 

 Goose. His taste in verse was young enough to 

 have pleased the smallest auditor. 



"I thought you never quit until the last work- 

 man was gone, the last gun fired. But Michael was 

 sure there was something interesting across the 

 fence." 



"I'm taking an afternoon off, Major," said Ro- 

 berta. 



"Turning your back on Duty, eh?" 



She nodded. 



"Good thing!" he said. "Serious vice — over 

 industry. Never had it myself, but I've observed. 

 Insidious, mischievous, undermines the health, 

 ruins the capacity for enjoyment. Very prevalent 

 in New England. I was afraid you had contracted 

 it, my child! I've been getting alarmed. There's 

 lots of it round. 'Stern daughter of the gods' is all 

 right for Duty — she is that; but she isn't the only 

 daughter of the gods — she should take her turn and 

 keep her place. That's it. Duty should be kept in 

 her place. Joy of Life is a daughter of the gods 

 also." 



Roberta laughed. "Don't you believe in the in- 

 dustrious Franklin, poor Richard — and all that sort 

 of thing, and in going to the Ant, Major Pomerane?" 



"Not a bit of it!" said the Major, sturdily. 

 "Franklin did what suited him. If he kept his nose 

 to the grindstone, it was because he liked it there. 

 As to the Ant — what does she do anyway but dig 

 and burrow and make her pile, like a fool million- 

 aire? I'd rather have bobolinks and blackbirds 

 round my garden any day as ants. They're just as 

 useful and more decorative and pleasanter company. 

 There's plenty of people that I believe would stop 

 the bobolink's music and set 'em scratching the 

 ground like hens in the name of industry and utility 

 and swap their music for a cackle. 



"If I had my way, there'd be a hurdy-gurdy at 

 every little district school to set the children dancing 

 at the noon hour. Don't you let any one cheat you 

 out of the joyousness of life, my child. It's your 

 right! If something would make you happy, take 

 it; if it wouldn't make you happy, refuse it! There 

 are more lives spoiled from a mistaken sense of duty 

 as from badness! " 



"What a dangerous philosophy, Major! " said Ro- 

 berta. ' ' So you don't believe in training, in pruning 

 and in all the rest of it that horticulturists swear 

 by?" 



"In reason, in reason," said the Major, "but you 

 garden-daft people see to it that a plant has the soil 

 it likes. You don't put a sun-loving thing in the 

 shade, and a shade loving thing in the sun. People 

 are forever doing that with their children. Young 

 folks need sunshine and laughter and gaiety, and 

 they ought to have it ! 



"Don't you get embedded in the soil at Roseberry 

 Gardens and glued to a notebook like the old fossils, 

 when the Lord sends such mornings as he has the last 

 week and Nancy is just eating her head off in the 

 stable and growing bad-tempered for lack of a gal- 

 lop! 



"Your father was a fossil, but your mother wasn't. 

 I'm growing alarmed about you, Roberta, if you're 

 going to take all that love of flowers and gardens 

 that your mother had and screw it into Bob Dave- 

 nant's legal dry-kiln methods! He grew to have 

 a real feeling for plants. But your mother — she 

 loved them like a humming-bird. I don't wonder 

 Paul went home disgusted." 



"Disgusted with what?" asked Roberta. 



"Roseberry Gardens, I reckon," said the old 

 gentleman, rising a bit stiffly. "I know he went off 

 mighty sudden. Or perhaps it was the other way. 

 Perhaps he was afraid if he stayed a bit longer he'd 

 get the germ — the same thing all the old fossils there 

 have — can't leave it for the life of them — put wax 

 in his ears and shut his eyes, and that sort of thing, 

 and just ran. Fled temptation." 



Roberta flushed a little. Her old friend looked at 

 her curiously. 



'"So sits the wind in that quarter,' " he said. 



"What quarter, Major?" 



"Southwest," he said, looking off at the sky, "it's 

 going to be a pretty morning again to-morrow. 

 What shall I tell Nancy, when I give her her oats to- 

 night?" 



"Tell her I'll go with pleasure," said Roberta. 



"Good child! And don't you bother your head 

 about that young idiot cousin of mine — a few bumps 

 won't hurt him! Needs 'em — make his brains grow!" 



Chapter XXIII 



Major Pomerane found it pleasant, these frosty 

 November mornings, to ride through Roseberry 

 Gardens. He would stop and exchange a word with 

 old Rudolph, who had very few words to spare, 

 leave his horse in the stable by Washington's house, 

 and then go down to the office and warm his fingers 

 at Mr. Worthington's grate fire. He displayed an 

 unusual interest in the gardens. He talked with 

 Horace Worthington on all his pet subjects, praised 

 the Japanese conifers and the new hedge plant, and 

 the old gentleman, glad of a sympathetic listener, 

 would grow eloquent. 



"If ever we are to have a distinctive gardencraft, 

 Major," he would say, "the keynote of it will be 

 variety. Variety! Not a heterogeneous assem- 

 blage of diverse and discordant plants — by no 



154 



means — but a skilful and exquisite blending. 

 Variety and swiftness! We are not fast enough!" 



"What!" The Major looked amused. 



"Not fast enough," the old gentleman would re- 

 peat. "We do not keep pace with nature. We 

 have a wonderful spring, and in the gardens ex- 

 quisite and subtle changes should follow each other 

 with a marvelous swiftness. Browning has the 

 idea of rapidity and vividness: 



' Blue ran the flash across!. 

 Violets were born.' 



Only the bank of moss need not have been starved," 

 he added critically, "something might have been 

 in bloom before — crocus, perhaps, or if nothing else 

 there is always Vinca minor. 



"Monotony, sameness; should never exist in this 

 country! In the summer, our gardens should be 

 places of coolness, shade, with a sense of quiet — the 

 'green thought in the green shade'; in the autumn 

 a magnificence of color, rich and wonderfully 

 varied — no country can rival us in this. They should 

 show comfort in the winter, the sense of protection, 

 such as the English garden has, and cheer. A 

 man's fancy should have free rein, then we shall 

 have charming little gardens! But fancy is gone 

 from us! Even the word, in its old, true sense, is 

 unused; it has lost its delicate poetic quality; we 

 have, as it were, 'rung Fancy's knell.'" 



"To be sure," agreed the Major, "fancy prices, 

 dry- and fancy-goods, fancy butter have done it. 

 Poets won't use the word any more — have to think 

 up another. Probably if you asked a school child 

 to 



"Tell me, where is fancy bred? " 



he'd point you to the nearest bakery. I can't tell 

 you where it's 'bred or nourished' but I can tell you 

 where it isn't, and that's in the suburbs. No chance 

 for fancy to run riot in your garden; when, if you 

 breakfast on your porch, your next neighbor knows 

 if you like one egg or two, and if you have muffins or 

 toast for breakfast. Fancy is shy." 



"Everything creative is shy," said the old gentle- 

 man. 



"To be sure! A hen steals her nest and a poet 

 betakes himself to a garret for the same reason." 



"Perhaps. But the same spirit of adventure is 

 gone for us." 



"May be gone from Roseberry Gardens, Horace, 

 but it's not gone from the town. Adelaide has it — 

 Adelaide Davenant; she's going gallivanting for the 

 first time in her life — off to Paradise Park, Field- 

 ing's place in South Carolina." 



"Ah, indeed! A very interesting place — very 

 wonderful old camellias! They were imported by 

 Andre Michaux in 1 748 and are still growing luxur- 

 iantly. 



"There, James! There is a hedge-plant for the 

 South! Imagine the elegance of a hedge of Cam- 

 ellia japonica! The rich, gleaming, dark green of 

 the foliage; and then in January, the brilliant 



