August, 1913 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



15 



and thus every flower bed is seen many 

 times through different moods. For in- 

 stance, at the moment of your visit, the 

 dominant note may be a bed of orange 

 day lily. Ordinarily it is coarse in color 

 and texture, especially in the blazing sun, 

 but there is witchery in this shady pergola. 

 The arching vines protect like eyebrows 

 from the glare. And now you see your 

 spot of orange framed by falling curtains 

 of Virginia creeper. Two steps farther 

 and you glimpse it through a veil of 

 panicled clematis. Coming nearer, you 

 get a full view of its bold form and color, 

 framed by strong outlines of classic grape. 

 Retreating, you turn as toward a sunset, 

 and the orange glow sifts through a screen 

 of trumpet creeper — a screen so dense 

 that form of flowers is excluded, and only 

 bodyless color, like a cloud floats through. 

 Here is the great service that the Breese 

 garden has rendered to American art. 

 It shows how to make a multitude of 

 exquisite little views where no big views 



are possible, and this too on hopelessly 

 flat land, where terraces would be costly 

 and out of place. 



Of the great formal gardens I love but 

 two — Weld and Blairsden. Weld is 

 admirable for its flowers; Blairsden for its 

 garden magic — the kind that is inde- 

 pendent of flowers. The great show feat- 

 ures are the pool and the staircase, but there 

 are two minor places where my fancy 

 habitually lingers. One is an evergreen 

 spot, where busts of ancient emperors 

 stand out against many-textured conifers, 

 domed box, and pencil-like red cedars that 

 recall the heavenward-pointing cypresses 

 in classic Italy. The other spot is a 

 walled garden that opens from a dining 

 room. The brick paths are soft and 

 grateful underfoot and green with moss. 

 Trim box encloses simple beds of old- 

 time, lasting flowers. A wall of foliage 

 towers high above the mellow walls of 

 brick. There are sweet odors, as of thyme 

 and balm, and there are gorgeous butter- 



flies flitting idly in the sunlight. Over all 

 broods an atmosphere of mellowness and 

 peace. The silence is unbroken save for 

 the tinkling of water, as the iris-colored 

 drops fall in the central fountain on whose 

 rim perch a group of expectant birds. 

 Stone birds, 'tis true, but the very flower 

 of the sculptor's art. There is a sacred- 

 ness in such a garden — an atmosphere of 

 home life more precious than anything 

 that gold can buy. For it is at such shrines 

 of beauty that strong men refresh their 

 souls and gird themselves for the battles 

 they are sent to fight. 



Well, well, I must have been dreaming. 

 I came to scoff and remained to pray. 

 Never mind, this is my last offence, frivol- 

 ous or sincere, I shall never "take my pen 

 in hand" again. "The best six gardens," 

 say you? I feel like Paris delivering apples 

 of discord, but here goes: Blair, Breese, 

 Dana, Van Cortlandt, Ward — that's five. 

 The sixth one I retain! 



•'The silence is unbroken save for the tinkling or water, as the iris-colored drops fall in the central fountain, on whose rim perch expectant birds' 



