218 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



December, 1909 



have changed. World values have gradually 

 been dropping into the remote distance, 

 and do not now show their one-time true 

 perspective, and in their place other values, 

 springing primarily from the earth, seem 

 now to be the important things. 



Now, if there were no more room in the 

 world, if one had forever and forever to be 

 following after the same old tired and 

 misunderstood Christmas with its infinitude 

 of distorted values, its flowers turned to 

 weeds, you should never be told of this new 

 adjustment, of the important calls of the 

 country in this kingly month, which have 

 made the turmoil of the towns at Christmas 

 time seem to us a mockery and a desecration. 



Listen! Down by the bridge over the 

 creek, where the tide washes up in a long 

 ribbon day and night the year around, there 

 is a family of quail, hiding beneath the 

 bridge. Should a great storm come and 

 crush the earth with a white blanket, they 

 might all perish unless someone were there 

 to save them with hands full of grain. 



Where the box grows thickest and the 

 ancient yew drops its long pendant garlands 

 of green, some English daisies tossed there 

 from the garden in the late fall have taken 

 root and they may be blooming — yes, even 

 blooming — their hardy little faces aglow 

 with the frost, down there among the box, 

 where the lilies are asleep. Should we 

 miss it? 



Close to where the rattling bamboo 

 shivers in the frosty air there's a little 

 "baumschule" of baby box and the tiny 

 yew slips. What would happen if a thick 

 fog should come wallowing up the Bay, 

 turning to ice as it touched all living things, 

 and the wee children in the garden should cry, 

 oh, so piteously; and further on, past where 

 the garden lay so helpless, our cypresses 

 and junipers, our little firs and spruces, 

 hemlocks and pines, our retinosporas and 

 our young scarlet plumed maples — what 

 would happen if no one who loved them 

 were there when the storm of liquid glass 

 shuts them all in glistening caskets, shimmer- 

 ing with the stiffness of death ? 



Experience has taught us that storms on 



the Eastern Shore spend their fury in four 

 days, perhaps these very days we are hurry- 

 ing about in the big world. On the fifth day 

 we know that the sun must have relented — ■ 

 that it is shining, that the merciful snow 

 — yes, the snow is merciful — ■ is melting 

 on the terrace — we know that we could step 

 out into the garden path on some young 

 brave little sprigs of grass. 



Then we know that once started we can 

 take more than one step, that another and 

 yet another patch of clear earth will be 

 luring us on, until the whole garden length 

 has been traversed and we reach the great 

 white cross in the cemetery, both so old 

 and so white, for the snow lies long in among 

 the tall bushes about the ancient graves, and 

 the great white cross, the giant sycamore, 

 reaches out its message of silent peace to 

 the garden hard by. Then we steal on 

 to the holly alight with berries by the laborer's 

 cottage, whence a symphonic poem bursts out 

 into the December sunlight, from a host 

 of singing, fluttering birds. 



Should we miss it? Is winter to be 

 maligned, dreaded and ignored by the lover 

 of gardens, just because of its silence, its 

 brown and white covering, its dearth of 

 flowers and its scantiness of verdure ? 



One blustering December day a year ago, 

 we two were sitting by a splendid open 

 fire. We were waiting for a sound. One 

 lives by sounds in the country. Some 

 belated fruit trees were on the way, and 

 their arrival meant work for all. Even the 

 old house was silent, as was the garden, and 

 we waited, not for the Yuletide guests, nor 

 for the gay home-coming of children, for 

 there was work yet to be done before the 

 feast was spread. Christmas Day was no 

 longer an exacting tyrant taxing all our 

 thought and energy to make ready its 

 celebration to the exclusion of accustomary 

 duties. 



Meantime the Master of the House read 

 aloud, as follows, from a musty little volume 

 containing the incomparable letters of 

 General Washington: 



"The more I am acquainted with agricul- 

 tural affairs, the better I am pleased with 



them, insomuch that I can nowhere find 

 so great satisfaction as in those innocent 

 and useful pursuits. In indulging these 

 feelings I am led to reflect how much more 

 delightful to an undebauched mind is the 

 task of making improvements on the earth 

 than all the vain glory which can be acquired 

 from ravaging it, by the most uninterrupted 

 career of conquests." 



The equanimity which distinguished the 

 life of this true lover of gardens seemed 

 to fall noiselessly from the pages of those 

 old letters. 



While the Master of the House read 

 further to himself, I began to plan for the 

 Great Day. 



Should we follow letter by letter the 

 tradition of our first new Christmas? Yes, 

 letter by letter. 



There should be the splendid frolic through 

 the snow down to the woods for our tree, a 

 glistening berry-laden holly. The Master of 

 the House cuts it down while we cheer, it 

 is borne in triumph down the lane to the 

 great House, and decked in splendor with 

 lights on the royal eve. The Yule guests 

 led by the children march in solemn step, 

 each with a gleaming taper, down the long 

 stairway to the room of state, chanting: 



"Christ was born on Christmas Day. 

 Wreath the holly, twine the bay. 

 Life and light and joy is He, 

 The Babe, the Son, the Holy One, 

 Of Mary." 



Then comes that moment of awed silence 

 before the tree, when the spirit of the new 

 glad Christmas descends upon us. Then 

 there is the wonder of the feast, the Christ- 

 mas cakes, the Christmas sweets, and last 

 of all the Christmas bowl. 



Yes, it shall be the same Christmas, letter 

 by letter. 



Then after the early awakening on 

 Christmas morning, and the giving of simple 

 gifts, there is the glad singing, and the 

 procession once again to the woods, to the 

 great beech tree, to cut another cross — 

 the Christmas Cross — in the Yule tree. 



All this should again be as it was — so 

 dreamed the Flower Mother. 



■Where the box grows thickest and the ancient yew drops its long pendant garlands of green ' 



