April. 1 !> 1 i 



T II E G A R I) E N MAGAZIN E 



159 



Fragile, yet with no touch of weakness 

 are the early-comers. It is a frail and 



spiritualized Loveliness — from the snow- 

 drops underfoot, thrusting boldly their 

 hard, white-tipped spears, to the red of 

 the scarlet maples overhead — the most 

 ethereal red in nature. It is this fleet 

 exquisite moment that is missed out of 

 most gardens, because the flowering trees 

 ami the shrubs that could bring it are 

 unbidden and only horticultural enthu- 

 siasts know how fair they are. 



There has been so much made of the 

 technical side of gardening — of color 

 schemes, of planting in masses, of broad 

 effects; scientific names of plants are 

 administered to us in such heavy doses, 

 that to make a garden has come to seem a 

 formidable undertaking, very much as the 

 literature on child culture is enough to 

 appal the boldest parent; yet affection 

 and a fair degree of intelligence is apt to 

 do the trick; the planting impulse also is 

 one of the simplest, most natural, most 

 elemental of instincts. 



Considering how long the race has been 

 at it, we ought to be born knowing how to 

 make a garden. The simplest way to 

 begin is to plant what you want where you 



want it. Neither is it so irrevocable a 

 thing: if after a year or two, the shrub 

 you have set out offends you, it is not 

 necessary to pluck it out and cast it from 

 you — you can dig it up and transplant it 

 to a less conspicuous position and have 

 gained in garden wisdom by the experience. 

 Our grandfathers planted orchards simply 

 because they wanted the fruit; they set 

 out trees to the north and west to keep 

 off the wind and planted lilac bushes for 

 the sake of the lilacs in the mother country. 

 Simple as the planting was it brought a 

 real happiness and such of it as has come 

 to us has both character and charm. 



To my mind the thing which more than 

 anything else deters folk from planting, 

 is the lack of garden seclusion which with 

 us is almost universal. It is well enough 

 to have the street side unfenced, devoted 

 to lawns and shrubs and trees — if that 

 is the custom of the town. But to have 

 any real enjoyment from your garden — 

 to be able to live in it — it must be en- 

 closed. One cannot enjoy living in a 

 garden open to the street and the neighbor 

 any more than one would enjoy living in a 

 show-window. And why this natural re- 

 luctance should be construed as an affront 



(as it often is) to good neighbors and 

 friends, is difficult to understand. None 

 of us is forced to live in a glass house. We 

 pull down shades of an evening without 

 considering that we may interfere with 

 the vision of any one who chances to be 

 standing, like little Mabel, with his face 

 against the pane. Besides who of us wants 

 his maiden efforts (possibly unsuccessful 

 ones) exposed to the cold criticism of the 

 passer-by. To invite a sympathetic friend 

 to see limp and insect-worried little plants 

 — that is another matter. But the hard, 

 unfriendly stare of a stranger, who would 

 not shrink from it? What garden fancies 

 can possibly thrive in bare uncompromising 

 limelight. 



" Tell me, where is fancy bred, 

 In the heart, or in the head? 

 How begot, how nourished? 

 Reply, reply. 

 It is engendered in the eyes . . ." 



says Shakespeare who evidently thinks 

 fancy has something to do with vision. 

 The fancy of the Elizabethan songsters 

 is as full of garden imagery as a bobolink 

 of music, and out it comes in the same 

 joyous abandon — and theirs were en- 

 closed gardens! But what chance has 



A garden where one may work in peace and seclusion 



