THE FLOWER GARDEN OF CHARM 



F. F. ROCKWELL 



Where Divers Elements Waiting Without the Gates To Be Translated 

 Into This Elusive Quality Prove Anew Its Defiance of Exact Analysis 



jNE quiet golden September afternoon, I had wan- 

 dered over one of the most beautiful estates in 

 Connecticut by myself, while I waited for the owner 

 to return. The fields and the orchard and the 

 grounds and the greenhouses were all inspected in turn — and 

 all quite "comme il faut," as these things go on big estates; 

 quite complete, perfect — quite without individuality! And 

 then, through a little arched door in a vine-covered wall — one 

 of those " this-is-private, you-ought-to-stay-out, but-I-dare- 

 you-to-push-me-open-and-peep-in" little doors that would 

 tempt any lover of gardens as quickly as the clash of swords 

 and a maid's cry down a dark street would have tempted an 

 adventurer of knighthood days — through such a little door I 

 caught a glimpse of just the kind of a garden one dreams of. 

 And of course I went in! 



And 1 found myself on a gravel path — but it was not a 

 formal garden. It was neither formal nor informal; not 

 Italian or Japanese, nor pink nor blue. But it was wholly 

 a garden of charm ; and above all a garden of personality. The 

 greenhouses, and grounds, and other "features" belonging 

 to that place could have been exchanged for those of any 

 one of a dozen others and I doubt if the owner, making his 

 rounds the following Sunday, would have noticed the differ- 

 ence before he was well through his first cigar. But that 

 little garden any one would have known again in a thousand ! 

 Yet it was very simple; it looked perfectly "natural" as if, 

 like Topsy, it had "just growed" there. Any one with ex- 

 perience in garden making could understand that no end of 

 thought and loving care had gone to achieve that simplicity, 

 however. 



Inside the Enclosing Wall 



FOR one thing, in spite of the wealth of material it was a 

 nice, homey, comfortable garden. It was well ordered 

 but not too neat and prim. It invited close inspection too, 

 even to the setting of one's foot on the turf, or in the beds 

 themselves. A glorious mass of Anemones dominated one 

 corner! The plebeian Kochia had been used with skill and 

 telling effect. The air was almost heavy with the fragrance 

 of Heliotrope from masses of this along the sides as well as a 

 score or more of splendid tree Heliotropes several years old 

 (in candy-pails, plunged level with the soil!), placed at the 

 corners of paths, and along walks. These were charming in 

 their semi-formal, old-fashioned effect. And against a tall 

 gray wall at the far end of the garden tossed a perfect sea 

 of pink and white Cosmos — the first Lady Lenox I had seen 

 —which all but hid from sight a flight of steps going right 

 up to the top of the blank wall! 



"Here," I thought, "is indeed an enticing garden. To 

 what hidden trysting place do these steps lead? Luckily I 

 am alone: I shall find out the real secret of this garden." 



I did. I mounted the steps and looked over — and it was 

 a surprise! For what I saw was a big pile of manure; another 

 of sod, stacked shoulder high; a compost heap with weeds 

 and grass and faded cut flowers and what-not showing on the 

 surface; and a big wire incinerator, with several barrels of 

 ashes near it under a small open-front shed. In this were also 

 visible tools and bags and boxes. 



Someone laughed! I turned, balancing on the top step. 

 The Lady of the Garden was looking up at me. I hoped I 

 did not appear as I felt. 



"I was attempting," said 1, trying not to fall into the 

 Cosmos, and endeavoring to descend as gracefully as the 

 gentleman burglar of a popular play — " I was attempting to 

 discover the secret of your garden: and I think 1 have. Over 

 the garden wall will have a new significance for me after this. 

 The more completely spontaneous and natural and just-as- 

 the-Lord-made-it-grow look a garden has, the more certain I'll 

 be of what can be found over the wall." 



"But you have looked over only one wall," she replied. 

 "The others are quite as important." 



So we went and looked over the east wall, which didn't 

 require any steps. Under it, nicely sheltered, was a long 

 row of frames, some half of them full of perennials and bi- 

 ennials started for the spring. " You should see my Pansy 

 beds in spring," she exclaimed, enthusiastically. " I enjoy 

 quite as much being behind — or rather ahead of — the scenes," 

 I answered. " Like Budge and Toddy, I like to ' see the wheels 

 go wound.'" 



But when we looked over the west wall — or rather through 

 it, for there was another door here — I was somewhat puzzled. 

 Only a few trees, and the side wall of the house, with a bay 

 window jutting out. I looked at my companion inquiringly. 

 "That's the most important part of all," she assured me. 

 "There is my study — my 'padded cell' my husband calls it. 

 That is where I keep all my garden books, and my bound 

 volumes of Garden Magazine, and stacks of catalogues, 

 ruled paper for making plans, and all that sort of thing. 

 That is the real secret of the success of my garden if you will 

 have it!" 



The Tale's Adorning Moral 



THIS particular scene in this flower garden is described 

 because it serves as an example of high efficiency and — 

 example is always more compelling than argument. And 

 efficiency in the flower garden always needs emphasizing! 

 "'Efficiency' in the flower garden," says someone, "might as 

 well talk of efficiency in poetry, or efficient comic opera!" 



Not at all. Efficiency has its place in the flower garden — 

 though too often it has not ! — even if the end and aim of that 

 gardening be pleasure pure and simple. And just now with 

 the war over and flowers coming into their own once more, it 



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