Two sides of the Ha-ha. The garden blends with the distance and animals may roam right up 



the Ha-ha makes this possible 



o the garden without encroaching upon it. The sunken wall of 



The Spirit of the Garden —By Ida M. n. Starr, est 



Chapter I — The "Ha-Ha" 



A story in three chapters which shows us something of the intangible yet very real side of the lover of a garden and which is quite apart from the excitement of large 

 yields or strange combinations. It is indeed the reflection of the subtle enjoyment of the outdoors. 



YES, it is two years now since we made 

 our pact — to plant each some trees 

 and then to compare notes. Then it was 

 a dream garden; now — ! But wait. 

 One day I wrote a letter to World-Man: 



Place — The Country 



Time — The Full Moon of October 



My dear World-Max: 



I see nothing else for you to do. A promise is a 

 promise, and I am asking you to come. You have 

 surely not forgotten our agreement made two years 

 ago that we should dream of trees, then plant them 

 and show results to each other. Will you come to 

 the Gardens of Hope? 



The Mistress oe Hope. 



World-Man replies: 



The City 

 Two Days Later 

 My dear Chatelaine: 



If you say it is the full of the Moon it must be 

 so, though I know nothing about moons. In fact 

 don't often see the sun. Don't really have time 

 to think about the weather anyway, except now and 

 then as an annoyance. You ask me to the Gardens 

 of Hope; could any man refuse? Will Tuesday 

 noon be too late? If so, wire me, please. 



About trees — abashed as I am to have so little 

 to report, I shall come and at least be a free man 

 for a day, and I am sure a happier one. 



World-Man. 



So on Tuesday morning, as I go down the 

 path I say to Copper: 



"Copper, I want the garden to shine 

 to-day, for someone is coming who loves 

 trees and gardens and he must find the 

 walks clean and the flowers with shining 

 faces. Tell Uncle Jacob to work in the 

 nursery all the morning, those miserable 

 weeds are choking our little hemlocks." 



At noon that October day the little bob- 

 tailed train from the city shrieked once, 



then jerked into the station where I stood 

 waiting. 



"Oh, you've finally come, haven't you?" 



"Yes, I'm here, but if I had had any idea 

 that " 



"Pray don't expect me to apologue for 

 this train service. It's only one of the 

 things that keeps us a little apart, for if 

 we had faster trains and Pullman cars, all 

 the world might come "resorting" down 

 here, and it would spoil everything. You 

 know we are really quite near the big 

 cities." 



"I wasn't thinking of the train, not at 

 all — though it's bad enough. I'd eiidure 

 a dozen changes instead of one if they led 

 me at last to such a country as you've told 

 me about. I was thinking that if I had 

 had any idea you really meant what you 

 said two years ago about coming down to 

 make a "report" I should have come sooner 

 even if I hadn't cared for trees and gardens. 

 How far are you out in the country?" 



"In the summer when the roads are good, 

 by motor twenty minutes. In the winter 

 sometimes when the cross-roads are heavy 

 we're so far away that we forget there 

 are cities anywhere, we're quite out of 

 your world then. The roads are good 

 now." 



When it is October and all the leaves are 

 ablaze and when the sun drops patches of 

 old gold on the highway, when the birds 

 gossip together of their springtime affairs 

 and the leaves are tumbling somersaults, 

 when the great rest of Autumn has softened 

 the rampant energies of nature into long 

 somnolent pauses, then it's time to keep 

 trysts — whether it be for lovers of maids, 

 or lovers of flowers, or lovers of trees, it's 

 42 



the time. So World-Man came, and, before 

 he realized that he was passing through one 

 of the quaintest little towns on the "East- 

 ern Shore," we had reached the shell road 

 and were spinning along past farmhouses 

 and woodlands. Soon we came to a long 

 bridge over Miles River — an arm of the 

 Bay — bumped over the ruts where the 

 shells end at the little houses in the Negro 

 village half way on w : here good old Aunt 

 Sally lives, where we go to find our waiter 

 men and our farm hands; and then on 

 four miles further over as fair a countryside 

 as ever adorned the earth, reached a second 

 bridge, a short one over a winsome creek 

 where the Thomas Blades, a Chesapeake 

 Bay bugeye was unloading a cargo of 

 lumber from the Virginia shore. Beyond 

 the creek was the Country School, and a 

 lot of little girls playing crack-the-whip 

 to the scorn of the boys who longed to 

 join but didn't dare, and then in a minute 

 more I called for the car to stop for we 

 were facing the green wall of high, plumed 

 woodland that encircles Hope on the east. 



"There, see, that's the beginning, where 

 the trees stand massed together in the deep 

 woods. That wall shuts in our City of 

 Refuge. I never come to this opening 

 into the shadows but something tells me 

 to wait, to take a deep breath and look 

 up. The Gardens of Hope lie shut in 

 beyond, ever so far beyond this place. 

 It is just here that we begin to get the 

 roar of your world out of our ears." 



One turn more and we entered the 

 circuitous drive that has lured us year 

 after year from the beaten track. 



"Why, it's a bit of Fontainebleau! How 

 in the world did you ever take the new look 



