September, 1912 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



45 



"Oh it's not a hedge at all. It's just a 

 Ha-ha. That's all." 



"Well that's new to me." 



"But it's not new. It is ever so old. 

 It was thought out by a landscape archi- 

 tect of the eighteenth century." 



"One of those ingenious chaps that 

 started us in formal gardens? " 

 i "Yes, one of them. He wished to blend 

 the garden, lawn and distant meadows into 

 an unbroken line and at the same time keep 

 the sheep and cattle from the garden, so 

 he thought out the brick-lined ditch. 

 When «his garden was made the world 

 went to look; and behold, there were 

 fragrant untouched flowers, unsullied lawn 

 and cattle grazing a stone's throw distant. 

 iHow now ' the world cried ' are these oxen 

 different from their kind that they touch 

 not grass or blossom?' 'Look' said the 

 ingenious architect, 'find the fence.' 

 Whereupon they all laughed 'Ha-ha,' 



and that's why it's called a 'Ha-ha' to- 

 day." 



"So you are to have a 'Ha-ha' and a 

 hedge too?" 



"Yes. We have decided that it's 

 necessary." 



"I suppose the hedge would answer all 

 necessary purposes?" 



"I suppose it might, if it grew up with- 

 out a break, but we just must have a 'Ha- 

 ha.' It goes with eighteenth century 

 atmosphere of the old box and the yew 

 tree, and I have a feeling that they'll feel 

 more at home when the 'Ha-ha' is rebuilt, 

 for it was all here long ago." 



The World-Man walked by my side 

 with his head bent. We crossed the bowl- 

 ing green, ascended the white steps to the 

 veranda. He stood there and looked out 

 on the Point Field where the tiny thorn 

 orange trees rose in a little green fringe 

 above the grass. 



"I'll have it, I'll have it." He did 

 not seem to be addressing me or any one 

 in particular. He spoke with defiance as 

 he looked out to the little oranges. "I'll 

 have it." He said again. "My signs 

 haven't done any good, nor any of those 

 mottoes I've hung around. I'll show them. 

 I'll show them a few things. I'll show them 

 that when a man has a farm and says 

 ,'Keep out" he means it. Come," he 

 said, grasping my arm. "Show me how 

 you're going to build that thing over 

 there." 



"Why, what do you mean, World- 

 Man?" 



"I mean the 'Ha-ha,' that's what I 

 mean, of course. I'm going to have one." 



"You going to have a 'Ha-ha?'" 



"Yes all around my farm to keep the 

 cattle out, that my eyes may wander still 

 further beyond my desk away far, far 

 away." 



Native Asters for Fall Gardens —By Sherman r. Duffy, a 



AN EASY WAY TO HAVE RICH COLOR PICTURES IN THE LATTER PART OF THE YEAR — SOME 

 VARIETIES THAT ARE MOST WORTH GROWING AND HOW TO GET FLOWERS IN GREATEST PROFUSION 



GRIEF," says Lamartine, "knits two 

 hearts in closer bonds than happiness 

 ever can; and common sufferings are far 

 stronger links than common joys." Friend 

 Neighbor and myself are bound by common 

 ties of sorrow, suffering, and indignation, 

 too deep for printable words. The grief 

 that binds our hearts is caused by the pre- 

 datory piracy of a flock of Plymouth Rock 

 chickens owned by a saurian-souled man 

 across the road. 



A Plymouth Rock is the most destruc- 

 tive of fowls because it has larger feet 

 coupled with more ingrained and irre- 



pressible energy than any other member 

 of the gallinaceous tribe. There are breeds 

 with larger feet, perhaps, but they are 

 lacking in industry. 



The casus belli aside from the chickens 

 was a flourishing collection of perennial 

 asters which ceased flourishing when they 

 came in violent contact with the feet of the 

 Plymouth Rocks. It came about in this 

 wise: Friend Neighbor and myself had 

 seized upon the first warm day of spring 

 to remove the mulch from our borders. 

 Fine patches of asters were exposed, show- 

 ing at least an inch of sturdy greenness. 



They were uncovered in the forenoon and, 

 while we were taking our midday meals, 

 the Plymouth Rocks came across the road, 

 divided themselves into two marauding 

 squads and proceeded to kick the aster 

 clumps to pieces. 



We saved as many pieces as possible 

 and at once lodged ungentle complaint 

 with the owner of the chickens while 

 speeding their departure. 



The parting volley was fired from the 

 opposite side of the street. The owner of 

 the hens being a stiff-necked character 

 and not amenable to reason concluded by 



James Kelway. a large flowered form of the New York Aster ericoides. var. Enchantress: white, turning St. Egwin. with flowers of pure pink, is remarkable 

 aster. Pale lavender and a profuse bloomer pink, has very small flowers, like the baby's breath also for the size of the blooms. Form of the New York 



