The Garden Doctor 



Chapter XI (Continued) 



IT'S the time of all others to be out of 

 doors — the time that well-regulated 

 folk devote to dinner. The daylight 

 is clear as yet, but the hush of evening 

 is unmistakable. Instead of their wonder- 

 ful vespers, the thrushes, over in the deep 

 woods are uttering low, intimate notes — 

 speech rather than song; for in this hush of 

 the early evening, when quietness has fallen 

 like a spell on all the out-of-doors, it is as if 

 the marvellous new springtime, with all 

 wonder and beauty and myriad life, were 

 being put to sleep like a baby on the breast 

 of its Mother Earth. 



I used to lie on the rug and watch the 

 work — I could have watched for hours. 

 I liked the motion of the man and the 

 horses outlined against the sky. 



As for Stephen, he worked in silence most 

 of the time, but sometimes he would talk in 

 his rapt, eager way. I liked that, but I 

 never could tell what would start it. 



"Why must you do that?" I asked him 

 once. He had been standing over by the 

 young poplars, lifting forkfuls of manure 

 from a brown, velvety-looking pile, and 

 with one fling scattering it over the plowed 

 ground with a motion as sure and graceful 

 as if he had been throwing the discus. 

 "Why does my garden need it? Those 

 young poplars haven't extra rations, and 

 they're thrifty enough." 



"You're an invader," he said. "They're 

 in their own country. Invaders always have 

 the odds against them when they're driving 

 out the rightful inhabitants of the land." 



"They're the invaders," I said, looking 

 at the lusty young poplars that had marched 

 unbidden into my land. 



He shook his head. "It's fighting," he 

 said in his soft, eager voice, "all fighting. 

 It seems peaceful enough — ■ the gardening 

 and farming — but there's a bitter warfare 

 under it all that never stops for a moment. 

 That's why the farmers hate the wilderness 

 so; there's been a sword between them for 

 generations. They can drive the wilder- 

 ness back and hold it at bay, but never 

 has she ceded the land. Always she is 

 watching; she throws back at them pests 

 that never trouble her own. They have 

 taken her kingdom by violence; if they 

 relax their grasp for a moment, she seizes 

 it and makes it her own again. 



"Look over there!" he said, pointing 

 over the wide acres, "a few years ago all 



VI.— 



Continued from page jog, June number 



this was farm. The road I go up was 

 worn and travelled; it has violets in it 

 now; all that," and he pointed past the 

 barns, toward the fringing pines, "was 

 mowing land, below the barns were field 

 crops, corn and oats. And now, see! Do 

 you see those little sharp brown spear- 

 heads, hundreds and hundreds of them, 

 down the slope and up the slope? Those 

 are spireas, come in from the pasture. 

 Look up the hill. See the sprinkling of 

 dark green in the mowing? Those are 

 seedling pines, come down from the pines 

 on the hill. And here, you see, the woods 

 are coming in. First the poplars, next 

 will come oaks and beeches and maples, 

 not so easy to dislodge. The wilderness 

 is taking her own again!" 



He laughed whimsically. "Can't you 

 see how she does it? The haste and the 

 gladness, as if it were a lost and beloved 

 child come back to her. How she tries 

 to make it forget the years of its captivity, 

 covering with grass and violets the scars 

 where the roads have bound it, bringing 

 in trees and flowers and shrubs — what- 

 ever she can bring soonest, just as a robe 

 was brought for the Prodigal, new shoes 

 for his feet, and a ring for his hand, before 

 he had entered the house!" 



I looked about with a sudden, new 

 interest. It was as he said. The wilderness 

 was closing in, swiftly, inexorably, as the 

 tide. Then I looked at the house serenely 

 content in the late sunshine. "The little 

 house doesn't mind," I said, suddenly. 



He looked at it, laughed again. "The 

 little house doesn't mind," he repeated; 

 then he glanced at the barns, standing 

 gaunt and aloof. "Don't know about 

 the barns," he added, casually, as he 

 turned to his work. " Guess the barns are 

 like Mrs. Tarbox; they think it ain't 

 right!" 



So it happened, that after all my plan- 

 ning, I did my garden more or less after 

 the "gospel according to Stephen" as 

 Clarky would say, when I quoted him. 

 He showed me where, in the mowing, below 

 the barn, were old red roses of my grand- 

 mother's garden, almost strangled by the 

 grass, and we dug them up and brought 

 them home. And I put iris, the many- 

 colored goddess over in the damp hollow 

 where the farthest woodchuck could survey 

 it as he sat at his house door and I had to 

 make a pilgrimage for the sight. And I 

 planted the lilacs, even " Mme. Casimir 



347 



Perier and Charles the Tenth by the 

 kitchen door and the woodshed corner. 



"Lilacs are homely things," said Stephen, 

 "they like to be near the house." 



I put the flowering almond near the 

 doorstep and the hollyhocks next the 

 window where my poor cornflowers had 

 been. 



"If the house were more elaborate," I 

 explained to Clarky, who eyed the planting 

 with some disfavor, "we would need an 

 elaborate garden to connect it with the 

 wild, but you see this little place has made 

 perfect connections already." 



"Is your friend McLeod a landscape 

 gardener? " she inquired. 



"The most difficult thing in art is to 

 know when to let alone," I said. "I 

 reckon Stephen knows that." 



The garden proper grew more and more 

 utilitarian, and in its laying out I took the 

 advice of Mrs. Tarbox, who bestowed that 

 commodity frankly, if unflatteringly. 



"Plant them seeds in rows, Caroline," 

 she advised, "and don't try anything 

 fancy till you know more. An' when you 

 know more," she added sagely, "you won't 

 try it. If they ain't in rows, you'll be 

 pullin' up your posies 'cause you can't 

 tell 'em from the weeds. But if you see a 

 straight row comin' up — all one kind of 

 leaf — you'll sense that. It may be scrip- 

 ture for the tares an' the wheat to grow 

 together, but if I do say it as shouldn't, 

 the wheat'll grow lots better if the tares 

 was yanked out. An' you want to be 

 so's you can yank 'em out." 



Again I considered Mrs. Tarbox's ad- 

 vice. Again I followed it. 



All sorts of annuals I planted — poppies, 

 mignonette, godetia, gaillardia, and the 

 rest; and all sorts of vegetables. The vege- 

 tables and the flowers alternated cheerfully. 

 I edged beds of marigolds and of poppies 

 with lettuce and I bordered rows of vege- 

 tables with dwarf marigolds and nastur- 

 tium and mignonette. Feebly, in the 

 rush of belated planting, I tried to follow 

 my plan and at least arrange the colors 

 for peace and comfort. 



"Land sakes!" said Mrs. Tarbox, 

 "you'll be doin' well if they grow up an' 

 flower at all an' if you have any eatin' 

 out of the garden-stuff, 'thout fussin' 

 'bout effects. You can't tend to too many 

 things to once, Caroline! If you keep 

 a-fussin' 'bout color effects, first thing you 

 know some pest or other has et up your 



