THE BACK-YARD GARDEN 



In this ideal home-garden were old-fashioned 

 Madonna Lilies, such as I had not seen for years, 

 and Bouncing Bets, ragged and saucy as ever, 

 and Southernwood, that gave off spicy odors 

 every time one touched it, and Aquilegias in blue 

 and white and red. Life Everlasting, and Moss 

 Pink, and that most delicious of all old-fashioned 

 garden flowers, the Spice Pink, with its fringed 

 petals marked with maroon, as if some wayside 

 artist had touched each one with a brush dipped 

 in that color for the simple mischief of the thing, 

 and Hollyhocks, Rockets — almost all the old 

 " stand-bys." There was not one " new " flower 

 there. If it had been, it would have seemed out 

 of place. The Morning Glories were just get- 

 ting well under way, and were only half-way up 

 the door-frame, but I could see, with my mind's 

 eye, what a beautiful awning they would make 

 a little later. I could imagine them peering into 

 the kitchen, like saucy, fun-loving children, and 

 laughing good-morning to the woman who 

 " loved flowers so well she couldn't get along 

 without a few." 



You see, she was successful with them because 

 she loved them. Because of that, the labor she 

 bestowed upon them was play, not work. They 

 were friends of hers, and friendship never be- 



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