4 BOOK OF THE COTTAGE GARDEN 



not awakened by the same flowers grown in the gardens 

 of the rich. If once the suggestion of money lavishly 

 spent is allowed to obtrude itself into a garden, the 

 message of tree and flower and shrub is stifled at its 

 birth. Nature, even in her most lavish aspects, never 

 advertises her wealth. Who, with an eye for beauty 

 and form, could pass through one of those mighty 

 forests of the New World, and forget their grandeur 

 in reckoning the thousands of pounds worth of timber 

 displayed ? True, a log-feller might ; a nature lover, 

 never ! Or who, but the most commercial minded, 

 would pause to calculate in pounds, shillings, and 

 pence, the value of the gorgeous orchids festooning 

 the trees of some Brazilian swamp ? 



And yet that is precisely what does happen in hundreds 

 of English gardens we have seen. The taint of money 

 is everywhere — tons of soil removed from one spot to 

 another ; terraces and balustrades glittering with new- 

 ness ; artificial lakes on elevated ground ; fountains 

 playing ; exotics, which in winter must be sheltered in 

 heated structures, dotting the lawns and stairways. 

 There is no air of peace or rest in such gardens. An 

 army of men is constantly at work, sweeping, trimming, 

 clipping, tidying — an endless round of wearisome and 

 profitless labour. We forget the garden in the stupend- 

 ous prospect of the wages bill. 



How different is the cottage garden, whose very 

 existence, since poverty not affluence called it into being, 

 is due to a need in humble minds for its pleasant com- 

 panionship. Its paths are moss-grown, innocent of the 

 immaculate coatings of gravel dear to the owners of 

 carriage drives and serpentine walks. Roses and creepers 

 drape themselves in natural ways on porch and eaves, 

 unvisited by a watchful assistant with his bag of nails 

 and cloth shreds. Bedding out" is unknown ; instead, 

 the borders are filled with a brave company of hardy 



