70 MY GROWING GARDEN 



can I stay away from their annual reception, to 

 which I have long had a standing invitation? Who 

 is to give to the sermons of Jack-in-the-pulpit the 

 cheerful attention he expects of me? That spring 

 mist of indescribable color that clothes the oak 

 trees; those fascinating flowers on the shagbark 

 hickory; the opening of the box-elder's blooms — 

 all these call me. The myriad sights of the May 

 awakening mean much to me, and I would have 

 advantage in a dual existence, or in an extended 

 month, so that I might have the wild beauty of 

 the hillside and the woods no less because I am 

 working into shape my growing garden. 



Yet I can have some of both. In "Lovers' 

 Lane," hedged with great arborvitaes, shaded from 

 the ardent sun, no exotics, no garden shrubs, may 

 grow. Here I have been locating the plants I love, 

 and which I take, reverently, carefully, decently, 

 from the wild. When the call of the woods is no 

 longer to be denied, old *'Tom" is hitched up; 

 boxes, papers and trowels are provided, and with 

 my life-partner, who is nearly as fond of these 

 nature- jewels as I am, I drive to certain favored 

 haunts. Awhile we look, and listen, and inhale, 

 and visit, joyously greeting our old friends all 

 made fresh and new in God's spring providence; 

 and then some plants are selected, hfted with the 



