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BACKWOOD GARDENS. 



his doorstep and the road, but it was a mass of 

 color, reds and yellows. One could not help think- 

 ing that there were plenty less satisfying homes 

 than that poor old cot. 



The garden I know most intimately is surrounded 

 as usual by a white-washed pale fence, and is filled to 

 overflowing with maple, spruce, tamarisk, fruit trees 

 and a mass of all kinds of shrubbery and flowers. 

 It is full — of course, too full — and indeed I do not 

 think there is a single law of landscape gardening 

 that has not been violated in the arrangement of it, 

 yet the place to me is full of charm ; and, personally, 

 I would not have it altered. People from the city 

 who occasionally catch glimpses of it, frown on it, 



some Begonia rex slyly and shyly bloom. In a 

 corner, screened by althea bushes, white August 

 lilies hold sway. Opposite them, and surrounding 

 the pump, are groups of white phlox, hollyhocks and 

 more dahlias. Every space is utilized. The pump 

 takes the place of the more aesthetic fountain and 

 is the center around which the garden thrives. 

 Everything leads the eye up to the life-giving pump. 

 Perhaps it is not inappropriate. 



The before-mentioned boxwood, of all shapes and 

 sizes, lines the walk, and clumps of it are scattered 

 about in a mysterious way as if they might be the 

 remains of a one-time ' ' maze, " though it is unlikely 

 that the garden ever boasted of so aristocratic an 



Youth-and-Old-Age. — The Zinnia. 



as a matter of course, and suggest that the box- 

 wood be removed, and the maples be trimmed, and 

 the cherry trees cut down, but nothing is ever done, 

 and I hope nothing ever will be. With all defer- 

 ence to The American Garden, I would even let the 

 fence remain as it is. It has its uses. As a trellis 

 for dahlias and roses it could not be excelled, and 

 no one can call it unsightly. Around the house 

 and the edge of the yard the flowers are planted — 

 wherever it came handy — and though precious little 

 care is bestowed upon them, they thrive and bloom 

 famously ; geraniums, sweet alyssum, nasturtiums, 

 dahlias — all a delicious tangle. Over a cedar tree 

 a wild clematis drapes itself, and honeysuckle and 

 wistaria festoon the porch. Under a Norway spruce 



adjunct. But everything about the place gives a 

 vague suggestion of by-gone times and people, and 

 the ghost of many a poor hard-worked, scanty- 

 pleasured women gardener seems to linger around 

 plants that knew no other care. 



I know another garden in the neighborhood, 

 presided over by a Quakeress, and though its di- 

 rectress uses the "thee" and "thou" in speech 

 and dresses in neat and quiet garb, her taste flor- 

 ally, as evidenced by her plants, leans surprisingly 

 toward the worldly, and her main idea seems to be 

 to eclipse her neighbors and possess what they pos- 

 sess not. The exchange system would be universal 

 but for the Quakeress — she is the one exception. 

 She has a collection which she is strong-minded 



