“ The hospitable garden is furnished comfortably and its care ordered to suit our every day needs. If the spiteful, knobby rustic seat must remain, it at least has a cushion and is 
dusted regularly” 
Hospitable Gardens — ELIZABETH white 
THE DELIGHT OF MAKING A GARDEN THAT CAN BE ACTUALLY LIVED IN 
T HERE is magic in the word “garden.” 
It is as stimulating to a real en- 
thusiast as “rats” to a terrier. 
There is instant response in the 
consciousness; the mental scenery is shifted 
to an ideal setting, a sheltered spot of blended 
sun and shade, color and perfume, where 
the spirit is expanded and refreshed. 1 he 
garden of my dreams has always a rose-covered 
wall, with a background of noble trees and 
mossy old brick walks. A definite limit to 
vision gives the restful feeling of protection 
so essential to the human soul in hours of 
relaxation. • 
There is no greater necessity for modern, 
nerve-racked life than to know the supreme 
peace of a garden. To be sure there are 
some perverted consciences who intrude 
worry about weeds and slugs even into the 
sunset hours of the garden, but I 
believe even they find joy in their 
own fashion, just as many men, who 
secretly appreciate a garden, take mas- 
culine pride in boasting of their lack of 
knowledge of the vegetable kingdom. 
One dear scientist friend delights to ex- 
claim, in a truculent tone, “I know 
nothing whatever about vegetables,” 
as if he almost feared their charm and 
was determined not to further com- 
plicate life and its affections. But it 
it is mostly a convention, a foible, 
like the feminine denial of all sym- 
pathy with the insides of an automobile 
Then, too, wise men are cautious; a 
great show of interest results in re- 
sponsibility. Watering, weeding, and 
trimming are pleasant enough occupa- 
tions occasionally done “tempermen- 
tally,” following one’s inclination, but 
they become detestable under super- 
vision or necessity. 
To be sure, it is not always the 
woman who gives the garden its char- 
acter; but there must always be one 
sentimentalist and one unfeeling critic 
to balance a properly brought up 
garden. 
My love and indulgence toward cer- 
tain wayward spots exceeds all bounds 
until the critic disillusions me, and I 
see with the cold eye of a passer-by 
that, what seemed a charming tangle, 
is really unkempt and disgracefully 
in need of pruning. Also, the critic is 
wary of meals served in the garden. 
Romance does not blind him to the ><>u 
fact that the food quickly becomes cold and 
“things” ahvays fall into his plate. Paren- 
thetically, the critic is a great trial. He de- 
lights to make unsportsmanlike raids into the 
garden alone and unmolested to form his esti- 
mates, thus escaping a prejudiced companion 
who insists on admiration or sympathy and 
establishes false relations. 
The ideal is expected of a garden. It 
must have no human failings and disappoint- 
ments. Personally, being a sentimentalist, 
I prefer to visit another’s garden with the 
gardener, rather than the owner, for it is 
the gardener who can move me with the 
story of his triumphs and failures. 
In literature, gardens are so reeking with 
sentiment that they are only for special 
moods and people. Except during the unreal 
period of convalescence, it is only on rare oc- 
e the "green headed” people you will always pause to render 
to noble trees 
casions that we have the time to assume 
summer girl attitudes wfith the omnipresent 
book, which is absorbed through the cover. 
We cannot go on all our lives gathering 
Roses around the sundial and being proposed 
to on moonlight nights, and we do have to 
answer uninspiring letters and make out 
distressing checks quite regularly. Such 
practical work can be done in a comfortable 
livable garden. So many beautiful archi- 
tects’ gardens have cold and unfriendly stone 
seats that require spartan fortitude to linger 
upon. Ants and spiders are generally in 
long, undisputed possession of the picturesque 
arbors, and the inviting corner of the lawn has 
always just been watered. Lunch or tea 
in the garden, a letter written on the veranda, 
is something to be told of boastfully, showing 
plainly its unusual occurrence. The Japanese 
sunshade is sure to blow over, and 
there is a visible effort, an unrestful 
spirit of pioneering, about the occasion. 
It is lik-e the grim determination of 
some elaborate picnickers to have a 
“ lovely time!” 
It is not surprising that the critic 
prefers tea stuffily indoors, where there 
are sure to be matches within ^each 
and there is no danger of being called 
upon suddenly to prevent a catas- 
trophe. 
The hospitable garden is furnished 
comfortably and its care ordered to 
suit our everyday needs. If the spite- 
ful, knobby rustic seat must remain, it 
at least has a cushion and is dusted 
regularly. 
The habitual use of a garden gives a 
flavor to humdrum days. For it is 
the wise ones who snatch their pleas- 
ures in passing and count less upon 
the great and rare occasions. It is 
the view caught when there is a “prec- 
ious seeing in the eye,” the silhouette 
of trees against the moon, as we 
sleepily turn over at night, that lingers 
longest in our memory. While the 
prosaic practical affairs of life are 
being carried on in a garden, there is 
a bountiful influence waiting to obtrude 
on the illusive, subconscious moment. 
This influence lives always in the 
heart of trees. Fortunate is the 
person who has at least one fine shade 
tree to bless his garden. If you love 
the “green-headed people,” you will 
homage a ] wa y S pause to render homage to 
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