Walls of Doubt 
Once my garden was barren and drear, 
Few blossoms would ever blow; 
And least of all would the damask rose 
Its delicate splendor show. 
And I cried: "My garden is barren, 
No rose ever grows for me, 
While beyond my wall in gardens round 
They blossom on every tree^ 
So I watered my arid garden 
And nursed every rose-tree rare, 
And raised still higher the guarding walls 
To shield them with jealous care. 
Yet the roses in my garden-close 
Would never, never tip-grow, 
And least of all would the damask rose 
Its delicate splendor show. 
In gardens without and all around , 
Warmly the sun shone there; 
But no rays coidd fall within my wall 
For it guarded the rose-trees rare! 
So I razed the jealous walls to earth 
And allowed the sun to shine; 
When, sudden, the roses budded and bloomed, 
And a red, red rose was mine! 
Lee Nichols. 
Also by permission of the composer of the music, E. E. Freer 
Fighters' Gardens 
In England gardening is one of our national habits. 
The poor do their gardening in window boxes; the nearly poor 
use their backyards; the merely successful turn their "five acres" 
into fragrant retreats; and the afSuent spend freely to beautify lawns, 
gardens and parks. 
Although war has played havoc with our set English habits and 
customs for three and a half years, the gardening habit persists. 
Of course, many estates, many fine gardens have suffered, but hardly 
at all have the moderate sized suburban and country gardens. 
