Since the number of Garden Clubs in the Garden Club of 
America has increased so much, the decision to print a short Annual 
Report of each Member Club in the mid-winter number of the 
Bulletin (issued about December ist) seems wiser than to try to pre- 
sent these reports at the Annual Meeting, as was formerly the custom, 
for even if each Club were limited to a three-minute report, the total 
time required to present them would be over two hours and a half, 
a staggering thought when we remember the vast amount of business 
that must be put through at an Annual Meeting. 
The President will always be glad to receive any communications 
from individual Clubs at any time either through their Presidents or 
from individual members but undoubtedly the constructive power 
and momentum of the Garden Club of America should be de- 
veloped in the Council of Presidents. 
Mrs. S. V. R. Crosby, 
President of the Garden Club of America. 
Bromides in the Garden 
I lay no claim to originality, but neither is it my custom to em- 
broider my conversation with such knowing phrases as, "Well, the 
world is a very small place!" nor do I say brightly, except when I feel 
it is expected of me, "Of course it is always the busy people who can 
be depended upon to do the work, isn't it?" But no sooner do I 
assume garden apparel and arm myself with a trowel and clippers 
than I lapse into bland platitudes. Neither ancient Greece nor modem 
mothers can match my unctuious philosophy. 
Immersed in time-worn thought, I inadvertently nip the head of an 
opening bud instead of an unsightly seed pod. "Poor thing," I sigh, 
"Cut off before its prime." I tie a piece of red wool or a conspicuous 
label about the stem of a vigorous flower and as I do so say : " You 
will wither and have no second blooming. You were bom to be a 
mother. A proud destiny! Your seed shall not perish from the 
earth." Kind-heartedly I plant a modest seedling in the back row, 
"Never mind," I soothe, "You are not a pretty flower but you are a 
nice-looking little plant." 
To Dandelions, Pig-weed and pusley I remark severely, "A place 
for everything and everything in its place. Some plants think they 
own the earth," and to the striped Petunia I ejaculate spicily, 
"Hussy!" 
I wish I didn't always mentally compare buds to babies and 
allow miserable, wrong-colored things to live because their feelings 
might be hurt if I rejected them. I wish my sympathies were not so 
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