well." And then I look under the blue anchusa and observe 
inches of rich fertilizer and catch a merry twinkle in the eye of 
this wonderful gardener. 
In the shade of another tree grows a luxuriant green circle 
that on this very day has developed its first blossom; "For 
you," the Master gallantly remarks, "It will be a glory soon. 
Yes, a St. John's Wort." Is the variety Mile. Pertuis? The 
golden flowers are three inches in diameter and filled with 
golden stamens. No scarlet bloom is tolerated in the garden at 
this season, blue predominates, then all the shades of pink, 
plenty of white and flecks of yellow. Monet is charmed to tell 
the botanical name of each flower and how long he has owned 
it and what it likes to eat. About twenty years ago he took 
this apple orchard and some adjoining fields through which 
ran a tiny rivulet called the Epte, a willow shaded meandering 
stream turning an occasional millwheel or serving a wandering 
artist for a theme. He persuaded this rivulet to come over 
where his land was lowest and so created a Lake putting a gate 
at either end to control the water. 
He shut out the world with screens of poplar and linden, of 
willow and bamboo and high flowering shrubs, and here the 
lilies he has made famous, swim in multicolored sweetness 
above islets of varied green. Gold-flsh dart in and out of the 
mossy waters and trout occasionally show their speckled sides. 
A flat bottomed boat is moored in a quiet corner and the song 
of birds is in the air. From the banks rise wild grasses and 
papyrus, yellow iris and columbine, larkspur and ever the blue 
anchusa, the color of the sky. A Japanese bridge, draped 
above and below with white wistaria arches over one end of 
the lake ; la little trail winds in and out of the luxuriant 
foliage spanning the brook on tiny rustic bridges and disclosing 
new pictures at each unexpected turn. Now the quiet waters 
have awakened to a passing breeze and the rainbow-hued ripples 
liave set the lilies to dancing. The I\Iaster stands on the shore 
as the wind clouds conie and go, thoughtfully discussing the 
color efifect with his friend. For the magical beauty of the real 
lily pond escapes even his facile fingers and lies seductively, 
temptingly before him, ever a new problem, ever a new joy. 
"May I? Will he mind? Do you suppose he would permit 
me?" and I point to my small kodak with difficulty held in 
subjection until now. "Of course," replies Madame INIonet, "he 
is so used to it. He will pose for you if you ask him." I dare 
and he is gracious, but the clouds are heavy and the result is 
none too clear. 
Beyond the lake lies the prairie as he smilingly calls it, 
where high grasses bend in the fitful air, where scarlet poppies 
have their way, wdiere alfalfa and corn flowers, mustard and 
11 
