hole with water, put in the plant, and then put the dirt in until 
the water is all absorbed. 
When I started to work in my woods, I thought I would 
have no regular paths, but as each visitor stepped on some 
treasure I began to hunt the stone dump piles that are 
numerous in this part of Shaker Heights, and now I have little 
broken stone paths running in all directions. These paths have 
graually acquired names and when I say that a Black Cohosh 
has blossomed in Joe's Jungle, that the Gold Thread on 
Carolyn Walk is suffering from the drought, or that a 
Pipsissewa has just been planted on Matilda Lane, everyone 
understands the situation at once. 
One of my little evergreens from the Laurentian Hills caused 
the giver to become separated from his party, lose his way, get 
caught in a terrible storm and wander for hours drenched to 
the skin. But he held onto the little pine, finally brought it 
home carefully packed in wet earth in his sponge bag, and, as 
the man was an Englishman, I appreciated his giving up his 
sponge bag as much as all the rest. 
After all, it is our interest in anything and not the actual 
worth in the thing itself that makes it a valuable possession. 
The simplest things often give us the most real pleasure. We 
all love the beautiful cultivated gardens and we glory in the 
way in which man has developed such marvelous varieties of 
exquisite blossoms, but why not cultivate a warm spot in our 
hearts for the wild things that are doing their best to make the 
world brighter, all unaided by man and often against heavy 
odds. Browning says — "Earth's crammed with Heaven, and 
every common bush afire with God, but only he who sees takes 
off his shoes, and the rest sit round it and pick blackberries." 
Alice Huntington Gardner 
Shaker Lakes Garden Club. 
SILVER. 
Slowly, silently, now the moon 
Walks the night in her silver shoon; 
This way, and that, she peers, and sees 
Silver fruit upon silver trees; 
One by one the casements catch 
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; 
Couched in his kennel, like a log. 
With paws of silver sleeps the dog; 
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep 
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; 
A harvest mouse goes scampering by, 
With silver claws and a silver eye; 
And moveless fish in the water gleam, 
By silver reeds in a silver stream. 
WALTER DE LA MARE. 
27 
