Mrs. Max Farrand and did justice to her renown with its 
masses of lovely bloom and its quaint and intimate charm. 
It was hard to be torn away by our gentle police, — we were 
never hurried, but one might say we were firmly expedited, — 
into motors and followed our leaders to the north side of the 
Main Line, dodging around perilous corners, under wide rail- 
road tracks, up historic ' ' Pikes ' ' till we drove through an impres- 
sive gothic gateway and found ourselves within the sacred pre- 
cincts of Bryn Mawr College. We have always had implicit faith 
in Mrs. Martin as a leader, and the next cross-country scamper Mrs. 
was no exception, we followed her down unknown lanes, by high- Taylor's 
ways and byways, past enchanting views, alluring entrances into Garden 
another part of Fairmount Park, up through far-famed Wissa- 
hickon Drive into the sacred purlieus of Germantown. 
Only a Philadelphian born, can tell where Germantown leaves 
off and Chestnut Hill begins, but it seems to be somewhere 
near St. Martins where our third stop was made at Boxley, 
the old-fashioned garden of Mrs. Frederick W. Taylor of the 
Philadelphia Garden Club. The afternoon shadows enhanced 
this enchanted spot as w^e walked along the century old wall 
and in through a gate of delicate old iron-work. Dark masses 
of Box reached above our shoulders. We were in our ideal of 
an old-time garden at last. But how could this be autumn 
when the whole garden was in full June bloom with white Miss 
Lingard Phlox, blue Delphinium and Roses? Dahlias and vast 
pink Chrysanthemums convinced us that we were still in October, 
but we realized that the magic which had straightened out 
and re-set this old Box, originally planted in 1803, had also 
solved the problem of how to force luxuriant fall bloom out 
of the summer flowers. This huge Box was moved by Mr. 
Taylor in 1901 to bring it into better relation with the house; 
now the axis of the main garden walk runs through the wide 
colonial hall of the old stucco house to a restful view of an 
intimate valley beyond. The garden reminds you of Mount 
Vernon; to the north is a quaint low pigeon house running 
the whole length, and to the south the Box hedge is very high 
with arches cut through here and there ; the main walk is 
flagged but the side paths are of tan-bark, which gives an 
indescribably quiet and restful feeling — and the color is good 
with the dense Box. Boxley has a strong heart-appeal to 
every true American gardener; it cannot be duplicated in a 
life-time, but it can be emulated. 
What new thrill could our hostess have devised for us after The 
this delectable vision? The thrill of contrast from early Stotesbury 
American to old French, from a landscape of Benjamin West Garden 
to a Watteau fan. A pen more accomplished than mine describes 
the Stotesbury gardens for us but I must register my admiration 
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