THE DROUGHT 
167 
this year. Still, these few have told us that the 
plants had taken root, and that they are content 
with us. Sometimes we are almost as happy over 
a few flowers as if we had a hundred, feeling con- 
vinced that, as the plants grow old, they will bloom 
more abundantly. 
Joseph and I have the same desire about the Six 
Spruces that Mr. Hayden has about Nestly 
Heights. This is the wish to have it appear as 
beautiful as possible, or, as Mr. Hayden says, to 
have it give a good account of itself. 
Besides watering the garden these dry days, 
Joseph and I are busy keeping the soil about our 
plants well stirred and loose. Usually, Joseph 
rakes about them, but, in places where he cannot 
reach easily, I take the trowel or a little pick, and 
stir up the earth very lightly, being careful not to 
go down deep enough to touch any of the roots. 
This loose earth acts as a mulch and keeps them 
from feeling the drought as much as they otherwise 
would. 
Lately I have almost lived in my blue-jean 
frocks, there having been so much to do in the 
garden. Sometimes it is very hot. The sun pours 
down and its heat burns me as much almost as if I 
were a plant. I can run into the house, though, or 
to the shade of the wood-border when I am weary, 
while the poor plants must always stay in their 
places. Joseph is like a sunflower. The heat 
