26 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
marches of Never, where still linger the demand that 
the gardener should send in his portfolio forthwith, the 
visionary cat-trap, the sacrifice of the dahlia-eating 
rabbits, and much of the like stuff as dreams are 
made on. 
Once, to be sure, Amadis, with heart momentarily 
made adamant by the rending of his fairest daffodils— 
long looked for, come at last—took up a catapult, and 
aimed too well. He is no sentimentalist; but the little, 
limp, brown body that was afterwards buried in the 
shrubbery has provided a long safe-conduct for its 
fellow-malefactors. And still they build. Next May 
doubtless there will be thrice as many again; and even 
should I plant for them a flower-plot of their own, the 
scoundrels would respect mine none the more. Quy 
faire , mon Dieu — qu'y faire? One thing is certain, 
however: the gentle art of execution is plainly not for 
amateurs. The soft, spring sunlight that has gathered 
real strength at last makes for optimism and forgetful¬ 
ness, if not forgiveness. The long tyranny of winter is 
overpast, and how long that has been may perhaps be 
only fully appreciated by the owner of a garden for 
whom the exotic world of glass-houses and artificial 
heating remains a dead letter. To such an one the 
late-lingering English winter proves a veritable prison- 
house, a place for penance and for meditation. 
When all the autumn garden-work is over, the last 
bulb planted, the last rose-bush clad in its winter 
swathings of bronze-hued bracken, the last dead tree 
replaced by its successor, falls the chill of silence and 
estrangement. For all the disciplinarian may preach to 
