THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR 
45 
mistaken marshaldom. In Araminta’s garden-close, for 
instance, the beds and borders would seem to be, as it 
were, in livery, so inflexible is their order, so uniform 
their manner of array. You might, and not ineptly, 
compare them to well-drilled regiments standing for 
ever at attention, like the faithful sentinel of Pompeii. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite beyond it, 
blooms the garden that Araminta loves. As a matter 
of fact it flourishes well within the intrenchments of 
Suburbia, and is the very apple of her eye, all the more 
so, perhaps, because of her earnest conviction that she 
has brilliantly grappled with the problem of horticulture 
under the Fog-ogre’s sphere of influence. His is but a 
sorry chance at the black job of burking Araminta’s 
flowers; for, like the wise virgin that she is, she leaves 
him scarce any victims for the slaying. Hers is the 
exaltation of the bedding-out system to a plan of cam¬ 
paign so flawless as to inspire esteem rather than pleasure 
in my sentiments, but which, nevertheless, claims many 
fervent and sincere admirers. Bordered with shining 
immaculate tiles, upon a sea of yellow-red gravel spark¬ 
ling to the light, floats her archipelago of flower-beds, 
each compactly filled with blooms of identical hue and 
height. I have accused her of measuring them, but she 
merely smiles, conscious of her garden’s rectitude. 
Tulip succeeds to hyacinth in due season, stolid blocks 
of colour that suggest the florist’s nurseries’ unfriendly 
stare rather than the intimate amenities that should 
smile up from your own garden-ground. One cannot 
but feel that, to complete the picture, the florist’s funeste 
tin labels should be planted at head and foot of every 
