46 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
geometrically shapen bed. And, indeed, the suggestion 
proved a happy one. “ What a capital idea ! ” cried 
she, brightening; “I will order some to-morrow.” 
Her merriest moment, however, has hardly yet arrived, 
though well I know what it will bring, for Araminta 
has a constant mind. Every bulb will be plucked out 
and cast from her, while a riotous and familiar feast of 
colour arrives in their stead. Calceolarias, red, white, 
and pink pelargoniums, lobelias, petunias, golden feather 
and other foliage plants, a sprinkling of forget-me-nots, 
and nemophila, white and yellow marguerites will mix 
and mingle in the plots, and canariensis intertwine with 
pink ivy geranium about the trellises and urns. “ It 
certainly is a great expense,” says Araminta, with a 
happy sigh; “ but then, you know, the garden is my 
one hobby, and I do so adore my flowers.” So does she 
not mine, which she, I know, considers a spiritless, ill- 
regulated horde, although she has far too kind a soul to 
damp my spirits with the knowledge. 
Thus are we both happy in our lot, and I the more 
signally just now, inasmuch as the pride of my heart, 
my May-flowering tulips, are at their best. Of the 
Cottage tulips I know none more majestically refined 
in form than the tall lemon-hued Golden Crown—by 
some called Golden Eagle—with its narrow, barely 
divined red-laced edges, jet black anthers, and finely 
peaked petals. Whether growing in grass or the par¬ 
terre, these beautiful descendants from gardens long ago 
flourish and increase with such a gracious hardihood as 
moves me to marvel much at their comparative infre¬ 
quency. For it is but rarely that one finds them in the 
