CHILDHOOD IN THE GARDEN 
memory it is always summer in this garden; I have 
not the least recollection of it save in the heyday of its 
bloom. 
Marvelous were the games we played there, and un- 
forgetable the happiness we enjoyed. We each had our 
small set of tools, our square of earth. We sometimes 
brought wild flowers from hedge-row and meadow to 
adorn these beds, and assiduously, though without re¬ 
sult, planted boughs of trees. In one instance, how¬ 
ever, a willow took hardy hold and proceeded to grow 
amazingly, arousing in us all the greatest excitement. 
It was, in fact, one of the big moments of life, an im¬ 
mense vindication of faith. 
I suppose it is because of this garden, that remains 
so secure and beloved in my mind, that the spectacle of 
children growing up in city streets and schoolyards, or 
even in those unsatisfactory expanses that do duty for 
gardens in many suburbs, fills me with desperate pity. 
It is so bitterly unjust, and in many cases so unneces¬ 
sary. For gardens could often be made, at some sac¬ 
rifice perhaps, yet little enough where the reward is 
considered, in many a place where they are not per¬ 
mitted. To rob yourself of a garden is bad enough; but 
to take from your child his inherent right to one, a 
right to which that ancient story of the garden of Eden 
perhaps alludes, is almost like depriving him of the use 
of a hand or an eye. 
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