Chapter XI 
WINTER WONDER 
1 ET no one lay to his soul the comfortable thought, 
as he turns from his garden in the late fall 
toward the stone and iron city, that a gar¬ 
den amounts to precious little in winter, and that he 
will miss nothing pleasant in deserting the familiar 
ways. That, truth to tell, it will be but dank and 
dreary and the wind never still, and that to tread the 
snow-encumbered paths were the forlornest method of 
insuring a smart attack of the grippe. 
Let him go. Duty calls, perhaps. But let his de¬ 
parture be miserable, a tearing of the heartstrings. 
For a garden in winter is a lovely thing, a place of 
radiant surprises, an exquisite harmony of the most 
delicate color tones, and a revelation of the superb 
drawing of tree and shrub, the marvel of their intricate 
design, the power and spring of their branches, and the 
wonderful shadows they throw. Far into December 
the garden is still green, for the honeysuckles will not 
let loose their leaves, and many a strong perennial 
keeps its vigor undaunted. The wise planter, also, 
2 35 
