June 10, 1905. 
1 —“He bought a spade, a hoe, and rake.” 
2.—“ The part played by the soil was small.” 
'!•—“ They’d quickly turn to pounds their pence.” 
THE GARDENING WORLD. 
A Meloncholy Talc. 
Jones-Smythe vowed he’d a garden make ; 
He bought a spade, a hoe and rake, 
Intending such a show to make 
As would astound. 
He’d studied chemistry a year, 
And thought he saw his way quite clear 
To make the hugest plants appear 
And to abound. 
Jones-Smythe said scientists all knew 
’Twas not from soil plants chiefly drew 
Their food, but from the winds that blew 
And dew around. 
’Twas nitrogen that nourished all 
The plants and trees that grew so tall, 
The part played by the soil was small, 
He would be bound. 
If gardeners, he said, had sense 
They’d quickly turn to pounds their pence. 
But, somehow, gardeners were dense 
As he’d expound. 
But Jones-Smythe was a clever man, 
And formed the scientific plan 
Which all our readers here may scan 
And make renowned. 
His plan was simply give plants gas, 
Feed them with nitrogen, like grass 
They’ll grow and swell out till their mass 
Seems like a mound. 
All came to pass as Jones-Smythe said, 
. With nitrogen his plants he fed 
And poured much water on their bed 
Till they looked drowned. 
The melons he had planted there 
Soon lifted lofty heads in air ; 
Their size drew wondering crowds to stare, 
At which Smythe frowned. 
The melon stems grew up vast trees, 
And Jones-Smythe’s house began to squeeze, 
While monstrous melons in the breeze 
Their summits crowned. 
So full of gas these melons got 
One summer day when it was hot 
The whole thing burst like cannon shot ! 
I heard the sound. 
Like Washington, I cannot lie, 
But sometimes it’s as well to try, 
And, anyhow, Jones-Smythe did die, 
And’s underground ! 
W. F. de B. Maclaren. 
Tiie Story oe a Lead Pencil. —Anglers are 
notorious for tall storiesi; so are some gar¬ 
deners. The two gentle arts of fishing and 
gardening seem to be congenial to this sort of 
thing. But it is a very ancient chestnut which 
a daily contemporary trots out—nothing less 
than the old, old yam about the man who once 
dropped a Cedar pencil in his garden, and, 
failing to find it, there it remained. He went 
abroad for some years, and oil revisiting the 
garden found his friends having tea under the 
grateful shade of a fine Cedar tree, which, we 
are to understand, sprang from the buried 
lead pencil. Yes, we’ve all heard it before. 
4*1 
