The two-foot hedge of white feverfew can hold the garden boundary against the onslaught of the weeds, even such arrogant gentry as June grass 
and chickweed 
The Garden That Came 
THE TALE OF A GARDEN AND THE SOURCES FROM WHICH EACH FLOWER CAME— 
HOW THE DIFFERENT CORNERS OF IT ARE MEMORABILIA OF PLEASANT EXPERIENCES 
by Gladys Hyatt Sinclair 
Photographs by the Author 
I TRULY believe that flowers are like cats and children: they 
run to those who love them and hide from those who don't. 
Or is it that only garden lunatics have eyes that will spy and 
hands that will minister to those plant strangers that would gladly 
dwell within their gates — and are so cjuick to share their treas¬ 
ures that all are glad to share with them ? Anyway, it seems that 
when people ask me of my dearest garden dwellers, "Where did 
you get that?” I have always to answer, "Oh, that came from—” 
and it’s usually a record of some most pleasant experience. 
From where? Everywhere. My garden is like our grand¬ 
mother's patchwork quilts or their daughters' autograph albums; 
a record (a living, growing one, thanks be!) of loving friends and 
happv visits and pleasant incidents. It is more: a missionary 
garden which has literally "rescued the perishing" and fed the 
"worthy poor." 
For instance, the very fall that I left the old garden for the 
new—which was a potato field—the grandmothers of all this 
tribe of hollyhocks came from a railroad embankment where their 
roots had gone two feet down into the inhospitable gravel search¬ 
ing for food, while their starved leaves were about as big as the 
palm of my hand. 
These hay-scented lady ferns that glorify my shady border 
came from the banks of Grand river in April, on the first one of 
a summerful of never-to-be forgotten launch rides. My hardy 
roses, the shell pink blush, beautiful of buds and beloved of 
bugs; the ancient English York and Lancaster; the mosses and 
cabbage and brave old sweet brier, came from my husband's birth¬ 
place — the homestead his father cleared from the wild, thirty 
miles straight into the woods from the nearest store or post 
office. That flowering currant that flings its clean perfume at 
evening, this lusty bumpkin of a trumpet creeper over the arbor, 
and those monstrous "sugared lilacs” with their evergreen carpet 
of myrtle came, unmissed, from a mass of greenery that was do¬ 
ing its best to cover the desolation of a burned home, deserted 
these ten years. 
The wild phlox that tosses its whorls of purest lavender through 
all the merry May, with arabis, poet’s narcissus and English 
daisies for cheek-to-chin neighbors, came some hundreds of miles 
in a suitcase, souvenir of a canoe trip down Opie Read's para¬ 
dise, the St. Joe river. 
That two-foot hedge of white feverfew which can hold the 
garden boundary against the onslaughts of even June grass and 
chickweed, came in a letter, and the “fairy flax” that opens a 
thousand blue, innocent child eyes to me every summer morning, 
all came from a single plant sent me when in full bloom by a lady 
who wished to know its name. The spruce and jaunty corn¬ 
flowers here and there came on the wings of a mischievous 
zephyr, and the lemon-lilies, forget-me-nots and iris came from 
my mother's old garden on the banks of the blue St. Clair, on my 
garden’s first birthday — and mv first. 
These hardy chrysanthemums, golden and bronzy and snowy 
white, came from the yard of an old lady who called them 
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