The sandy soil could not discourage the slender stalks of the Madonna lilies from growing up as sturdy as though their roots were in loam. 
My Garden in the Sand 
HOW A SMALL SAND DESERT GREW A SEASON’S SUPPLY OF VEGE¬ 
TABLES AND FLOWERS—WHAT CULTIVATION DID TO SAVE MOISTURE 
BY Gladys Hyatt Sinclair 
Photographs by the Author and others 
W E moved in October to a rented house in a small suburb 
half an hour from the city. The little house stands close 
to the street, as do all the other houses, with grass in front and at 
the sides, and a wilderness of weeds behind. I had always been a 
flower enthusiast, so this pest-infested place received my imme¬ 
diate attention. 
The neighbors on either side, owning their places, had let them 
run to sod. The man behind us had gardened for several years 
and then, in despair, 
turned his whole yard in¬ 
to a chicken park. “You 
can’t raise anything on 
this ground,” said every¬ 
body. “It is nothing but 
a gravel pit.” 
Really, it isn’t much 
else, and when you get 
the stones out of gravel 
there is very little left. 
But I had a wagonload of 
plants, bushes and vines 
from my old garden, some 
knowledge, limitless 
strength and enthusiasm; 
so I listened — and went 
on. 
The weedy wilderness 
measured fifty feet each 
way. A dead peach tree 
down the middle of it and two grape vines sprawled on the 
ground around two drunken posts. The vines had never borne. 
By a lucky fluke I got a two-horse load of rotted manure from 
a farmer for two dollars. I cut down the peach tree, pulled and 
burned the weeds. Then I put all of the manure on the half of 
the garden to be devoted to flowers, giving the grape vines that 
stand there a generous share. For fifty cents I hired a boy to 
spade enough ground for my roses and perennials and I set 
them out. They all lived. 
In April I pruned the 
grape vines the best I 
could, persuaded the land¬ 
lady to buy a hemlock 
two - by - four, persuaded 
the Man to nail it at the 
tops of the reformed 
posts, and tied up the 
vines. Then I spent an¬ 
other fifty cents for spad¬ 
ing, did some myself 
when help was not to be 
had, and raked stones. 
Stones! The stones I 
raked would build me a 
mausoleum! I could rake 
a border perfectly clean, 
go right over it again and 
rake out as many more. 
That may seem paradox¬ 
ical, but the process 
wasn’t. When I had put 
cumbered it. an old 
strawberry bed straggled 
The border of moonpenny daisies showed a pleasing mass effect, and hundreds of 
blossoms were picked from it 
( 28 ) 
