A GARDEN burst of gray 
/NITI 4 TION clown on the brookside wil¬ 
lows comes a strange stirring in the 
breasts of most men. It is evident in many unwonted actions—a 
sleepy irritability, long periods of silence, or suppressed excite¬ 
ment. With some of us it is premonitory of the time for our real 
recreations. The fisherman needs no calendar to advise him of the 
date when the law goes off—he feels its approach. The garden 
enthusiast would be possessed of his strange seizures were there 
no flood of optimistic catalogues to remind him. When the time 
comes for action both are off and away as runners released from 
their tense expectancy by the starter’s pistol. 
And now the season is here. If you are a gardener, you are as 
deep in your pursuits as the angler is in his brook. If you are not 
either, your associates are possibly thinking of a way within the 
law to exterminate such an ugly, unbearable person as you must 
be. For unless it is fishing or planting—there are few other alter¬ 
natives—your spring freshened blood will go aboiling so that you 
will soon be as much a nuisance as a man unseasonably awakened. 
In such a May mood gentle arguments such as Walton uses to 
prove the superiority of his beloved fishing over hunting or 
hawking will probably be of no avail. Nor will the enthusiast’s 
proud exhibition of the product of his garden labors do more than 
fill you with scorn at one who can be so extraordinarily exercised 
over such trifles. Your description of his plants will probably 
coincide with that of George Fitch. “The plants which die first 
are the tomatoes. The plants with large leaves, out of which the 
worms make Battenburg lace, are cabbages. The plants with the 
soft brown bugs all over them are potatoes. The plants which 
come up and rush madly over the neighbor's yard are pumpkins, 
or squashes or cucumbers. The plants which come up tired and 
discouraged and need two quarts of water a day are lettuce. The 
plants which writhe about the ground in convulsions are peas.” 
But there is hope to civilize you by getting you acquainted with 
the garden’s finished products, with the first full glory of May 
blossoms. The iris lances, straight and trim, will be flaunting 
their blue and buff banners in the breeze at the head of stiff 
marching regiments of tulip soldiers. You will find them uni¬ 
formed in brilliant shades and flashing sun from satin petals. The 
jjyacinths will be enticing you with their seductive odors, or you’ll 
stop by the fairy-like little crocus people running over the new 
green lawn. i\nd then the lilacs! If their Oriental fragrance 
does not stir your brain and make you long to possess, there is 
something wrong in your make-up, for there is a host of child¬ 
hood recollections that the smell of lilacs brings crowding to 
most minds; you will want to make as much of it as you can. 
The snowballs, too, the sweet-briar roses, the azaleas, magnolias, 
and the flowering almond—will all be mute pleaders that beg you 
to plant them and love them for your own in Maytime. But if 
your heart is hard and oblivious to this appeal the orchard will 
capture you. It is like a dryad now, dancing to the gay melodies 
of spring, and with its white drapery floating out, quivering, and 
winning you to worship. 
So out, either to the woods or planted rows and you will be 
tempted to try your fortune with the fall flowers or to set to 
work for next year. If you are already an enthusiast, there is 
much for you to learn for your own garden by making friends 
with the flowers of your neighbor. The gardens that are made 
from the most interesting names in the catalogue are often very 
disappointing. Nor is the art work of booklets an absolute index 
of what each particular flower will look like when it comes up 
in your garden. To find out the best arrangements of colors, the 
relative heights, and the flowers especially suited to your location, 
you must go garden hunting. 
A RIOT OF TT all came about in the new renais- 
EN THU SI ASM ^ sance. Up to that time the main 
street looked like the product of some 
titan machine of wonderful dexterity ^hat had turned out two 
rows of olive drab buildings all of a size, and trimmed with 
exactly the same number of sawed-out scrolls and turned rings. 
But one could live along that street. Trim lawns or some plant¬ 
ings of shrubbery gave evidence of individuality and added at¬ 
tractiveness. So things had been for a long time, and the people 
seemed happy. 
Then came the change. Mrs. See suddenly awoke to the fact 
that she was in the dark ages so far as the appearance of her 
home was concerned, and she set to work to advance. After 
reading and planning, she was determined. The family moved 
to the hotel, and down came cottage number five—by number 
was the only way you could distinguish them—and up went a 
very well designed white-painted, Dutch Colonial house. In spite 
of its decent modesty, it fairly jumped from its situation. As you 
went down the street thinking of nothing in particular you would 
reach INIrs. See’s, and then wonder what had hit you. 
Either because “that woman was not going to be allowed to put 
on airs,” or because individuals were seized with the desire to 
improve their homes, the whole town was racked with the con¬ 
struction fever. One after another the houses were taken down 
and replaced by new ones. Sometimes, several were building at 
once. It seemed as though some strange fatality compelled every¬ 
one to put up a new house. 
Although Mrs. See was the cause of the building revolution, 
she was not the example. Each household, as its time for up¬ 
heaval approached, looked through building books, studied plans, 
consulted architects, and at last arranged themselves in the fin¬ 
ished product, which was usually a house of excellent plan. The 
B’s wouldn’t dream of imitation, so their new home was of 
“craftsman style.” The D’s had been always original: they built 
a Swiss Chalet; the A’s had once been to California, and their 
house was Spanish Mission. There were many other nondescript 
types, but none of them was duplicated. Finally Mr. G’s castle 
was built. It was an exact replica of some European stronghold, 
in gray trimmed stone with great battlemented towers, and iron- 
barred windows. It was complete, all but the portcullis, and Mrs. 
G felt that the maid, Georgia, was a bit too frail to keep hauling 
that great iron thing up every time the bell rang. 
There was little building after the G’s castle; that was a little 
too extreme, even for this town. Everyone now began to view 
the work that he had been so busy upon. Most of the houses 
were very well done, and most were true to type. They were 
carefully planned and modest, but almost everyone bore an in¬ 
visible stamp of good value upon it. But the street 1 Where it 
was once shy and retiring, it now was a true Babel, each place 
crying out in a different tongue, incomprehensible to its neigh¬ 
bor. Although you wouldn’t put the finger of criticism upon one 
house, the effect of several together was horrible. The crassest 
nature could not be unaware of the discords. 
Each man had been full of the enthusiasm of building some¬ 
thing architecturally worth while, but made the mistake of think¬ 
ing that that was the only consideration. They succeeded in 
making good houses, but forgot all about building in harmony 
with the surroundings. There are other things to consider be¬ 
sides style. If the fitness of things to the locality is neglected, 
good design is of no avail. The English can get individuality in 
a row of cottages that are almost the same; they care nothing for 
novelty. Co-operation is the one thing Jumble Town lacked; 
without it, its former state was ten thousand times to be pre¬ 
ferred to its present. 
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