Coldwell 
HOUSE AND GARDEN 
April, 1913 
A Coldwell Motor Lawn Mower on the grounds of 
John D. Rockefeller’s estate, Pocantico Hills, N. Y. 
C O keep turf in good condition you must have a good lawn mower. 
Those who want—and know—the best always use Coldwell 
Mowers. 
“Coldwell” means to lawn mowers what “Kodak“ means to cam¬ 
eras. Each is the leader in its line. 
One Coldwell Motor Mower does the work of three men and three 
horse mowers. It climbs 25% grades easily. It weighs 2,000 pounds 
—rolling and cutting in one ; but it leaves no hoof prints. 
Coldwell Motor Mowers are used on all the principal Golf links in 
America, by the U. S. Government, and on scores of parks and private 
estates. 
We also make the best horse and hand lawn mowers on the market. Send 
us your name and address and we will mail you our illustrated cata¬ 
logue, with an interesting booklet on the care of turf. 
Always use the BEST. The BEST is the Cheapest. 
Coldwell Lawn Mowers are the BEST. 
COLDWELL 
LAWN MOWER COMPANY 
Philadelphia 
NEWBURGH, NEW YORK 
Chicago 
HJI pitUll 
boxes. 
No. 1 
No. 2 
No. 3 
Seats four 
persons. 
Almost a 
house. 
CANOPY SETTEE 
You can buy this famous Rustic piece 
from the original designer and maker 
Correspondence 
Solicited 
Rustic Cedar WREN HOUSES by Parcel Post, 
prepaid. Your choice for $1.25, three for $3.50. 
Can be fastened under eaves, gable, on pole, per¬ 
gola, arbor, trees or suspended. No. 2 is particularly 
suitable for this purpose. 
***Wrens never build in colonies, only one family 
in a house. The many roomed houses so expensive 
are unsuitable and unnecessary. Address 
F. O. B. Toms River, N. J. $20 THE CRESCENT CO. Box 252, Toms River, N. J. 
market! It is our second commercial 
product, the asparagus slightly preceding 
The garden is getting into shape now, 
it. 
indeed; the wheel-hoe is traveling up and 
down the green rows; the hotbed glasses 
are entirely removed by day; and the early 
cauliflower plants are put into the open 
ground at the first promise of a shower. 
The annuals are up in the seed beds; the 
pool has been cleaned and filled, the gold 
fish are once more swimming in it, the 
Cape Cod water lily, brought from its win¬ 
ter quarters in the dark cellar, has begun 
to make a leaf, and we have begun to hope 
that maybe this year it will also make a 
blossom, for we are nothing in mid-May 
if not optimistic. , 
The earlier Darwins are already in 
bloom. The German irises follow rapidly. 
June comes, and we work amid the splen¬ 
dors of the Japanese irises and the flame¬ 
line of Oriental poppies, setting the an¬ 
nuals into their beds, from the tender, 
droopy schyzanthus plants to the various 
asters and the now sturdy snapdragons. 
The color scheme had been carefully 
planned last winter, and is as cheerfully 
disregarded now, as some new inspiration 
strikes us, such as a border of purple as¬ 
ters against salvia, with white dahlias be¬ 
hind — a strip of daring fall color which 
would delight the soul of Gari Melcher, 
which delighted me—and which my wife 
said was horrible. 
So spring comes and goes in the garden, 
busy and beautiful, ceaseless work and 
ceaseless wonder. But there is a moment 
in its passage, as yet unmentioned, which 
I have kept for the close because to me it 
is the subtle climax of the resurrection sea¬ 
son. It comes in April for us, sometimes 
earlier, sometimes later. The twenty-sev¬ 
enth was the date last year. The time is 
evening, always evening, just after sup¬ 
per, when a frail memory of sunset still 
lingers in the west and the air is warm. 
I go out hatless upon the veranda, think¬ 
ing of other things, and suddenly I am 
aware of the .song of the frogs! There 
are laughing voices in the street, the tinkle 
of a far-off piano, the pleasant sounds of 
village life come outdoors with the return 
of spring; and buoying up, permeating 
these other sounds comes the ceaseless, 
shrill chorus of the frogs, seemingly from 
out of the air and distance, beating in 
waves on the ear. Why this first frog 
chorus so thrills me I cannot explain, nor 
what dim memories it wakes. But the 
peace of it steals over all my senses, and I 
walk down into the dusk and seclusion of 
my garden, amid the sweet odors of new 
earth and growing things, where the song 
comes up to me from the distant meadow 
making the garden close sweeter still, the 
air yet more warm and fragrant, the prom- 
ise of spring more magical. The garden 
brings 
then is very intimate and dear, it 
me into closer touch with the awakening 
earth about me, and all the years I dwelt 
a prisoner in cities are but as the shadow 
of a dream. 
In 'writing to advertisers please mention House and Garden. 
