EDITOfUAL 
IN A NEGLECTED GARDEN It had been built on a hill¬ 
side seven, eight — possibly 
ten years back. The time makes no difference, save that there 
had been time enough for the patient, persistent, steady ravage 
of the years. That, and the fact that the garden had been hewn 
out of a hillside. Yes, veritably hewn. For the slope was pre¬ 
cipitous, and in those days strong arms had dragged from near 
and far the great stones to shelve up the beds and lay the walks. 
Once a weed-grown patch, blistered here and there with an out¬ 
cropping of shale, it was dug and petted and coaxed and fed into 
such a garden as no flower could disdain. The new year had 
found it an abandoned place; midyear found it a riot of color 
and life, a growing monument to the toil and care that had 
been lavished upon it. There had been no attempt at an effete 
color-scheme. With equal affection all the flowers had been 
planted and tended, from the pansy bed down by the edge of 
the wall to the range of iris clumps that fringed the corner of 
the woodland above. As you came out of the deep shade and 
troubled rustling of the trees these steps of blossoms in the bril¬ 
liant glare greeted your eyes like a sudden sunshaft in a clouded 
sky. Aimless, the feet would carry you about from bed to bed, 
for each step was as exquisite as its fellow. As innocent of 
weeds as a maiden of sin, those beds. It was as though the souls 
of flowers have been liberated into a Paradiso that knew naught 
of evil. Thus the woodlands looked on the garden and the garden 
looked on the river that flowed a hundred feet below, a silent, 
sparkling, silver ribbon drawn on through the eye of the hills. 
That was seven, eight—possibly ten years back. The time 
makes no difference, save that there had been time enough for 
the patient, persistent, steady ravage of the years. 
It had always been a riot, and a riot it was now. Nature is 
habitually riotous, and Nature had gained the upper hand. For 
that reason this garden in its present state could never be called 
abandoned. Between the abandoned garden and the neglected 
lies a mighty difference. In the one no care at all is taken; in 
the other, care, but not enough of it. And that was the circum¬ 
stance here. The hands that had fashioned the spot out of the 
hillside had been called away to other work. Whereas formerly 
days on end were passed there, now only an occasional hour 
could be spared. Once on a day one lone person worked out 
his individuality there; now a dozen tinkered at it with no pur¬ 
pose and no visible result. 
The riot of color had been subdued under an overshadowing 
of weeds. Stones that had shelved up the beds had fallen across 
the path, letting down little avalanches of soil and what was left 
of the scattered edging plants. Where once the paths lay—step¬ 
ping-stones laid on cushions of moss—were rank carpets of sour- 
grass. Athwart the beds weedy creepers stretched out tentacle 
arms that wound about the stalks of sickly plants and chocked 
them Laocoon-wise. Between the iris clumps flourished milkweed 
and pusely and wild carrot. Disease and all manner of insects 
had made of the rose bed a sorry thing. The phlox had passed 
into the stage of senile decay. Black beetles found the aster 
buds fat carrion to fatten on. Against the sky the arch that 
had once worn a queenly crown and robe of roses stood stark 
and gaunt. 
Yet there were signs that work had been done in that garden— 
occasional work from which the toiler had fled. A rusted spade 
bristled in the gladiolus bed; along one of the paths, atop a 
piie of bleached weeds, lay a rake. It also was rusted. Papers 
were scattered about. Only in one corner was there a mark of 
loving care: a little patch, walled up with stones and tilled, bore 
a notice scribbled in a child’s hand, “Please do not disturb any¬ 
thing here because cotton is growing!" That and a few dahlias, 
those faithful, hardy servitors, which remain with us through the 
universal neglect to the last. 
In a garden Nature is at once both a friend and foe. The 
right hand rarely knows what the left is doing. Weeds serve 
their sane, commonsense purpose: we must be eternally fighting 
them, and in fighting them we are forced to cultivate the soil. 
Insect pests, which would never seem to blight and destroy weeds 
in a forest or meadow, fatten on the tender stalks and buds of 
flowers. We hurl against them a pitiless cannonade of spraying, 
little aware that in this way we are paying the price of a past 
generation's wantonness, doing the work that birds, which the 
ruthless destruction of man has made extinct, once faithfully 
accomplished. We look for the sun to give life and strength to 
the seed; and we fight its searing heat with cooling waters. 
Pawns in the hands of Nature, these gardeners who would carve 
out a wild meadowland or a precipitous hillside a garden spot 
of loveliness. 
And even as in the life of man must discipline be applied, the 
unrestrained garden will bring forth many blossoms for a time, 
but the garden that will produce the fairest flowers must know 
the discipline of shears and the binding of cords. The painful 
discipline that makes saints and martyrs makes the exquisite 
flower and the sturdy plant. Lashed to a stake like a Joan of 
Arc, the consuming spirit of a rose blossoms into unbelievable 
beauty and gladioli strain flaming arms to the sky. 
In this neglected garden had been known no restraint nor dis¬ 
cipline for many a day. Once a friend, Nature had turned foe. 
Discipline her, and that great mother is an untiring ally; give 
her the upper hand, and no labor will survive her wantonness. 
A few more months, and there would be left but few and 
scattered marks of the toil that had been expended on this place. 
Taken in hand now, Nature would fall hopelessly before the 
gardener's counter attacks, the order and loveliness of cheerful 
yesterday would be restored. And that is blessed compensation 
of gardening: there is something permanent about it. The soil 
is there, the sun still shines, and the rain falls. Given these 
and labor, no seed can fail to germinate; given care, and no 
plant can refuse to attain its consummation of flower. These 
things are always there. They are dependable if the gardener 
is dependable. And according to the measure with which he 
invests his time and patience and strength in the work will his 
place give its increase. Size does not make a garden nor do rare 
flowers. Care only, unremitting care. 
Such care had hewn this garden out of a hillside, had dragged 
from near and far the great stones to shelve up the beds and 
lay the walks, had set there a riot of flowers between the deep 
shade and troubled rustling of the trees and the river, a silent, 
sparkling silver ribbon drawn on through the eye of the hills. 
That was seven, eight—possibly ten years back. The time makes 
no difference, save that there had been time enough for the 
patient, persistent, steady ravage of the years. 
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