NEW ORLEANS COURTYARDS 
By Annie R. King 
HpHE gardens of New Orleans have an 
individuality quite as marked as have 
the people of the place. The line of de- 
markation, too, is quite as obviously drawn 
between the up-town gardens in the newer 
part of the city and those of down-town, as it 
is between the dwellers in the “vieu carre” 
and the “American” quarter. Up-town, as 
might be expected, the gardens have the 
trim up-to-date appearance that character¬ 
izes any well kept garden in any well kept 
city. The saving artistic grace of them is 
the riotous growth of vines and climbers, 
whenever the gardener for a few days leaves 
the ground uncared for. The down-town 
garden, however, seems to grow under the 
spell of a loving touch now and then from 
the master or mistress, with its little annuals 
bought at the old French market, and stuck 
into the soil only 
a few moments, 
as it were, before 
the bud bursts 
into bloom. The 
old quarter, built 
under the im¬ 
pulse of French 
and Spanish in¬ 
fluence has, to be 
more accurate, 
courtyards in¬ 
stead of gardens. 
Its houses are for 
the most part 
built on the 
streets, and a 
corridor leads to 
a winding stair¬ 
case mounting to 
the first storey, 
where the living- 
rooms are situ¬ 
ated. But who, 
in the beautiful 
spring and sum¬ 
mer days, cares 
to go into the 
living- rooms ? 
Surely, not one who has a loving heart 
for nature. And so, we pass the winding 
stair, and take a few more steps over the 
flagged alley, beyond the green Venetian 
blinds that shut out the street. We go 
through the square arch under the hanging 
Spanish lamp, brushing the water jar as we 
take our seat on the old wooden bench, so 
bright from its last scrubbing with palmetto 
root and wild chamomile flower. In this 
garden there is, in truth, little space for 
flowers, but in effect it is quite grandiose. 
The small square bed in the place of honor, 
bordered with bricks placed endwise, bristles 
with yucca, or “Spanish dagger” as it is 
popularly called. Against the old brick wall, 
so toned by time that an artist may find 
more colors in it than his brush can paint, 
stand rich green banana trees, waving their 
long leaves in 
languorous fash¬ 
ion, recalling to 
the poetic mind 
the waving palm 
leaf fans of Cre¬ 
ole dames on 
summer nights. 
Vines fall from 
the encircling 
galleries, and 
there is always 
an orange tree 
somewhere in a 
corner or, maybe, 
in a green tub; 
with pots of sw'eet 
herbs or the 
stalks of lilies. 
Sometimes, in 
passing by, we 
peep through a 
long dark corri¬ 
dor and see at 
the end, one of 
the prettiest 
sights in the city. 
Over falling 
trellises in April, 
COURTYARD ON ROYAL STREET 
259 
