A Typical Garden of the Peloponnesus 
an inviting little pergola fitted with all the 
accessories for afternoon teas. The en¬ 
trance to the villa is from tire side, and is 
approached through the garden from the 
west, and also from the driveway, the north 
entrance being guarded by a stately mavro- 
daphne tree. 
One of the chief difficulties confronted by 
those who would have gardens in this country 
is the inability of the soil to grow and sustain 
lawn grass, or, in fact, good grass of any kind. 
The long hot summers, during which little 
or no rain falls in certain parts, prove too 
much for vegetation not fed by long, wide- 
spreading roots. Of the many who have 
battled to have green lawns instead of bald 
pebbles, few indeed have succeeded even in 
part, and this half success has driven the 
majority to abandon the attempt altogether. 
It is this lack of grass and the hopelessness 
of the endeavor to alter conditions, which go 
a long way in accounting for the natural 
effects so many times met with in Greek 
gardens. The coolness both in appearance 
and in reality which velvety lawns give to 
garden spots must be reached here through 
other channels, especially through foliage; 
hence, the number of vine-covered walks, the 
towering shade trees, and the rustic fountains 
half hidden among the ferns and shrubs. 
Let us glance at the “Ravine”—-through 
which flows, the year round, a cool, clear 
stream of water not unlike the matchless 
mountain streams of Pennsylvania. This is 
merely a nature study—but such nature as 
one may look for only in the land of Homer. 
Every condition referred to in the second 
book of the Iliad is here fulfilled. Here the 
plane tree flourishes as does the mighty oak of 
the American forest, its uneven trunk and 
wide-spreading branches gnarled and twisted 
into a numberless variety of fantastic shapes. 
Above is the matchless Greek sky, on either 
side towering mountain peaks, in the distance 
the clear blue arm of the Mediterranean, while 
at one’s feet, as if from beneath the very 
trees’ roots, flows the crystal water, the 
aglaon budor, mirroring in its shallows the 
lights and shadows with every breeze that 
blows. Given yet the rough altar, the 
blood-red serpent, and the frantic sparrow 
fluttering wildly about her brood of helpless 
young, and the Homeric likeness to that day 
thirty centuries back, when the fleet of the 
Achieans rode at anchor in the harbor of 
Aulis eager for that historic sally against 
the stronghold of Priam, is complete—it 
becomes as “yesterday or the day before.” 
It would be folly to tamper with anything 
so consummately ordered. The only aid to 
nature is a curtailing of her propensities, 
the clearing away of the undergrowth, the 
construction of a rough pathway in and out 
among the tree trunks, and the natural 
appropriation of a few of the twisted trunks 
and of the many grottoes for the introduction 
of rustic seats and tables. In its simple 
grandeur a visit to the ravine is a fitting 
climax for a visit to Gutland, and one leaves 
with that last taste of nature, mother of art and 
foster mother of artists, which lends an added 
relish to all there is to see and feel there. 
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