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Looking down over the Larz Anderson garden, which was designed and made by a gardener from Japan 
A Japanese Garden in America 
BY ISABEL ANDERSON 
A LITTLE corner near a Massachusetts country house 
has been made into a most bewitching spot. When 
you enter the thatched gateway you forget New England, — 
you are in Japan. 
You see Onchi San, dressed in his native costume, stand¬ 
ing by the birds’ bath-tub, watching the pretty feathery 
creatures as they splash in the hollow stone filled with rain¬ 
water. Presently he steps inside the wicker enclosure and 
washes too, for he has been weeding the garden which he 
has designed and made with his queer little upside-down 
tools. 
Peeping in and out of the cracks of the wood-paneled 
and bamboo fence climb rainbow morning-glories. Irreg¬ 
ular stepping-stones on a grassy path lead you to miniature 
mountains with dwarfed evergreens fifty years old, and 
wee maples turning red, colored by Jack Frost, but pinched 
by Onchi’s hand to keep them tiny. A waterfall, called 
“Wash the Moon Cascade,” trickles down over some rocks 
into a clear pool, which is spanned by a pigmy bridge. 
Gold and silver fishes disport themselves below in the 
sunshine; when Onchi claps his hands they gather about 
him and eat from his fingers. Tall spears of Iris rise from 
the pool, and the leaves of the lotus float on the water. 
Vine-covered bamboo lattices make shaded nooks for the 
croaking frogs and fishes. 
Here and there among the greens are bright-colored 
bowls with grotesque designs, and gray stone lanterns. 
Above you rises the huge bronze eagle; he is the one high 
point, the key of the Japanese garden. His piercing eye 
looks down to frighten you, but, reflected in the smooth 
surface of a pool near by, sits the calm and smiling Buddha 
to dispel the fear; and so peace and happiness pervade 
this little fragment of the far East. It is only when your 
eye suddenly catches sight of the big elm hanging over all 
that you realize that you are at home. 
Onchi San has come from over the warm seas to show us 
an art of the old world. There are very few real Japanese 
gardens in this country, so Onchi says. Why is it we 
haven’t more when they are so attractive and full of interest? 
Of course Onchi cannot produce by magic in a night 
a wonderful avenue of cryptomerias such as you see in his 
country, nor the quaint crooked pines that line Japan’s 
shores, nor the glorious golden temples, a net-work of 
wonderful carving, such as you find at Nicho. He can, 
however, with a little patience, reproduce the charming 
tea house; and the fragrant pink cherry tree and the soft 
mauve wistaria (its blossoms as long as an umbrella) can 
be made to grow; although Japanese gardens, as a rule, 
have little color, or only one specimen in blossom at a 
time. 
( 9 °) 
