My Garden 
to heel between nine o’clock and nine-thirty. 
An entomologist would have cherished them 
and fed them on good green stuff', and warmed 
their mothers’ hearts; but I looked at Rom- 
neya gazing there with lovely, pitiful eyes, 
that gleamed across the darkness ; and those 
caterpillars vanished into the life beyond. 
I dislike killing things. After a man has 
turned of forty, his greed for slaughter of 
bird, beast or fish probably wanes somewhat 
according to the measure of his intellectual 
activity; but in a garden, death must be 
recognized as part of the regular machinery. 
Have no fear tor the type. Nature will look 
after that. If it is really true that the fittest 
onlv survive, a green fly is about the fittest 
thing that ever gladdened the bosom of the 
spring. Would that some of our lilies, or 
tiny, shy androsaces, or delicate Cape bulbs, 
imitated the fecund riot of aphis ! Yet, if 
they did, perhaps half their charm might 
vanish. 1 am not, however, one who loves 
a thing for rarity—far from it. Some of the 
rarest things are plain ; some are positively 
ugly; but to have good flourishing vege¬ 
table curiosities is a pleasant circumstance 
and gives self-reliance. For instance, not 
long ago I flowered Gloriosa Carsoni —a grand 
purple and gold creature sent to me by a 
brother from the jungles of the Zambesi 
basin. Kew named it for me, then Kew asked 
for a piece, because Kew had not got it. 
Think of that! Now, when people talk 
about Kew, one feels justified in indicating 
that the success of our greatest garden is 
partly a personal thing. I make no actual 
claim, but merely state what 1 have added 
to our national affluence in this matter. When 
pressed for details, I admit that Kew—always 
generous—sent me some noble plants in ex¬ 
change for my Gloriosa Carsoni. 1 have a 
great many queer things coming on that also 
started life beside the Zambesi; but one can 
hardly hope for such another beauty as Car¬ 
son’s gloriosa to appear amongst them. 
I n this paper—whose egotism must be 
pardoned for the title—1 propose to tell you 
of my climbers and flowering shrubs, my 
lilies and American peat lovers ; then I will 
describe my bog and water plants; and, lastly, 
make mention of the roses, the rock border, 
the primrose corner, and a few minor affairs 
of the edible sort. By that time you will 
have had rather more than enough of it and 
turn back again to prices or the war news; 
or you might give this copy of your magazine 
to the gardener on reaching your destination, 
if it be possible to interest him in horticult¬ 
ural literature. 
There are two very simple rules to insure 
successful gardening, and if they were always 
followed there could be no failures anywhere. 
First ascertain exactly what a plant ought to 
have above ground and below it. Secondly; 
if you cannot supply those conditions don’t 
buy the plant. This may sound cowardly ; 
but understand me. I only want you to be 
reasonable. I know the expert who, fifteen 
years ago, proved to demonstration that 
Choisya ternata woidd flourish in the open 
air. By this discovery he justified his ex¬ 
istence and brought joy to the hearts and 
money to the pockets of many honest men. 
You, too, may prove that something we grow 
in the cool house is better out of doors. 
Noble secrets may be awaiting your discovery. 
But conduct your investigations in a spirit 
of reason. Observe those general principles 
based on experience and common sense. 
There are obvious truisms of gardening, such 
as that clay is no good for lilies, or lime for 
rhododendrons, or a temperature that falls 
below zero for pineapples ; and from these 
crude certainties we rise to subtle distinc¬ 
tions and higher truths. It is by studying 
Nature’s own way that you will succeed 
best. Be ready to learn at every turn. Re¬ 
cently a gardener was told off to show me 
over a garden. The place proved unpre¬ 
tentious and fairly satisfactory ; but I saw 
evidences of blazing ignorance in sundry 
directions. The gardener was doing idiotic 
things to some most ordinary plants that 
only asked to be left alone. “ Do you get 
any time for reading?” I inquired. “Time 
enough” he admitted, “ but I don’t want no 
reading, sir; I’ve got everything here!” He 
touched his stupid head as he spoke, and 
implied that all the lore of all the horticul¬ 
turists was therein packed. I said nothing. 
Men of that stamp must go their own wild 
way to perdition. Presently this fraud will 
come to grief with a cabbage, or some other 
simple child of Nature, and then, after find¬ 
ing himself cast out from that garden, will 
wear sackcloth and ashes and beat his breast, 
62 
