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SHRUBS 
HEN we stand in a grove of great trees we think of 
them in their majesty and aloofness as something apart 
from ourselves. They live their lives and fulfil their 
inscrutable destinies, independent of our fussy and restless 
affairs. Their flowers and fruits are inaccessible to us, save 
at great and sometimes dangerous effort. They were there— 
these trees—before we came; they will be there long after 
we have gone. 
The shrubs are nearer to our own scale. They seem de- 
pendent on us as domestic animals are dependent and, like 
them, ready to return a grateful service for our care. 
We like them for their flowers, of course. Indeed this is 
unquestionably the greatest of their charms. But we like them 
also because we can work with them and easily manipulate 
the composition of our immediate landscapes with them. We 
like them because we can prune them with our own hands and 
increase the quantity and quality of their blossoms, maintain 
their natural and beautiful shapes, renew their vigor. We like 
them for their many-hued fruits. We like them because these 
fruits bring the birds closer to us where we can watch them. 
This is a sweet association—this of the birds and the shrubs. 
There are those who will always associate the scent of Lilacs 
with the song of the yellow warbler; the mocking cadences 
of the catbird with the fragrance of the Mock-Orange; the 
rippling song of the wren with the white garlands of the 
Bridal Wreath. 
The shrubbery is a garden full of present-day brightness and 
old-time fragrant memories. 
