WINTER NIGHT 
In the Valley of the Santiam, the winter skies, gray filled 
With low-hung clouds, and dripping mists that blur and dim the greens, 
The verdant greens of towering firs that cloak the cragged hilled 
Approaches of the lofty Cascade range. Except for scenes 
Like these when days are crystal bright, fogs drift and hide 
My view of spired snowclad peaks, and forests deep and wide. 
The eve is come, the dreary day forgotten, as beside 
The warming glow and gleam of crackling log, | feel a tide 
Of dreams, of longing dreams of. sun-drenched summer days 
When “GLADS” anew allure me with their mystic, magic maze 
Of color harmonies so rich, so fair, they seem to blaze 
Into rare exotic beauty that thrills me as | gaze. 
With pen and pencil at my hand, and note books by my chair, 
And stacked upon the table top, lie all my treasured store 
Of newest catalogs. | scan each page with utmost care, 
My trays are full of bulbs I’ve grown, and still | must try more, 
For thru these pages as | read, are kinds that seem to me 
Far better than the ones I’ve known — and | can’t wait to see 
Just how they will compare — and whether they will be 
The hoped for, sought for, dreamed of Glad which yet is mystery. 
Ah! here is one — a deep’ning ruddy rose, with creamy blend 
In throat, with ruffled edge of lighter tint, erect, straight stemmed, 
Tall growth, with florets full and wide. Perhaps this glad will lend 
New loveliness. And so thru pleasant hours, till dreams must end. 
The dream is half the joy, and when imagination sure 
Paints visions of true beauty in that mental eye, as pure 
And real as life itself, it is my hope that you, like me, 
May fill the welcome evening hours with garden phantasy. 
—Paul V. Baker 
