
LookiING Across THE STREAM TOWARD THE LESTER CoTTAGE, EARLY SPRING 
“T have been thinking about Gardens—of the true pleasure in them. 
And I find, that if the garden be great, it is not in green breadths of 
lawn or long perspective of terraces or trees, or well-kept borders, or 
in chosen peeps of outland country that our soul delights. If the 
place be small, it is not the trimness of gravel paths or the brilliancy 
of ordered flower-beds that most do please. The true pleasure every- 
where in every garden is the charm of individual interest—whether 
among the rough stones of the rockery, or in the sunny bit under an 
old wall, or in some other perhaps unfrequented corner of the garden, 
where grows some tender plant whose flowering is watched and waited 
for. It is the living, human love between us and our flowers; the love 
which impels us to return again and again to the same spot and never 
weary, whatever may be our favorite’s name. It is this intense feeling 
for his plants and this alone, that makes the place dear to the soul of 
the garden-lover.” 
—SYLVANA’S LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN FRIEND 
