Article April 3, 1909 Issue

MY GARDEN

MARY TROXELL.

One morning, after an absence of years from my home, I stood by the window looking out upon a forlorn and neglected garden. Sweet memories arose of the scent of a honeysuckle which hung over the trellis at the end of a trim lawn in the garden of long ago; memories of stately peony and gay verbena, of deep red rose and her paler pink sister, of dainty white clematis, shy alyssum, and modest mignonette. Rather discouraging was the present contrast, however, for naught of beauty or sweetness remained; rank weeds and grasses betokened long neglect; stones and an ash-heap, a broken trellis, the stump of a dead tree, called forth momentary regret, to be quickly dispelled by the knowledge of what willing hands, bright sunshine, and warm showers would accomplish.

When wintry frosts melted before oncoming spring, and the ground was soft and warm, a faithful servitor came one day at my bidding. He had a quaint, cheery way of expressing himself, and a thrifty habit of turning to account things that most people would throw away as useless, but even his optimistic spirit faltered for a moment before the unsightly prospect. Then he said hopefully, "Well, miss, there's plenty of sun to make the grass grow." And when sun and rain had made all ready, I went into my garden and sowed seed, though one might wonder what of life or beauty could come from the little black balls and withered pods that fell into the earth. Yet the work was not all done even then; soon a shade of green lightened the brown, small double leaflets and tiny stalks came up in rows; but weeds, too, began to grow apace,—sometimes it was impossible to tell which was flower and which was weed, and both must needs "grow together" for a time.

After the heavy spring rains, stones came to the surface and lay thick and hard over the tender seedlings, and they had to be gathered up, and the weeds uprooted, lest the plants should be choked and hindered. One night a marauding pussy scratched away the sprouting asters, and one day a kindly hand, that wanted to help, pulled up some weeds, but alas, petunia plants came up with them, and it was too late to sow more. Yet, despite drawbacks and hindrances, beauty and sweetness budded and bloomed, and when golden summer came on, green vines covered the unsightly trellis; the moonflower opened its pure white cup, to be filled by silvery moonbeams at eventide; feathery cypress vines dotted with tiny red and white stars climbed up and up and over the fence: many-colored verbenas laughed a gay "good morning," and if hollyhock and madeira vines forgot to bloom, the geraniums would have rivaled the hollyhock in brilliant hues, while sweet alyssum sent forth a faint, sweet perfume. And the nasturtiums! How they ran riot over border and pathway, opening bright blossoms of sunset red and orange, pale yellow, resset, and even pink! Into many homes they went, with their silent message of cheer, for what home is not brighter for the gift of a few flowers? Then winter came again, but the memories of beauty, color, and fragrance lingered on. This spring there will be fewer stones and weeds to clear away, the planting will be easier and the yield larger.

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