"Jonathan, let's not have a garden."

"What'll we live on if we don't?"

"Oh, of course, I don't mean that kind of a garden,—peas and potatoes and things,— I mean flowers. Let's not have a flower garden."

"That seems easy enough to manage," he ruminated; "the hard thing would be to have one."

"I know. And what's the use? There are always flowers enough, all around us, from May till October. Let's just enjoy them."

"I always have."

I looked at him to detect a possible sarcasm in the words, but his face was innocent.

"Well, of course, so have I. But what I mean is—people when they have a country place seem to spend such a lot of energy doing things for themselves that nature is doing for them just over the fence. There was Christabel Vincent last summer, grubbing over yellow lilies, or something, and I went over into the meadow and got a lovely armful of lilies and brought them in, and no grubbing at all."

"Perhaps grubbing was what she was after," said Jonathan.

"Well, anyway, she talked as if it was lilies."

"I don't know that that matters," he said.

Jonathan is sometimes so acute about my friends that it is almost annoying.

This conversation was one of many that occurred the winter before we took up the farm. We went up in April that year, and we planted our corn and our potatoes and all the rest, but no flowers. That part we left to nature, and she responded most generously. From earliest spring until October—nay, November—we were never without flowers: brave little white saxifrage and hepaticas, first of all, then bloodroot and arbutus, adder's-tongue and columbine, shad-blow and dogwood, and all the beloved throng of them, at our feet and overhead. In May the pink azalea and the buttercups, in June the laurel and the daisies and—almost best of all—the dear clover. In summer the deep woods gave us orchids, and the open meadows lilies and black-eyed Susans. In September the river-banks and the brooks glowed for us with cardinal-flower and the blue lobelia, and then, until the frosts settled into winter, there were the fringed gentians and the asters and the goldenrod. And still the half has not been told. If I tried to name all that gay company, my tale would be longer than Homer's catalogue of the ships.

In early July a friend brought me in a big bunch of sweet peas. I buried my face in their sweetness; then, as I held them off, I sighed.

"Oh, dear!" I said.

"What's 'oh, dear'?" said Jonathan, as he took off his ankle-clips. He had just come up from the station on his bicycle.

"Nothing. Only why do people have magenta sweet peas with red ones and pink ones—that special pink? It's just the color of pink tooth-powder."

"You might throw away the ones you don't like."

"No, I can't do that. But why does anybody grow them? If I had sweet peas, I'd have white ones, and pale lavender ones, and those lovely salmon-pink ones, and maybe some pale yellow ones—"

"Sweet peas have to be planted in March," said Jonathan, as he trundled his wheel off toward the barn.

"Of course," I called after him, "I'm not going to plant any. I was only saying if."

Perhaps the sweet peas began it, but I really think the whole thing began with the phlox.

One afternoon in August I walked down the road through the woods to meet Jonathan. As he came up to me and dismounted I held out to him a spray of white phlox.

"Where do you suppose I found it?" I asked.

"Down by the old Talcott place," he hazarded.

"No. There is some there, but this was growing under our crab-apple trees, right beside the house."

"Well, now, it must have been some of Aunt Deborah's. I remember hearing Uncle Ben say she used to have her garden there; that must have been before he started the crab orchard. Why, that phlox can't be less than forty years old, anyway."

"Dear me!" I took back the delicate spray; "it doesn't look it."

"No. Don't you wish you could look like that when you're forty?" he philosophized; and added, "Is there much of it?"

"Five or six roots, but there won't be many blossoms, it's so shady."

"We might move it and give it a chance."

"Let's! We'll dig it up this fall, and put it over on the south side of the house, in that sunny open place."

When October came, we took Aunt Deborah's phlox and transplanted it to where it could get the sunshine it had been starving for all those years. I sat on a stump and watched Jonathan digging the holes.

"You don't suppose Henry will cut them down for weeds when they come up, do you?" I said.

"Seems probable," said Jonathan. "You might stick in a few bulbs that'll come up early and mark the spot."

"Oh, yes. And we could put a line of sweet alyssum along each side, to last along after the bulbs are over."

"You can do that in the spring if you want to. I'll bring up some bulbs to-morrow."

The winter passed and the spring came—sweet, tormenting.

"Jonathan," I said at luncheon one day, "I got the sweet alyssum seed this morning.

"Sweet alyssum?" He looked blank. "What do you want sweet alyssum for? It's a foolish flower. I thought you weren't going to have a garden, anyway."

"I'm not; but don't you remember about the phlox? We said we'd put in some sweet alyssum to mark it—so it wouldn't get cut down."

"The bulbs will do that, and when they're gone it will be high enough to show."

"Well, I have the seed, and I might as well use it. It won't do any harm."

"No. I don't believe sweet alyssum ever hurt anybody," said Jonathan.

That evening when he came in I met him in the hall. I had the florist's catalogue in my hand. "Jonathan, it says English daisies are good for borders."

"Borders! What do you want of borders?"

"Why, up on the farm—the phlox, you know."

"Oh, the phlox. I thought you had sweet alyssum for a border."

He took off his coat and I drew him into the study.

"Why, yes, but that was such a little package. I don't believe there would be enough. And I thought I could try the English daisies, too, and if one didn't do well perhaps the other would. And look what it says— No, never mind the newspaper yet—there isn't any news—just look at this about pansies."

"Pansies! You don't want them for a border!"

"Why, no, not exactly. But, you see, the phlox won't blossom till late August, and it says that if you plant this kind of pansies very early, they blossom in June, and then if you cover them they live over and blossom again the next May. And pansies are so lovely! Look at that picture! Don't you love those French-blue ones?"

"I like pansies. I don't know about the nationalities," said Jonathan. "Of course, if you want to bother with them, go ahead." He picked up his paper.

"Oh, it won't be any bother. They take care of themselves. Please, your pencil— I'm going to mark the colors I want."

We went up soon after to look at the farm. We found it very much as we had left it, except that there hung about it that indescribable something we call spring. We tramped about on the spongy ground, and sniffed the sweet air, and looked at the apple buds, and kicked up the soft, matted maple leaves to see the grass starting underneath.

"Oh, Jonathan! Our bulbs!" I exclaimed. We hurried over to them and lifted up the thick blanket of leaves and hay we had left over them. "Look! A crocus!" I said.

"And here's a snowdrop! Let's take off these leaves and give them a chance."

"Dear me!" I sighed; "isn't it wonderful? To think those hard little bullets we put in last fall should do all this! And here's the phlox just starting—look—"

"Oh, you can't kill phlox," said Jonathan imperturbably.

"All the better. I hate not giving people credit for things just because they come natural."

"That is a curious sentence," said Jonathan.

"Never mind. You know what I mean. You've understood a great many more curious ones than that. Listen, Jonathan. Why couldn't I put in my seeds now? I brought them along."

"Why—yes—it's pretty early for anything but peas, but you can try, of course. What are they? Sweet alyssum and pansy?"

"Yes—and I did get a few sweet peas too," I hesitated. "I thought Henry hadn't much to do yet, and perhaps he could make a trench—you know it needs a trench."

"Yes, I know," said Jonathan. I think he smiled. "Let's see your seeds."

"They're at the house. Come over to the south porch, where it's warm, and we'll plan about them."

I opened the bundle and laid out the little packets with their gay pictures indicating what the seeds within might be expected to do. "Sweet alyssum and pansies," I said, "and here are the sweet peas."

Jonathan took them—"'Dorothy Eckford, Lady Grisel Hamilton, Gladys Unwin, Early Dawn, White Spencer,' By George! you mean to keep Henry busy! Here's ten ounces of peas!"

"They were so much cheaper by the ounce," I murmured.

"And—hold up! Did you know they gave you some asters? These aren't sweet peas."

"No—I know—but I thought—you see, sweet peas are over by August, and asters go on all through October—don't you remember what lovely ones Christabel had?"

"Hm! But isn't the world full of asters, anyway, in September and October, without your planting any more?" He grinned a little. "I thought that was your idea—you said Christabel grubbed so."

"Why, yes; but asters aren't any trouble. You just put them in—"

"And weed them."

"Yes—and weed them; but I wouldn't mind that."

"But here's some larkspur!"

"Yes, but I didn't buy that," I explained, hurriedly. "Christabel sent me that. She thought I might like some from her garden—she has such lovely larkspurs, don't you remember? And I just brought them along."

"Yes. So I see. Is that all you've just brought along?"

"Yes—except the cosmos. The florist advised that, and I thought there might be a place for it over by the fence. And of course we needn't use it if we don't want to. I can give it to Mrs. Stone."

"But here's some nasturtiums!"

"Oh—I forgot about them—but I didn't buy them either. They came from the Department of Agriculture or something. There were some carrots and parsnips, and things like that, too, all in a big brown envelope. I knew you had all the other things you wanted, so I just brought these. But of course I don't have to plant them, either."

"But you don't like nasturtiums. You've always said they made you think of railway stations and soldiers' homes—"

"Well, I did use to feel that way,—anchors and crosses and rock-work on big shaved lawns,—and, besides, nasturtiums always seemed to be the sort of flowers that people picked with short stems, and tied up in a wad, and stuck in a blue-glass goblet, and set on a table with a red cover on it. I did have horrible associations with nasturtiums."

"Then why in thunder do you plant them?"

"I only thought—if there was a drought this summer—you know they don't mind drought; Millie Sutphen told me that. And she had a way of cutting them with long stems, so they trailed, and they were really lovely. And then—there the package was—I thought it wouldn't do any harm to take it."

"Oh, you don't have to apologize," said Jonathan. "I didn't understand your plan, that was all. I'll go and see Henry about the trench."

I sat on the sunny porch and the March wind swept by the house on each side of me. I gloated over my seed packets. Would they come up? Of course other people's seeds came up, but would mine? It was very exciting. I pinched open a corner of the Lady Grisel Hamiltons and poured some of the pretty, smooth, fawn-colored balls into my hand. Then I opened the cosmos—what funny long thin ones! How long should I have to wait till they began to come up? I read the directions—"Plant when all danger from frost is past." Oh, dear! that meant May—another whole month! Well, I would get in my sweet peas and risk my pansies and alyssum, anyhow. And I jumped off the porch and went back to the phlox to plan out my campaign.

By early May we were settled on the farm once more. My pansies and alyssum were up—at least I believed they were up, but I spent many minutes of each day kneeling by them and studying the physiognomy of their cotyledons. I led Jonathan out to them one Sunday morning, and he regarded them with indulgence if not with enthusiasm. As he stooped to throw out a bunch of pebbles in one of the new beds I stopped him. "Oh, don't! Those are my Mizpah stones."

"Your what!"

"Why, just some little stones to mark a place. Some of the nasturtiums are there. I didn't know whether they were going to do anything—they looked so like chips—and then, being sent free that way—but they are.

"How do you know? They aren't up."

"No, but they will be soon. I—why, I just thought I'd see what they were doing."

"So you dug them up?" he probed.

"Not them—just it—just one. That's why I marked the place. I didn't want to keep disturbing different ones. Now what are you laughing at? Wouldn't you have wanted to know? And you wouldn't want to dig up different ones all the time! I don't know much about gardening, but—"

"I'm not laughing," said Jonathan. "Of course I should have wanted to know. And it is certainly better not to dig up different ones. There! Have I put your Mizpah back right?"

A few days later Jonathan wheeled into the yard and over near where I was kneeling by the phlox. "I saw a lady-slipper bud almost out to-day," he said.

"Did you? Look at my sweet alyssum. It's grown an inch since yesterday," I said. "Don't you think I could plant my cosmos and asters now?"

"Thunder!" said Jonathan; "don't you care more about the pink lady-slipper than about your blooming little sweet alyssum?"

"Why, yes, of course. I love lady-slippers. You know I do," I protested; "only—you see—I can't explain exactly—but—it seems to make a difference when you plant a thing yourself. And, oh, Jonathan! Won't you please come here and tell me if these are young pansies or only plantain? I'm so afraid of pulling up the wrong thing. I do wish somebody would make a book with pictures of all the cotyledons of all the different plants. It's so confusing. Millie had an awful time telling marigold from ragweed last summer. She had to break off a tip of each leaf and taste it. Why do you just stand there looking like that? Please come and help."

But Jonathan did not move. He stood, leaning on his wheel, regarding me with open amusement, and possibly a shade of disapproval.

"Lord!" he finally remarked; "you've got it!"

"Got what?" I said, though I knew.

"The garden germ."

Yes. There was no denying it. I had it. I have it still, and there is very little chance of my shaking it off. It is a disease that grows with what it feeds on. Now and then, indeed, I make a feeble fight against its inroads: I will not have another flower-bed, I will not have any more annuals, I will have only things that live on from year to year and take care of themselves. But—

"Alas, alas, repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
And then—and then—came spring—"

and the florist's catalogues! And is any one who has once given way to them proof against the seductions of those catalogues? Those asters! Those larkspurs! Those foxgloves and poppies and Canterbury bells! All that ravishing company, mine at the price of a few cents and a little grubbing. Mine! There is the secret of it. Out in the great and wonderful world beyond my garden, nature works her miracles constantly. She lays her riches at my feet; they are mine for the gathering. But to work these miracles myself,—to have my own little hoard that looks to me for tending, for very life,—that is a joy by itself. My little garden bed gives me something that all the luxuriance of woods and fields can never give—not better, not so good, perhaps, but different. Once having known the thrill of watching the first tiny shoot from a seed that I have planted myself, once having followed it to leaf and flower and seed again, I can never give it up.

My garden is not very big nor very beautiful. Perhaps the stretch of rocks and grass and weeds beside the house—an expanse which not even the wildest flight of the imagination could call a lawn—perhaps this might be more pleasing if the garden were not there, but it is there, and there it will stay. It means much grubbing. Just putting in seeds and then weeding is, I find, no mere affair of rhetoric. Moreover, I am introduced through my garden to an entirely new set of troubles: beetles and cutworms and moles and hens and a host of marauding creatures above ground and below, whose number and energy amaze me. And each summer seems to add to their variety and resourcefulness. Clearly, the pleasures of a garden are not commensurate with its pains. And yet—

But there is one kind of joy which it gives me at which even the Scoffer—to wit, Jonathan—does not scoff. It began with Aunt Deborah's phlox. Then came Christabel's larkspur. The next summer Mrs. Stone sent me over some of her hardy little fall asters—"artemishy," she called them. And Anne Stafford sent on some hollyhock seeds culled from Emerson's garden. And Great-Aunt Sarah was dividing her peony roots, and said I might take one. And Cousin Patty asked me if I wouldn't like some of her mother's old-fashioned pinks. And so it goes.

And so it will go, I hope, to the end of the long day. Each year my garden has in it more of my friends, and as I look at it I can adopt poor Ophelia's pretty speech in a new meaning, and say, "Larkspur—that's for remembrance; hollyhocks—that's for thoughts." Remembrance of all those dear other gardens which I have come to know, and in whose beauties I am coming to have a share; thoughts of all those dear other gardeners upon whom, as upon me, the miracle of the seed has laid a spell from which they can never escape.