  BOOKS are the means by which one may travel without moving. It is through the medium of a book that I was able to visit a garden in Italy. It happened to be a garden that was typically Italian and a very charming one. The entrance was through a vine-covered Tuscan arch at the side of a villa, and down several steps to a wide terrace. The sun was beating down outside, but inside this walled garden all was cool and refreshing. At one’s feet were clumps of darkest green ferns, like miniature forests. At the bottom of the terrace there was a terracotta pool, where water flowers were drifting on their flat green pads. Around the edge of this pool and through an aisle of tiny fragrant pink rose bushes was a space enclosed on three sides by feathery greens. Here a laughing satyr was perched on the top of a fountain, spouting water in a silvery arc. Through a shaded avenue could be seen other secluded spots with marble benches in front of other fountains. In another direction was a grotto where water trickled down gray, moss-covered stones. Far in the distance were cypress trees waving their spear-like tops and standing guard over the coolness and beauty of the garden. Very different from this is the sunny English garden that next I visited. It, too, was terraced and had fountains, but the water in these fountains sparkled in the sun, and the cool dampness of the Italian garden was lacking. On the terrace were occasional closely-trimmed yew trees, or box trees clipped in odd shapes. A curving walk, edged with laurel, led to the ivy-walled inner garden. Here, in the full sun and warmth, grew, not the delicate rose bush of my Italian garden, but sturdy, bold rose trees, and apple trees, above snowdrops, daffodils, and crocuses in round, oblong, and square beds. These had trimmed herbaceous borders, and gray flag walks lay between them. Beyond towered great elms, but even these did not shut out any of the sun, which reached the foxgloves and violets, transplanted from the moor to the corner of the wall. Here in America, though I have never been East, I know I should feel at home in a New England garden. My entire knowledge of them has been gained from books, but I am sure, from what I have read that these gardens are quite as charming as the more formal ones of other lands. Separated from the street by either a white picket fence or a row of lilac bushes, grow in their seasons nasturtiums, pinks, larkspur, mignonette, sweet peas, and forget-me-nots, in neat rows. All these are in such profusion that one sees only the glorious general effect and fails to notice that the garden has been planted with total disregard to the blending of colors. At the back, against the fence, tall sun flowers flaunt themselves, while in front are clumps of gorgeous peonies, and at the side beds of fragrant mint. All these gardens I think of when spring comes, and my yearly gardening fever seizes me. But at the end of two months, when my radishes go to seed before attaining edible size, and those of my flowers that are not choked by weeds have been dug up by other members of the family, I go back to the dream gardens in my books. |
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