greater value to a child to have grown one perfect
flower than to have pulled many to pieces to examine their structure.
And the care of animals may teach a great deal more if it learns to keep
the balance between silly idolatry of pets and cruel negligence--the hot
and cold extremes of selfishness.

Little gardens of their own are perhaps the best gifts which can be
given to children. To work in them stores up not only health but joy.
Every flower in their garden stands for so much happiness, and with that
happiness an instinct for home life and simple pleasures will strike
deep roots. From growing the humblest annual out of a seed-packet to
grafting roses there is work for every age, and even in the dead season
of the year the interest of a garden never dies.

In new countries gardens take new aspects. A literal version of a
_garden party_ in the Transvaal suggests possibilities of emancipation
from the conventionalities which weary the older forms of entertainment
with us. Its object was not to play in a garden, but to plant one.
Guests came from afar, each one bringing a contribution of plants. The
afternoon was spent in laying out the beds and planting the offerings,
in hard, honest, dirty work. And all the guests went home feeling that
they had really lived a day that was worth living, for a garden had been
made, in the rough, it is true; but even in the rough in such a new
country a garden is a great possession.

The outcome of these considerations is that the love of nature is a
great source of happiness for children, happiness of the best kind in
taking possession of a world that seems to be in many ways designed
especially for them. It brings their minds to a place where many ways
meet; to the confines of science, for they want to know the reasons of
things; to the confines of art, for what they can understand they will
strive to interpret and express; to the confines of worship, for a
child's soul, hushed in wonder, is very near to God.

CHAPTER VIII.

ENGLISH.

"If Chaucer, as has been said, is Spring, it is a modern, premature
Spring, followed by an interval of doubtful weather. Sidney is the very
Spring--the later May. And in prose he is the authentic, only Spring. It
is a prose full of young joy, and young power, and young inexperience,
and young melancholy, which is the wilfulness of joy; . . .

"Sidney's prose is treasureable, not only for its absolute merits, but
as the bud from whic