, and the lady gardener's pumping
system for her nurseries blew up or leaked or lay down on the job in
some way, so that the worker and I confronted each other, ignorant and
unbossed. I will not dwell on the week that followed. The lady gardener
gave almost vicious orders by telephone and the worker did his best, but
it is not a handy way to direct a garden. When the last rosebush is in,
including some that Will is gloomily certain will never grow, I think I
shall go away for a rest to some place where there is only cactus and
sage and sand.

J---- arrived on the scene in time to save the day, and the garden is
very lovely. Next year it will be worth going a long way to see, for in
this part of the world planting things is like playing with Japanese
water flowers. A wall of gray stucco gently curves along the canyon
side, while a high lattice on the other shows dim outlines of the hills
beyond. In the wall are arches with gates so curved as to leave circular
openings, through which we get glimpses of the sea. It makes me think of
King Arthur's castle at Tintagel. In the lattice there is a wicket gate.
There is something very alluring about a wicket gate--it connotes a
Robin. Unfortunately, my Robin can only appear from Friday to Monday,
but I'm not complaining. Any one is fortunate who can count on romance
two days out of seven. At the far end of the garden is a screen designed
to hide the peculiarites of the garage. The central panel is concrete
with a window with green balusters; below is a wall fountain. The window
suggests a half-hidden senorita. It really conceals a high-school boy
who is driving the motor for me in J----'s absence, but that is
immaterial. The fountain is set with sapphire-blue tiles and the water
trickles from the mouth of the most amiable lion I ever saw. He was
carved from Boise stone by one "Luigi" from a sketch by our architect
friend. He has Albrecht Duerer curls--the lion I mean--four on a side
that look like sticks of peppermint candy and we call him "Boysey."

The pool below him is a wonderful place for boat sailing. It fairly
bristles with the masts of schooners and yachts, and the guns of torpedo
destroyers, and while the architect and the grown-ups did not have a
naval base in mind when the sketch was made, I do appreciate the
feelings of my sons.

"There's a fountain in our garden,
With the brightest bluest tiles
And the pleasantest stone lion
Who spits into it a