our
garden in the winter time.

Then comes the spring in our garden, a time of faith, vigilance and hard
work. Faith that the seed will grow, vigilance that it is planted deep
enough and has the right conditions in which to grow. Vigilance against
frost, weeds and insects. Planting, sowing, hoeing, transplanting,
coaxing, hoping, expecting, working--we never do half that we planned to
do in the springtime--there are not enough days, and the days we have
are too short.

Then comes summer, real summer in our garden. Then flowers begin to
bloom, and our friends tell us they are lovely. But we see the flaws and
errors. We feel almost guilty to have our garden praised, so many
glaring faults and shortcomings has it. The color scheme is wrong, there
are false notes here and there. There are tall plants where short plants
should be. There are spaces and breaks and again spots over-crowded. We
water and hoe, train vines, prop plants, and kill the bugs, but we know
the weak spots in our garden and vow that next summer we shall remedy
every mistake.

[Illustration: Mrs. Gertrude Ellis Skinner among her gladoli.]

Then "summer in our garden" has an autumn. The garden is never so
beautiful as when the first frost strikes it. Pillow-cases, sheets,
shawls, aprons, coats and newspapers may for a brief time hold at bay
the frost king, but he soon laughs at our efforts, crawls under the
edges of the unsightly garments with which we protect our flowers, nips
their petals, wilts their stems and blackens their leaves. We find them
some morning hopelessly frozen. But the earth has ceased to give forth
its aroma, the birds are winging southward, the waters of the brook run
clear and cold, and the voice of the last cricket sounds lonesome in the
land. We say to nature, "Work your will with our garden; the summer is
over, and we are ready to plan for another season."

And what have we learned from the "summer in our garden?" That no one
can be happy in his garden unless he works for the joy of the working.
He who loves his work loves nature. To him his garden is a great
cathedral, boundless as his wonder, a place of worship. Above him the
dome ever changing in color and design, beautiful in sunshine or storm
and thrice beautiful when studded with the eternal lamps of night. The
walls are the trees, the vines and the shrubs, waving in the distant
horizon and flinging their branches on the sky line, or close at hand
where we hear the voic