your original idea of suppressing the gardening instinct.

But there, after a while, is the garden--for these stories of suburban
gardens where nothing grows, are all nonsense. True, the clematis and
the moonflower obstinately refuse to clothe your cot with beauty; the
tigridia bulbs rot in the ground, and your beautiful collection of
irises produces a pitiful pennyworth of bloom to an intolerable quantity
of leaves. But the petunias and the sweet-williams, and the balsams, and
all the other ill-bred and obtrusive flowers leap promptly into life and
vigor, and fight each other for the ownership of the beds. And the
ever-faithful and friendly nasturtium comes early and stays late, and
the limp morning-glory may always be counted upon to slouch familiarly
over everything in sight, window-blinds preferred. But, bless you dear
urban soul, what do _you_ know about the relative values of flowers?
When Mrs. Overtheway brings your wife a bunch of her superbest gladioli,
you complacently return the compliment with a half-bushel of magenta
petunias, and you wonder that she does not show more enthusiasm over the
gift.

In fact, during the course of the summer you have grown so friendly with
your garden that, as you wander about its tangled paths in the late fall
days, you cannot help feeling a twinge of yearning pain that makes you
tremble to think what weakness you might have been guilty of had you not
already burned your bridges behind you, and told the house agent that
nothing would induce you to renew the lease next spring. You remember
how fully and carefully you explained to him your position in the
matter. With a glow of modest pride you recall the fact that you stated
your case to him so convincingly, that he had to agree with you that a
city life was the only life you and your family could possibly lead. He
understood fully how much you liked the place and the people, and how,
if this were only so, and that were only the other way, you would
certainly stay. And you feel if the house agent agrees with you against
his own interest, you must be right in your decision. Ah, dear Modestus!
You know little enough about flowers; but oh, how little, little, little
you know about suburban house agents!

Let us pass lightly over the third winter. It is a period of hesitation,
perplexity, expectancy, and general awkwardness. You are, and you are
not. You belong nowhere, and to no one. You have renounced your new
allegiance, and you