ded in my own mind that
what I wanted was white and salmon-pink and lavender. Asters, phlox, sweet
peas, hollyhocks, all were to bend themselves to my rules. At first
affairs went very well. White was easy. White phlox I had, and have--an
inheritance--which from a few roots is spreading and spreading in waves of
whiteness that grow more luxuriant every year. But I bought roots of
salmon-pink and lavender, and then my troubles commenced. About the third
season strange things began to happen. The pink phlox had the strength of
ten. It spread amazingly; but it forgot all about my rules. It
degenerated, some of it--reverted toward that magenta shade that nature
seems so naturally to adore in the vegetable world. To my horror I found
my garden blossoming into magenta pink, blue pink, crimson, cardinal--all
the colors I had determined not under any circumstances to admit. On the
other hand, the lavender phlox, which I particularly wanted, was most
lovely, but frail. It refused to spread. It effaced itself before the
rampant pink and its magenta-tainted brood. I vowed I would pull out the
magentas, but each year my courage failed. They bloomed so bravely; I
would wait till they were through. But by that time I was not quite sure
which was which; I might pull out the wrong ones. And so I hesitated.

Moreover, I discovered, lingering among the flowers at dusk, that there
were certain colors, most unpleasant by daylight, which at that time took
on a new shade, and, for perhaps half an hour before night fell, were
richly lovely. This is true of some of the magentas, which at dusk turn
suddenly to royal purples and deep lavender-blues that are wonderfully
satisfying.

For that half-hour of beauty I spare them. While the sun shines I try to
look the other way, and at twilight I linger near them and enjoy their
strange, dim glories, born literally of the magic hour. But I have trouble
explaining them, by daylight, to some of my visitors who like
color-schemes.

Insubordination is contagious. And I found after a while that my asters
were not running true; queer things were happening among the sweet peas,
and in the ranks of the hollyhocks all was not as it should be. And the
last charge was made upon me by the children's gardens. Children know not
color-schemes. What they demand is flowers, flowers--flowers to pick and
pick, flowers to do things with. Snapdragon, for instance, is a jolly
playmate, and little fingers love to pinch it