write about! That area might do for a tennis-court or for a general
meeting of Mr. Frederic Harrison's persuasion. You might kennel a pack
of hounds there, or beat a carpet, or assemble those members of the
cultured class who admire Mr. Gladstone. But grow flowers--roses--to cut
by the basketful, fruit to make jam for a jam-eating household the year
round, mushrooms, tomatoes, water-lilies, orchids; those Indian jugglers
who bring a mango-tree to perfection on your verandah in twenty minutes
might be able to do it, but not a consistent Christian. Nevertheless I
affirm that I have done all these things, and I shall even venture to
make other demands upon the public credulity.

When I first surveyed my garden sixteen years ago, a big Cupressus stood
before the front door, in a vast round bed one half of which would yield
no flowers at all, and the other half only spindlings. This was
encircled by a carriage-drive! A close row of limes, supported by more
Cupressus, overhung the palings all round; a dense little shrubbery hid
the back door; a weeping-ash, already tall and handsome, stood to
eastward. Curiously green and snug was the scene under these conditions,
rather like a forest glade; but if the space available be considered and
allowance be made for the shadow of all those trees, any tiro can
calculate the room left for grass and flowers--and the miserable
appearance of both. Beyond that dense little shrubbery the soil was
occupied with potatoes mostly, and a big enclosure for hens.

First I dug up the fine Cupressus. They told me such a big tree could
not possibly "move;" but it did, and it now fills an out-of-the-way
place as usefully as ornamentally. I suppressed the carriage-drive,
making a straight path broad enough for pedestrians only, and cut down a
number of the trees. The blessed sunlight recognized my garden once
more. Then I rooted out the shrubbery; did away with the fowl-house,