Zoe's Garden



Zoe says emphatically that it is not her garden, but everybody's garden.
But it is her garden because she tends it, and every morning goes around
among her flowers lovingly, giving a little dig of dirt here, and tying
some frail sisters up there and then, with her scissors, clipping,
snipping and nipping away. Yes, it is Zoe's garden.

Anything that has spunk to grow is welcome in this essentially San
Franciscan garden. And no one is allowed to bully the others. Big burly
geraniums and proud dahlias must keep in their places and give the
dainty lobelia, cinnamon pinks, oxalis and candy tuft their chance. The
oxalis! How we tended it in pots in New England, and out here in
California, bless its heart, it runs around like a native daughter. And
as for the fuchsia, how far it has grown from the blue laws.

There is no formality in Zoe's garden. Marigolds go wandering about in
the most trampish manner, and poppies, because they are privileged
characters, spring up as they please. Then, as though the two of them
were not sufficient California gold, there is the faithful gaillardia
with its prim little sunflower-faces smiling up at their Mother Sun.

It is a democratic garden, too. Golden rod and asters grow right in
among the aristocrats. Fancy the snubbing they would get if they once
ventured into a New England garden - Hm. There is freedom there, but not
license, and every opportunity for individuality. The gladiolas,
canterbury bells, gillie flowers and fox gloves grow as prim as in a