The Friendly Road [15]
"I saw your beautiful specimen of the magnolia tree--the one still in blossom. I myself have tried to grow magnolias--but with small success--and I'm making bold to inquire what variety you are so successful with."
It was a shot in the air--but I knew from what I had seen that they must be enthusiastic gardeners. The man glanced around at the magnolia with evident pride, and was about to answer when the woman rose and with a pleasant, quiet cordiality said:
"Won't you step up and have a chair?"
I swung my bag from my shoulder and took the proffered seat. As I did so I saw, on the table just behind me a number magazines and books--books of unusual sizes and shapes, indicating that they were not mere summer novels.
"They like books!" I said to myself, with a sudden rise of spirits.
"I have tried magnolias, too," said the man, "but this is the only one that has been really successful. It is a Chinese white magnolia."
"The one Downing describes?" I asked.
This was also a random shot, but I conjectured that if they loved both books gardens they would know Downing--Bible of the gardener. And if they did, we belonged to the same church.
"The very same," exclaimed the woman; "it was Downing's enthusiasm for the Chinese magnolia which led us first to try it."
With that, like true disciples, we fell into great talk of Downing, at first all in praise of him, and later--for may not the faithful be permitted latitude in their comments so long as it is all within the cloister?--we indulged in a bit of higher criticism.
"It won't do," said the man, "to follow too slavishly every detail of practice as recommended by Downing. We have learned a good many things since the forties."
"The fact is," I said, "no literal-minded man should be trusted with Downing."
"Any more than with the Holy Scriptures," exclaimed the woman.
"Exactly!" I responded with the greatest enthusiasm; "exactly! We go to him for inspiration, for fundamental teachings, for the great literature and poetry of the art. Do you remember," I asked, "that passage in which Downing quotes from some old Chinaman upon the true secret of the pleasures of a garden--?"
"Do we?" exclaimed the man, jumping up instantly; "do we? Just let me get the book--"
With that he went into the house and came back immediately bringing a lamp in one hand--for it had grown pretty dark--and a familiar, portly, blue-bound book in the other. While he was gone the woman said:
"You have touched Mr. Vedder in his weakest spot."
"I know of no combination in this world," said I, "so certain to produce a happy heart as good books and a farm or garden."
Mr. Vedder, having returned, slipped on his spectacles, sat forward on the edge of his rocking-chair, and opened the book with pious hands.
"I'll find it," he said. "I can put my finger right on it."
"You'll find it," said Mrs. Vedder, "in the chapter on 'Hedges.'"
"You are wrong, my dear," he responded, "it is in 'Mistakes of Citizens in Country Life."
He turned the leaves eagerly.
"No," he said, "here it is in 'Rural Taste.' Let me read you the passage, Mr.--"
"Grayson."
"--Mr. Grayson. The Chinaman's name was Lieu-tscheu. 'What is it,' asks this old Chinaman, 'that we seek in the pleasure of a garden? It has always been agreed that these plantations should make men amends for living at a distance from what would be their more congenial and agreeable dwelling-place--in the midst of nature, free and unrestrained.'"
"That's it," I exclaimed, "and the old Chinaman was right! A garden excuses civilization."
"It's what brought us here," said Mrs. Vedder.
With that we fell into the liveliest discussion of gardening and farming and country life in all their phases, resolving that while there were bugs and blights, and droughts and floods, yet upon the whole there was no life so completely satisfying as life in which one may watch daily the unfolding of natural life.
A hundred things we talked about freely that had often risen dimly in my own mind almost to the point--but not quite--of
It was a shot in the air--but I knew from what I had seen that they must be enthusiastic gardeners. The man glanced around at the magnolia with evident pride, and was about to answer when the woman rose and with a pleasant, quiet cordiality said:
"Won't you step up and have a chair?"
I swung my bag from my shoulder and took the proffered seat. As I did so I saw, on the table just behind me a number magazines and books--books of unusual sizes and shapes, indicating that they were not mere summer novels.
"They like books!" I said to myself, with a sudden rise of spirits.
"I have tried magnolias, too," said the man, "but this is the only one that has been really successful. It is a Chinese white magnolia."
"The one Downing describes?" I asked.
This was also a random shot, but I conjectured that if they loved both books gardens they would know Downing--Bible of the gardener. And if they did, we belonged to the same church.
"The very same," exclaimed the woman; "it was Downing's enthusiasm for the Chinese magnolia which led us first to try it."
With that, like true disciples, we fell into great talk of Downing, at first all in praise of him, and later--for may not the faithful be permitted latitude in their comments so long as it is all within the cloister?--we indulged in a bit of higher criticism.
"It won't do," said the man, "to follow too slavishly every detail of practice as recommended by Downing. We have learned a good many things since the forties."
"The fact is," I said, "no literal-minded man should be trusted with Downing."
"Any more than with the Holy Scriptures," exclaimed the woman.
"Exactly!" I responded with the greatest enthusiasm; "exactly! We go to him for inspiration, for fundamental teachings, for the great literature and poetry of the art. Do you remember," I asked, "that passage in which Downing quotes from some old Chinaman upon the true secret of the pleasures of a garden--?"
"Do we?" exclaimed the man, jumping up instantly; "do we? Just let me get the book--"
With that he went into the house and came back immediately bringing a lamp in one hand--for it had grown pretty dark--and a familiar, portly, blue-bound book in the other. While he was gone the woman said:
"You have touched Mr. Vedder in his weakest spot."
"I know of no combination in this world," said I, "so certain to produce a happy heart as good books and a farm or garden."
Mr. Vedder, having returned, slipped on his spectacles, sat forward on the edge of his rocking-chair, and opened the book with pious hands.
"I'll find it," he said. "I can put my finger right on it."
"You'll find it," said Mrs. Vedder, "in the chapter on 'Hedges.'"
"You are wrong, my dear," he responded, "it is in 'Mistakes of Citizens in Country Life."
He turned the leaves eagerly.
"No," he said, "here it is in 'Rural Taste.' Let me read you the passage, Mr.--"
"Grayson."
"--Mr. Grayson. The Chinaman's name was Lieu-tscheu. 'What is it,' asks this old Chinaman, 'that we seek in the pleasure of a garden? It has always been agreed that these plantations should make men amends for living at a distance from what would be their more congenial and agreeable dwelling-place--in the midst of nature, free and unrestrained.'"
"That's it," I exclaimed, "and the old Chinaman was right! A garden excuses civilization."
"It's what brought us here," said Mrs. Vedder.
With that we fell into the liveliest discussion of gardening and farming and country life in all their phases, resolving that while there were bugs and blights, and droughts and floods, yet upon the whole there was no life so completely satisfying as life in which one may watch daily the unfolding of natural life.
A hundred things we talked about freely that had often risen dimly in my own mind almost to the point--but not quite--of