s cheeks and see its jaws
yawn wide. But snapdragon tends dangerously toward the magenta. Then there
was the calendula--a delight to the young, because it blooms incessantly
long past the early frosts, and has brittle stems that yield themselves to
the clumsiest plucking by small hands. But calendula ranges from a faded
yellow, through really pretty primrose shades, to a deep red-orange
touched with maroon.

And, finally, there was the portulaca. Children love it, perhaps, best of
all. It offers them fresh blossoms and new colors each morning, and it is
even more easy to pick than the calendula. Who would deny them portulaca?
Yet if this be admitted, one may as well give up the battle. For, as we
all know, there is absolutely no color, except green, that portulaca does
not perpetrate in its blossoms. It knows no shame.

In short, I am giving up. I am beginning to say with conviction that
color-schemes are the mark of a narrow and rigid taste--that they are born
of convention and are meant not for living things but for wall-papers and
portiA"res and clothes. Moreover, I am really growing callous--or is it,
rather, broad? Colors in my garden that would once have made my teeth ache
now leave them feeling perfectly comfortable. I find myself looking with
unmoved flesh--no creeps nor withdrawals--upon a bed of mixed magentas,
scarlets, rose-pinks, and yellow-pinks. I even look with pleasure. I begin
to think there may be a point beyond which discord achieves a higher
harmony. At least, this sounds well. But, again, I find it hard to explain
to some of my friends.

Indoors, it is another story. When I bring in the spoils of the garden I
am again mistress and bend all to my will. Here I'll have no tricks of
color played on me. Sunshine and sky, perhaps, work some spell, for as
soon as I get within four walls my prejudices return; scarlets and
crimsons and pinks have to live in different rooms. I must have my
color-schemes again, and perhaps I am as narrow as the worst. Except,
indeed, for the children's bowls; here the pink and the magenta, the lamb
and the lion, may lie down together. But it takes a little child to lead
them.

* * * * *

Out in my garden I feel myself less and less owner, more and more merely
steward. I decree certain paths, and the phlox says, "Paths? Did you say
paths?" and obliterates them in a season's growth, so that children walk
by faith and not by sight. I decree i