LAVINIA AND HER STARCHPAN GARDEN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11712, 23 July 1901, Page 3

LAVINIA AND HER STARCHPAN GARDEN.

; .ffj ~ „Uo has her garden, and she has It A '' lJ heard to has that she loves it. . has * XA wrdto say that she loves it. This ' I ' W been true some months ago, but ■' 1 ' Tfhe present time I have reason to doubt •I to continuity of her affections in this.par'l - 1 r At all events,' my cousin will nevor : j !; C y U to write about her garden, since it is II continuity of her affections the this par- - I r At all events, my cousin will never to to write about her garden, since it is •n and grief to her to compose the simplest pa | She explained to me in the beginning Tint''"ho woW leave this labour of love to e- for," as she justly remarked, there can V no garden in these days that is not immortalised in print. My suggestion that I | h uld prefer to write about Lavinia hersell, B A?1 that love letters were fast superseding Erie" boS in the public taste, was coldly Reived At the same time, however, La- '. I vinia kindly reminded mc that in writing I about a garden it would bo most unfashion- • I able— dowdy" was tho word she used— I confine oneself to horticultural observations. , J "You soe," she explained, "it is not the I garden, a nd how many seeds you buy, and .f where you put them, that people want to I know, but all tho other things." "Yes; and it is tho other things that Ij I J ' want to write about," said I; "so that's all want to write about," said I; "so that's all -"I have never been called a 'thing' bo-j ; • fore," said Lavinia, and then she blushed and changed the conversation with unprincipled Buddonness. . ' . „ Lavinia's garden is not in Germany, nor T«t in Surroy, nor in any other especially favoured or unfavoured corner of the earth.; She cannot wander down its damp and grassy; paths, nor soliloquise in pleasant solf-conf : ; . ' ■ Ecioitsncss under the blue dome of heave* over the first signs of last spring's sowiu| : or last autumn's' planting. She cannot dkj cover that her gardener is the most stupil and pig-headed of God's created beings, b( cause she has none; and she cannot, whei under the cloud of feminine low spirits, sefk relief is ascribing her own Weltsehmerz to the failure of Iceland poppies to grow sj<n- . metrically, coupled in ■ one breath with fie hampering effects of civilisation. No, jo.vinia can do none of these things, but |ho m can do what possibly, with an east wind bbwI ing, she considers preferable. She canjsit 1 by the fire in her own boudoir and solilorpise I whenever she likes. / , Tho first time, ono day last autumn, that I found Lavinia bending over those same ] pans upon her window-ledge, I was inclined to bo derisive, but for onco she was quite ' serious, : and tho attitude was so becoming to her that I became serious also. She was car?f"lly watering a strange compOuid of stones and charcoal, which apparently provided a somewhat unmaternal flower-rpd for tvided brown bulbs. I suggested the s few brown bulbs. I suggested tint the ' pleasure in such an occupation was ffceting,: ] I end the results, if dependent solely u»on her own efforts, undependable. / ' "But you know I'm not like that, Jack. ' ■ , I don't take up crazes like other gius." And I, being more interested is the re- ' proach in Lavinia's blue eyes than in all the ' bulbs in Carter's catalogue, blndly ac- ! quiesced. ■■■~. / Now, my cousin, who from th« crown of , her head to the sole of her small shoe is one of the most feminine creatures thai were ever ' made, and as full of moods as an April day, ' loves to boast herself of a complete immunity \ from feminine attributes; therefore, I ' . thought to please her, but shs was unac- . countably offended by my untruthful ac- , ;.;; : , v':? ,;• quiescence.. •* , / .- \ '" Of course you," she said vengefully, [ Icountably offended by my gardeners, ( quiescence. "Of course you," she said vengefully, ] "with your hothouses and.yaur gardeners, j : and .your maguificent 'results,' as you call them, will never know win* it is to en joy !■■'■:■ j'our own garden yourself ; Now I"—La- ; vinia began,to speak a little pompously, as ' if she were contemplating Hie laying out of '! • several acres at least with' hei own hands— •"I shall look after my flcwers myself, without a tiresome gardene»/to carry out my ] ideas all in the wrong way." . "Or a Man of Wrath to jibe at when you ?: are out of temper," I retorted a little crossly, , for I did.not want to tilk to Lavinia about Lor bulbs any more. / But' for some days after this interview my ] cousin assumed an attitude of unaccustomed haugtiness, towards me, and upon my next .; visit I found the onlfroad to her favour ; lay'through her gardea, which, by the way, I did not seem to me to prosper. But Lavinia ' appeared quite satisfied, and undertook to - explain the principle.' of the starch-pans to ; me. She said it wai quite simple, and, of , course, if a handful of stones and water, with no other air ani light than that afforded to an inside London window-sill, could pro- ' duoe a basin full jof flowers, the simplicity ] of the method was unquestionable. At the ! sarae-.time I could ( ,not ; entirely grasp it, [ any more than I can grasp the boasted simv, plicity of any of Lavinia's methods, which, to ■■ ay limited intelligence, appear excessively involved. "Do you think they will teally ever grow ?" I asked. "Grow? "Why, of course, Jack." She pointed triumphantly to one green spike, which certainly showed a tendency to shoot heavenward. It is more than you - deserve," sho continued, " but if you come and see me on New Year's Day you shall have a bouquet of daffodils. I think they are daffodils, but I get a little confused between them all, and whatever they are they will be -worth all your orchids and roses put together." " "V '_ ; , " ' I expressed myself entirely convinced upon this point, and as a reward for my humility ■was, permitted to carry Lavinia and my aunt off to lunch at Prince's. , :. " . I did not see my cousin for some weeks ' after this; but by New Year's Day I was 'in town again and hastened to present mysdf. It was rathe.* a small and wistful Lavinia that I found cowering over tho fire, but my eye lighting upon her windowsill, and my mind being full of a previous conversation, I drew my own 'conclusions. There bloomed, in solitary and unprotected ' gk)ry,- one long-legged Japanese narcissus surrounded by its own handsome sheaf of leaves—and nothing else ! Somehow, my basket" of orchids seemed to make matters ,", worse. - . - ',' ; " ■ , • '>• ; '" •'. , "Don't give them to me yet, Jack," pleaded Lavinia wofully, following the direction of my eyes. , ■ So I put them on the table and walked • over to tho starch-pans. Yes, the other , bulbs were were there all right, but they hat! the appearance of having celebrated the advent of the New Century by a football match amongst themselves. Some were lying on their sides; two, cheek by jowl, in drunken good-fellowship and another in respectable aloofness, but all showing an indecent amount of white fibrous root above the stones. "You see,; Jack, the pans were heavy"— *V my cousin had erect up behind me and was looking over my shoulder" and I've lifted them about a good deal, and then sometimes I stirred the gravel a little to sec how they were getting on." " You nave got one beauty, anyhow," said I, determined to be consolatory. g "But that's a mistake,", said Lavinia, still melancholy " they ought to be daffov" dils." .-■,•.-•■. Then cur eyes met, a sudden gleam came into Lavinia's, her dimple reappeared, and We both laughed. ' "I* takes a man not to say ' I told yon so,'" she said, sobered the next minute and .slipping ? small cold hand into mine. ; With great restraint I continued to talk about the bulbs; "they are all shooting," I protested valiantly—" and if they are daffodils they will bloom later—by March you will have a fine show." But my efforts ' to console Lavinia were not apparently suc- • cessful. Her face assumed an expression of yet deeper gloom, and there was a suspicion of tears on her eyelashes. "Lavinia!" I i% - exclaimed, and in my dismay I probably called her by some other names: "You surely don't mind like that! it only means wait- .. ing until March." j "" "And in February we start for Egypt," I wailed Lavinia; "so what's the good of that And then it wa« explained to me, somewhat spasmodically, that the condition of )-■:.■■ ray uncle's throat necessitated the removal - of himself and his family from all their , friends and occupations fox- an apparently indefinite period. "We may be away for more than a year," was my cousin's mourn- " ful conclusion of her tale; and this time her gloom was only surpassed by my own. - Lavinia by now was resignedly sniffing the orchids, oblivious apparently that her hand \ " 3till remained in mine. "And what's to become of me ?" said I; but my cousin instantly withdrew her hand and tried to wink away her tears. " ' "I think we had better begin to say ■ good-bye," she said, firmly. f "We will begin as often as you like," I replied, " but we will never finish." g . " It's all very well for you, Jack, with , ■ your gardeners and your hot-houses." And " though her voice quivered, there was a momentary return of her usual defiant inconsistency about Lavinia. " But there will . be only dried-up old mummies in Egypt," she went on, again dismally, "and I shall never see my deal' daft" Then she sub- ' sided altogether and buried her face in the orchids. *"' , So it was finally conveyed to my,dull mas- ; culine mind that the daffodils were not the only thingß that the mummies would have to replace, and I seized my opportunity. After all, Lavinia was not hard tc per- '•■''•' , suade that hot-houses and gardeners have their merits, and in quite a few minutes . the; April sun came back into her eyes— ; '. 'Ms time to stay. "■"lt <i;-\k*.' - >'■?,. -

"I suppose/ was not meant to be a gardener after 4" sno said presently, with a ;contented •'.'Biß»<.■' .„ , ' , ■ ' ' ~ „ "No, but/ou will have several to scoia, , said I, "an/ a Man of Wrath ( into the bar- ' Lavinia flushed, and so it was settled; and she hfa given me leave to write as many love-let«S. > as I like—provided they are never published.