of the other Christian soils he has read about.

If one wants a real garden, and has only hard and doubtful soil, it is better to dig out the entire bed to the depth of at least two feet, put in stones or cinders for drainage, then fill in with good, new, thoroughly respectable soil. But this is an expensive process, though it might be pleasantly accomplished on the instalment plan.

Then there is a homeopathic treatment, which is often helpful. It is the "texture" of the soil, as the scientific farmers call it, that is probably at fault. In which case, coal ashes, unlikely as they seem, well dug in, will serve as an inexpensive and effective remedy. Wood ashes will positively sweeten soil that has grown sour and unpalatable to plants. There are certainly other fertilizers, but this is to the city man the cheapest and readiest soil amelioration. Yet he, as well as his brother farmer, is privileged to send a sample of soil to the nearest State experiment station, and get definite relief in a complete diagnosis and prescription.

And then comes the planting. Very much as a theatrical manager is besieged and beset by loveliness demanding a part in his productions, the city gardener finds

it difficult to turn a deaf ear to the importunities of the much belauded garden beauties which are bepraised in catalogues and earnestly recommended to him by his friends.

"I'm so striking," urges the Crimson Rambler; "consider how stunning a show on your fence I would make." "I know it, my dear-annihilating," responds the gardener. "But what about your foliage in the summer, and your habit of ungainly sprawling? Little Wichuriana is better for this production; she does n't go off in her looks the minute she 's finished blooming. Neither does Dorothy Perkins."

"Nothing is lovelier in a garden than we are," plead the Tea Roses.

"Too delicate," answers the gardener, sadly. "If I were far enough south, I 'd have every one of you; but I can't have straw jackets and burlap mufflers in the yard all winter. Besides, who 's to spray you and all that sort of thing? You won't do."

"What's the matter with us?" ask the Pansies.

"Nothing, my dears, except that you have to be picked every day; and if I 'm away all summer, who 's to do it?"

"Everybody admires us and everybody

plants us!" claim the Paniculata Hydrangeas.

"I don't," returns the gardener, imperturbably. "You 're too big, you take up too much room, and you never know when to drop your flowers. Go sit on a suburban lawn, if you wish admiration."

"And I," said the Hall's Honeysuckle "I'm the most capable of vines-any position, any capacity, and I have a wonderful digestion."

"I retain you only as 'understudy,' promises the gardener. "English Ivy and Euonymus are both better for the part; if the work 's too hard for either of them, I'll put you in. But you know you can't hold on to your leaves all winter."

When finally given out, the parts are something like this.

Hydrangea hortensis Box or Bay

In making up his stock-company, it will be noticed that the city gardener lays stress on what the horticulturists call "habit," that excellence of form and character which is to a plant what good manners are in the social equipment of a person. Some of the plants most brilliant in their time of flowering are not good to look upon in the "off season," and there is no way of making them retire from the stage. The narrowly limited space of the town garden demands a certain finish, a correctness of demeanor; a loose, careless growth wholly charming on a country roadside is here out of place.

For this reason, many of the race of "broad-leaved evergreens," though generally but little planted, are peculiarly welcome. There is Andromeda floribunda, which keeps its laurel-like foliage in a summer luxuriance throughout the winter, and in November puts out buds like lilyof-the-valley. There are a fragrant little Daphne-Daphne cneorum, which shows stiffly upright rose-colored flowers in June and again in September; an evergreen candytuft; an evergreen barberry, with thick, shining, holly-green foliage and yellow flowers, which open in spring at the earliest possible moment; and mahonia,

which turns crimson in October and holds its color throughout the winter.

Deciduous shrubs one plants sparingly, -only those the branches of which are interesting in character when the leaves have gone, such as the Magnolia stellata, which looks very well, with pale-gray stems, and as many-branched as a hawthorn-bush. As early as January, furry buds, like overgrown pussy-willows, appear.

For the care of the city gardener is to make the old year forget itself, to prolong the autumn into the winter, and coax the spring into the little garden at the earliest possible moment. Therefore the city yard should be rich in bulbs, its little grass-plot thickly starred with crocus in purple and gold: there should be snowdrops wherever a warm corner can be found,-sometimes they are adventurous enough to push up their hard, silver-tipped little spears in January, and all the exquisite race of earliest comers should have a place: snowflake and chionodoxa, the color of April bluets; soft, dull-blue spikes of the grape hyacinth; scilla, the tiny bells of which are as deep in color as the fringed gentian; while for garden company they have the fragile and ethereal loveliness of the Magnolia stellata and the pale-gold bells of the naked-flowering jasmine. City-dwellers are usually utterly bereft of the exquisitely delicate bloom of very early spring, which is the rarest thing in nature. Following these lovely harbingers, come in rapid succession irises, the palest and most delicate-pallida, Dalmatica, pumila, the English and Spanish and Florentines; lily-of-the-valley wherever there is a shady corner. Jonquils, daffodils, and poet's

narcissus are followed by May-flowering and Darwin tulips, to which the snowball on the walls acts as an accompaniment.

If the gardener meditates a summer in town, when the crocuses are abloom, he sows Shirley poppies and corn-flowers wherever there is space, and sometimes where there is not. It is easier to pull out superfluous plants than to transplant infant poppies. When the poppies are past, he pulls them up, and tucks in dahlias or gladiolus bulbs. In the autumn hardy chrysanthemums and Japanese anemones will give color in plenty, and when the garden is "reefed" for the winter, these are cut down, annuals are pulled up, and hardy evergreens in tubs or pots-Retinospora, if one can afford it, or common junipers, if one cannot, take the place of the baytree or Hydrangea hortensis. With ivv or euonymus the walls are as green as in summer. Andromedas are serenely indifferent to the thermometer; here and there a brightly colored Japanese evergreen gives a touch of gaiety, and the little garden has not only a comfortable, but a really cheerful aspect, ready to welcome the firstcomer in spring and make it feel at home.

It is ingenuity that the city garden demands rather than large expenditure, careful planning rather than hard work, and the happiness it yields is well worth the trouble.

In the country the garden is a pleasure, yet it is only one of many "green delights." Without it are hills and brooks and running streams to be had for the seeking; but in the city the little garden stands for all of the country a man has, and therefore the more dearly necessary.

HARP came King Charles's summons

SHS we at supper lay;

Then "Boots and Saddles" sounded,
And, eager for the way,
A stirrup-cup we emptied,

Clinked cups and flashing blades,
And, leaning from our saddles,
In frolic kissed the maids.
Then while the women huddled

Like sheep, 'twixt glee and fright,
We clattered from the inn-yard,
And thundered through the night.
Young Leslie rode the foremost,
I followed with Carew,
And on my right were Howard

And haughty Fortescue;
And four and eighty King's men
Behind us gaily spurred,

To save the Lord's anointed,
Who sped the pressing word,
We rode not like psalm-singers,
All darkly nursing wrong:
Though dawn should flame with battle,
The night should pass with song.

In one unlighted village

The hinds came out to cheer; In one, like hares, the Roundheads To burrow fled in fear; And once old Noll's own troopers Drew up across the sward: Unhorsed, they fell behind us, Lamenting to the Lord. We galloped when we started,

We galloped as we crossed

The lonely downs at midnight,

And felt the biting frost Creep up from out the valleys;

At Cragen we drew rein, To breathe our panting horses;

At Ross we left the plain, And heard the cocks a-crowing, And saw, with brightening eye, The farm-yard lanthorns glimmer, And stars fade in the sky.

Day broke: we watched the valley Take shape before our eyes, And, bright above the river,

The King's own standard rise; But all about his fastness

The crop-eared rebels strode, And filed across the valley, And closely blocked the road. "A frosty dawn," said Leslie: 'As fair a hunting day

As ever broke." Then, turning,

Cried: "Hark-away! Away! The red fox to its cover,

The Roundhead to his mews; But for the knights of England The hunting they may choose!" We took the slope with laughter,

But each sword flashed like fire, Each face was flushed and eager,

Each heart throbbed with desire To ride among the foremost,

To gather at the death.

I leaned to meet the onset,

And heard the indrawn breath As one dark yeoman toppled Beneath my horse's feet.

Twice, thrice my good roan stumbled,
But still I kept my seat.

Sharp whirred the searching bullet,
High rang the biting steel,

And loud the purr of hoof-beat,
And shrill the saddle's squeal.