I sometimes think I am coming to classify my friends according to the way they act when I talk about my garden. On this basis, there are three sorts of people.
First there are those who are obviously not interested. Such as these feel no answering thrill, even at the sight of a florist’s spring catalogue. A weed inspires in them no desire to pull it. They may, however, be really nice people if they are still young; for, except by special grace, no one under thirty need be expected to care about gardens—it is a mature taste. But in the mean time I turn our talk in other channels.
Then there are the people who, when I approach the subject, brighten up, look intelligent, even eager, but in a moment make it clear that what they are eager for is a chance to talk about their own gardens. Mine is merely the stepping-stone, the bridge, [pg 098] the handle. This is better than indifference, yet it is sometimes trying. One of my dearest friends thus tests my love now and then when she walks in my garden.
“Aren’t those peonies lovely?” I suggest.
“Yes,” dreamily; “you know I can’t have that shade in my garden because—” and she trails off into a disquisition that I could, just at that moment, do without.
“Look at the height of that larkspur!” I say.
“Yes—but, you know, it wouldn’t do for me to have larkspur when I go away so early. What I need is things for April and May.”
“Well, I am not trying to sell you any,” I am sometimes goaded into protesting. “I only wanted you to say they are pretty—pretty right here in my garden.”
“Yes—yes—of course they are pretty—they’re lovely—you have a lovely garden, you know.” She pulls herself up to give this tribute, but soon her eyes get the faraway look in them again, and she is murmuring, “Oh, I must write Edward to see about that hedge. Tell me, my dear, if you had a brick wall, would you have vines on it or wall-fruit?”
It is of no use. I cannot hold her long. I sometimes think she was nicer when she had no garden of her own. Perhaps she thinks I was nicer when I had none.