Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1927-09-29

Two things Inere are LHiS WElteI
likes, yea, and third; a country per-
son, winding road, and rambling
letter. The country man or woman
we hope to treat OF in later issue.
as we'll as the topic of the winding
road.
Today it is q pleasure and a privilege
to present to the readers of This and
That a sample of the rambling letter.
if it is possible to cram it all into the
allotted space. and. il not, we shall in
clude as much as geographically pos
sible.
Dear Mr.. Tracewell: Your charm
ing column of This and That has in
vited the following letter, which may
contain too much of this and that.
Until several years ago, 1T was my
privilege to teach seventh grade in
the public school in a country village
in a nearby state. it Is an asri
cultural section and there was nothing
aplenty but pupils. The majority OF
them came i'm from very remote dis
tricts. 10 miles or more, in school
BUSES.
Your article the other day on the
death of the garden brought up 81
many delightful mental pictures con-
nected with my own life in the country
and also school experiences that
cannot resist the impulse to pass 1t
on to you--as many others are doing
daily.
Perhaps when you have finished
this you will say that the places of
which l write were not gardens. but
then garden is a very elastic word and
shall continue to think of mine as
gardens Of the most exquisite and
poetic nature. They were not COM
mercial gardens, nor did the gardener
ever think in the terms Of the bal
anced meal at the time of planting in
the Spring. Though. as recall the
delicious things that came from those
gardens, it turned out to be balanced
lust so-Without thinking about 1t.
Maybe not a safe rule to follow very
Ear.
cat this season Of the year the
gardens of my pleasant memory Were
all strangled, literally choked to death
by morning -glorieS, in grand anC
triumphant battle with the gardener
who always weakened in the late sum
mer. and in his weakness was their
opportunity. They wove gorgeous
CARPET on the ground, and wrapped
themselves around the late corn, run
ming up the grand spiral stairway and
f1inging their glorious trumpets to the
sky, the sun, the sun. And yet they
could stand the sun only at its rising,
with it's colors as delicate and ethereal
as their own.
''These gardens were once the pride
and joy Of a people who failed to ge
a vision of the time when the ole
v,n.,16 rhan~n hands
often as the poor old horse whicf
had the misfortune to fall into the
hands of the horse trader.
These same dear people buried
their dead in the garden. And what
sweet custom it was. But looking
at them from the present, what
pathetic thing it has come to be. They
did it in Old Englande, why not in the
Old Dominion? The ones who hat
passed away were not so dead If they
were sleeping in the garden with g
mantle Of blue-eyed periwinkle over
them.
Besides, there were the favorite
fruit trees. | remember more espe
cially the plum trees. row Of then
near the garden fence. There car
be nothing more fragrant than the
plum blossom. It Is more than al
the perfumes Of Araby put together
But there were others as well-apple
pear, quince-each tucked away in g
little corner of it's own, as If the gar
dener had had that alone in view
which he hadn't, but only that hi
was working at picture that could
not fail however he planned the oh
jects, background. foreground. mid
die center or what.
"As I write this I am once more 6
little barefoot girl following the fur
row Of freshly turned earth in the
garden. which is being plowed by ar
old negro man and an old sorrel horse
An old house of quaint architecture