Gay cottage gardens, glad, Comely, unkempt, and mad, Jumbled, jolly, and quaint; Nooks where some old man dozes; Currants and beans and roses Mingling without restraint; A wicket that long lacks paint-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England. Sprawling for elbow-room, Spearing straight spikes of bloom, Clean, wayward, and tough; Sweet and tall and slender, True, enduring, and tender, Buoyant and bold and bluff, Simplest, sanest of stuff-- Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England. W. W. BLAIR FISH DAWN IN MY GARDEN I went into my garden at break of Delight, Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky, To see how many cucumbers had happened over night, And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high. I went into my garden when Rest had fallen away From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green, To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day, And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean. I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing low Through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines, Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row, Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines. Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold, From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night, But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold, When I went into my garden at break of Delight! MARGUERITE WILKINSON THE PROUD VEGETABLES In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat, There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat; But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round, And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground. Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one. He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun. "We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he, "A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see." Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck, Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck. Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean, The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green. A big white _daikon_ hid in earth beneath his leafy crest; And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest. Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds With pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds. There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves Great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves. Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink, And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.