men turn to the soil. They love to have flowers about them. Even perfumes are popular because they make one think of hidden gardens. Somewhere it has been written that no house is completely furnished until the garden has been made into a living-room. It should be the most used room of a house. For there is something about a garden that brings comfort to the hearts of men. In summer a garden, in winter an open hearth. Desolate indeed is the man who cannot appreciate a country landscape, the breath-taking roll of far horizons. Somewhere Sergeant Coulson has written a verse which in sheer loveliness should rank with any Shakespearian sonnet:
"Maybe I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Nor gather foxgloves in a lane
Down Somerset or Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far-distant alien spot,
What soul I have shall rest from care,
To know the meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way."
