"So do I," agreed Mrs. Stanley. "But let me ask you something. Do you know anything about what blooms at various seasons? I thought not! Well, then, if you go ahead at your own sweet will how do you know that you won't have everything blooming at one time and not a single thing any other?"
"I thought all flowers just naturally bloomed in the spring," confessed Boyd.
"I thought so! Well you listen to me. Take that border for example. What are you going to plant there?"
"Marigolds," said Boyd, boldly.
"A very good flower. What's it going to look like when the marigolds are resting? Do you know what happens to marigolds when they aren't blooming? I thought not. Well, what you want is some small shrubbery—say bush honeysuckle—behind them."
Thus was the mind of Patrick Boyd illumined and his garden laid out for him. He had his nasturtiums and red geraniums and plumbago and other bright and common things; but he had them where Mrs. Stanley told him to have them. The result would be good, he had to admit, but his free and independent masculine soul was a little irked. At times he joined battle with Mrs. Stanley, but was always badly worsted for the reason that he knew very little about it. One cannot fight without ammunition. In his usual thoroughgoing manner he visited the keeper of the local greenhouses and nursery and from him carried back a number of choice bombshells.
"Pooh!" cried Mrs. Stanley. "You've been talking to old MacDonald. Do you know what your garden would look like, if he could have his way? It would be full of spindling, miserable varieties that could just make out to live because they would be out of their natural soil and climate. MacDonald is the worst kind of a snob."
"Snob!" echoed Boyd, recalling the surly, independent corduroyed old Scotchman.
"Yes, plant snob. You don't believe it? Well, listen. One day we were talking about pepper trees. 'Yes,' said he, 'it is a beautiful tree; it's a pity it's so common.' Now what do you say to that? a pity it's so common, indeed!"
