In the Garden A little indulgence in sheer delight is
permissible this week, for the spring flowers, in defiance of the unseasonable wind and temperatures, are abundant in their glory. I have never known such a season for wall-flowers. With their Rembrandt fires smouldering under the cool vases to which the Darwin tulips must be compared, with here and there mists of myosotis to prettify the solid blocks of colour, the terraces and pondside beds offer an unintended coronation to the Festival scene. My jeremiad last week about the impending greenfly pest that must always follow a north-cast wind is wasted, and I can offer it to any opposition party. The roses have never looked cleaner.
The utility part of the garden, too, is becoming more substantial in its promise, and there also the lack of pests is remarkable. No calomel has been needed for the young onions, and no derris for the radishes. Has something gone wrong with the economic consequences of the wet winter
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