So well this succeeded, so admirably
every plant throve in that compost, naturally drained and lifted to the
sunlight, that I enlarged my views.
The soil is gravel, peculiarly bad for roses; and at no distant day my
garden was a swamp, not unchronicled had we room to dwell on such
matters. The bit of lawn looked decent only at midsummer. I first
tackled the rose question. The bushes and standards, such as they were,
faced south, of course--that is, behind the house. A line of fruit-trees
there began to shade them grievously. Experts assured me that if I
raised a bank against these, of such a height as I proposed, they would
surely die; I paid no attention to the experts, nor did my fruit-trees.
The mound raised is, in fact, a crescent on the inner edge, thirty feet
broad, seventy feet between the horns, square at the back behind the
fruit-trees; a walk runs there, between it and the fence, and in the
narrow space on either hand I grow such herbs as one cannot easily
buy--chervil, chives, tarragon. Also I have beds of celeriac, and cold
frames which yield a few cucumbers in the summer when emptied of plants.
Not one inch of ground is lost in my garden.
The roses occupy this crescent. After sinking to its utmost now, the
bank stands two feet six inches above the gravel path. At that elevation
they defied the shadow for years, and for the most part they will
continue to do so as long as I feel any interest in their well-being.
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