Ah! that burning question of space, how it comes between us and our highest garden aspirations! Have we not all seen the Deodar or the Araucaria trying to exist in a narrow, twelve-foot forecourt, and smiled, if we have not rather been ready to weep, over the crass absurdity of its position? But such mistakes are made every day. Let us think, then, before we plant, of the things that are going to be, and take prudent counsel with ourselves.
Our garden resources, nowadays, are beyond all calculation greater than those of our forefathers, and we rejoice and are glad because of it; but we should let nothing oust from our affections the hardy trees and shrubs, native and naturalised, that are at home in our climate, beautiful in themselves and invaluable in their fitness to give shelter to the more fastidious immigrants from other latitudes.
Shelter, in fact, is as the keynote to the winter garden. Beauty is killed when leaves that should be green and smiling are bruised and brown, when boughs that should be perfect in grace and curve are twisted and tortured. We may be very sure, too, that such symptoms of discomfort in our gardens will re-act in disquiet on ourselves, whereas the mere sight of tree or bush standing firm in its green bravery through storm and stress tends, it may be unawares, to brace and uplift. Even the familiar Laurel, good as it is when suitably placed, and used not too freely, is constantly scathed and disfigured in damp or low-lying localities. For the same reason, it is doubtful whether Rhododendrons should be planted within range of our windows. Most of them, in severe weather, frightened before they are hurt, put on a melancholy air and droop of leaf which is apt to send a shiver through any shrinking mortal whose vitality is already low enough.
The bare boughs of winter, on the contrary, are never depressing. They sleep, but it is not the sleep of death; they rest, but while they are resting, we feel that the mystery of life silently works out the fulfilment of the promise of re-awakening. Meanwhile, before the veil of leafage hides so much else that is beautiful from our eyes, we see the things that are, tree trunks in all their majesty of girth and column and fencing bark, the net-work of budding spray, each after its kind distinct, yet each in its own form perfect. Even in mid-winter, the brown gummy buds of the Horse Chestnuts begin to swell at the ends of the swaying boughs, and the Ash-buds, as they make ready to burst their bonds, put on a deeper hue.