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FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MISS MARIAN C. COFFIN

THE GROUNDS OF A MODEST SUBURBAN HOME" and experience.” It is possible that if ries him from Maine to Virginia, from women held their noses more doggedly Oregon to Southern California, told me, to the technical grindstone, the prejudice between his moans over the heavy travel against employing them in offices might his year had brought him, that he gradually wear away.

wouldn't part with the experience for Her preparation finished, does the the world. landscape gardener graduate into an As the man, so the woman. A large existence of dignified otiosity? Is it a part of that “open-air" life held up so species of rest-cure ?

alluringly before her is really spent on Here it would seem the public is under overheated sleeping-cars. The fact is, some slight misapprehension. So far her days are compounded of alternate from being a placid, it is a peripatetic, exposure and confinement as she vibrates profession. The landscape gardener between her desk and the field. For may be classed as a traveling man. If much of the preliminary examination of he has National reputation-and if he estates must be done in the winter. has not, he may as well starve unosten- Country places—worse luck to them tatiously at once and be done with it--- are usually in the country, and visiting his services will be called for from all them in blizzardy weather means long, quarters of the map.

bitter drives, chilling tramps round deAnd may not an established firm insist serted grounds, meals at impossible upon work in a chosen locality ? Perhaps places and uncertain intervals, and genso, though landscape architects are pretty eral misery such as the average woman well “ bunched up" in New York and is not often called upon to endure. Bostor., and it seems doubtful whether And then the spring! Suppose a local work would go round. But they woman has a dozen gardens on her would not so limit themselves if they hands and the planting season falls due. could, Above everything else, a land- Why, then she must be as nearly as scape architect wants breadth and plas- possible in a dozen places at once. ticity of mind. He fears coming to What incredible skippings about the work by formula. Hence it is of the map! What total abandonment of the utmost importance that he be constantly laws of health! What magnificent inconfronted by fresh problems, new con- difference to hunger and fatigue, to wet ditions. One architect, whose work car. skirts and chilled blood ! While the rush lasts, your woman is the stuff that sion as a means of support." And Miss martyrs are made of.

Jones writes : “I do not know of any of But women pay for such strains. Miss the women who are considered to be Jones testifies that “robust health is an successful landscape gardeners who have essential to a woman who wishes to build not some means of their own assured to up more than a small practice in land- start with, and supplement their incomes scape gardening. The physical fatigue by their professional earnings. At presinvolved in this perpetual traveling is ent I do not think there is an opportuvery great, and I do not know of any nity for many or few women who depend woman who has been for any length of upon it entirely for their support.” Miss time engaged in a large practice who has Brown opines that it is wrong to look to not had to stop all work for a longer or it for a living primarily, as if it were a shorter time as the result of a break- trade, and she suggests that some of the down."

women who are turning their thoughts When I tell that to landscape garden- that way because they love growing ers of the other sex, they shake their things and need money, but not because heads and say, “ Pretty much the same they have large æsthetic endowment, might be said of the men."

will do better to start nurseries or greenAway go our flowery visions of a lighthouses for the nurture of some particular and puttering pursuit! Landscape gar- kind of flowers. dening deserves to rank among the As to the question whether the reward most taxing of professions.

is commensurate with the outlay of effort And the compensation? Well, was it and artistic skill, my feminine informants ever known that any fine art was over- hesitate to speak lest they seem to put a paid ?Hear the testimony of those money value on their own gifts. From who have succeeded. Says Miss Coffin : men I glean that in all probability women “Unless a woman has capital, or influ- who are making more than $2,500 a year ence, or is able to get into a good office, have cause to thank their stars. Also she is very foolish to take up the profes- that, as the natural assumption among

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FROM A PHOTOCRAPH BY THE J. HORACE M'FARLAND COMAN

THE DESIGN MAY BE FORMAL, AS IN THE OLD FRENCH OR ITALIAN GARDENS

garden owners is that the designer, anything of a hero to the man in the like the house architect, should claim street, landscape architecture not being only a certain percentage upon the cost as yet exactly a popular art. of the undertaking, some “jobs” make And then the results of one's labors but poor return. For a small garden are so painfully susceptible to change! may take so much fussing that it ought It is almost like hanging a painting by to pay its designer and superintendent the roadside, with brushes handy, and a as much as the original outlay for dig- palette full of colors, so that any passing ging and planting. Yet if any rash child might daub away at it at will. You woman should attempt to charge for her cannot copyright a landscape effect, nor services at that rate, quite terrible would otherwise protect it. Your client may be the result.

take a fancy to tinker it a bit himself, or Another point should be remembered he may sell his estate, and his successor, in considering landscape gardening as a by a few weeks of injudicious planting, money-making profession. You recall may blot out the picture wrought through Bacon's words, “ And a man shall ever

careful years. see, that when ages grow to civility and Not for one instant will all this daunt elegancy, men come to build stately the woman to whom landscape design is sooner than to garden finely.” Con- a master passion. To her, hardships versely, when men come to hard times, and responsibilities are but so many and something must be lopped off, the spurs. She exults in the demands upon fine garden is the first thing to go. In every power of mind and body. In other lean years such as this there is a general words, she is an artist, and, in so far as curtailment of gardening projects even her art is concerned, a willful fanatic. on great estates, for gardening is still To such as she it is not necessary to regarded as a pure luxury.

say that the game is worth the candle, be If the pecuniary rewards are not sure the candle never so dear. She will go to be rich, are there intangible compen- into the work, in any case, let who will sations? Nothing dazzling, certainly, in say her nay. the shape of fame. A National reputa- But the woman who is not sure of tion is ground for solid satisfaction, but herself, of her health, of her gift, of her it brings with it none of the excitement stick-to-it-iveness, had better lay to of popular applause. For no landscape heart the terse advice of Mr. Lowell: architect, unless he be prominently con- “Don't go into it unless you simply can't nected with large public works, becomes keep out !"

AN ITALIAN FUNERAL

BY JAMES OPPENHELII Tumbly, O humbly, in slow procession, the hearse and horses, the drivers and

mourners Trail between tenements hung with dark faces and eddying crowds at the

gray street-corners. Clouds hold the skies in, the gutter is muddy, workmen are ripping the street

for a sewer, And lo, to a drum-throb musicians are leading the dead, the dead to a Church

of the poor.

A drum-throb! Hark, like a sob of a mother heart-reft at midnight, music is

soaring, Cry from the deeps of the heart of the human, cry that breaks weird through

the world's wild roaring

Blasts of the Law that strikes without pity, wails of the Love that is bowed to

the Law, Voice of all mortals blessing God's giving, God's taking: hearking, I shiver

with awe!

And lo, to that music yon swarthy Italians between them are sawing a pine

beam in half, The dead-march rhythm runs through their labor; they swing, they sweat, they

grumble and laugh; Hurrying men greet each other and jostle on errands of business : all are

alive : But the dead trails through the red storm of the living, and the mourners are

dumb in the loud man-hive.

Now at the Church a shrunk shawled woman, weird with saint's e es and

prayer-given lips, Swings back the door, and lights the six candles, and bends to the Christ

whose breast-gash drips ; In comes the coffin borne by stout drivers, and twenty poor humans pour

shadowy after, Dark, dirty, bowed with a Pain more than mourning ; yon woman sheds it in

ghastly laughter.

O Poor, mean-begotten, rag-pickers, fruit-peddlers, refuse and riffraff washed up

a foul street, Stowed in a cellar under tons of great peoples, torn by the trample of millions

of feet, O Poor, have ye too the dead in your rooms ? Have you brought him forth

for the world to see? Six candles light him; a priest and a chanter sing-song old Latin to set the

soul free.

Jesus looks down and Mary beholdeth, incense arises: the dead is dead ! Women, () women weep under head-shawls, bleed, turn hearts, uncomforted ! Dead; he is dead, that was dead since birth, that never awoke to the music

and dream, A dumb forked beast that bred and fed mouths and was drowned at last in

the mud of the stream.

He is gone: one mouth less now to be filled ; but, oh, one toiler less : he is

gone! A month shall ye nearly starve for the burial : ye must pay, pay dearly for

leave to mourn. And why do ye do it? Is there love among shadows, in cellars ; have ye

dreamt of eternal life? Were ye led, after all, by the faming Vision, () son, ( brother, O mother, O

wife ?

Lives a God in your world—your world where the sands forever sink down

through the trusted sieves? I see ye stare at the Christ on the wall: my heart is torn as by hands-God

lives! Ye see his face, ye behold his sweetness; he gropes to you through a plaster

cast: And lo, to me he gropes through your faces, he gropes, he touches, he thrills

at last!

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THE PEASANTS LIVED IN LAYERS, THEIR HOMES OCCUPYING THE FACE OF THE CLIFF"

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