IN AN eastern state, not twenty-five miles from one of the largest cities in the Union, I have come across sections as remote in reality from the centers of thought and the business world as though they were in the heart of a Montana forest. Usually in tracts of land cut off from railroads, the farms, mostly small ones, nestle cosily among the woods and hills very much as they must have done two hundred years ago, for the land here was among the very first in the country to be agriculturally claimed and used. The citizens, in times far back, were politicians and men of affairs, and indulged themselves in debating societies, clubs, secret lodges and so on, aiming to be liberal minded ; but the onward march of the world outside has had an opposite effect on them, and their ambitions intellectually have withered away, with a few isolated exceptions. Even the Saturday night lounge at the corner-store for the exchange of ideas is left to the boys. The men seem to be as distinct and different a type from the western backwoodsman as can be imagined. Thoroughly discouraged and narrow-lived, they have the air of being behind in the race, and instead of striving for the betterment of things, take a delight in making existence as hard as possible for themselves.

Early to work, and with the day's works's end to bed, is very often the day's sole program ; no magazines, no time for flowers, no anything, I regret to say, that would tend to brighten the home life.

And as for the boys - a small percentage of whom will presumably step into their father's shoes - they will be their fathers over again, I have not found one this summer who would own to a liking for flowers, for instance. Perhaps boys, in this, are alike the world over, but yet it strikes one as strange that those born and living with such a beautiful country surrounding them, woods and flowers nowhere in the country excelled, should have every thought centered in things the very opposite. They live with no other thought than the city. A city cousin is their delight, and the bits of slang they manage to pick up are conned over and mouthed as delicious morsels. It is only natural then, I suppose, that they should effect an extreme contempt for things green and vernal, and at their first opportunity follow their cousins to town. The country's hope is in its boys, of course, and this country's hope is very faint - population and land-values decreasing together and farming generally going down. There are, for a fact, seventy less inhabitants in this township now than there were in 1820, and the same story is heard very often elsewhere.

The explanation everywhere given is that "the larger farms west swallow up the little ones east." So much for the cause of the Eastern Backwoodism.

Flowers and gardens consequently would have a poor chance were it not for the women folk, and even they, in their floral surroundings, are forced to be unambitious - public sentiment being so thoroughly against them. The weakness for flowers, when it exists, is amiably tolerated, but the universal feeling seems to be that not too much time must be wasted and no money expended.

I know two or three gardens, quite extensive and flourishing, that as far as plan goes are a mere growth of the years, aided by expert bargaining from time to time, and have cost not one cent of money. It is on record that once a reckless woman subscribed to a farmer's journal that netted her as a premium a Storm King fuschia, but the poor Storm King sickened and died and made such a melancholy example of itself, that the experiment has never been repeated. * * * The neighbors, when they indulge in a call, poke around among the flowers while they talk, as a general thing, and when they discover a plant new or rare to the locality, hasten to take a "slip." It is a very formal call indeed that doesn't produce for the visitor a half-dozen acquisitions, and the hostess, unconsciously business-like, makes a note of it, and when the call is returned takes every care to make the exchange even. This system of exchange is the secret of the growth of the gardens of the backwoods, and one result is that the same flowers re-appear at every farmhouse. Youth-and-old-age (zinnias), lady-slippers, marigolds, queen marguerites (asters), day lilies (at least three distinct lilies are so called here) are abundant, and perhaps the most characteristic. Every yard has them more or less in profusion.

The zinnia is a plant wonderfully well able to take care of itself, and seems to take a special delight in blooming and brightening the homes of the very poor. They and marigolds may be plebeian, but I do not think I ever saw a more brilliant display than the beds of these flowers that adorned the front of an old darky wood-chopper's hut. He had but a small space between his doorstep and the road, but it was a mass of color, reds and yellows. One could not help thinking that there were plenty less satisfying homes than that poor old cot.

The garden I know most intimately is surrounded as usual by a white-washed pale fence, and is filled to overflowing with maple, spruce, tamarisk, fruit trees and a mass of all kinds of shrubbery and flowers. It is full - of course, too full - and indeed I do not think there is a single law of landscape gardening that has not been violated in the arrangement of it, yet the place to me is full of charm ; and, personally, I would not have it altered. People from the city who occasionally catch glimpses of it, frown on it, as a matter of course, and suggest that the boxwood be removed, and the maples be trimmed, and the cherry trees cut down, but nothing is ever done, and I hope nothing ever will be. With all deference to The American Garden, I would even let the fence remain as it is. It has its uses. As a trellis for dahlias and roses it could not be excelled, and no one can call it unsightly. Around the house and the edge of the yard the flowers are planted - wherever it came handy - and though precious little care is bestowed upon them, they thrive and bloom famously ; geraniums, sweet alyssum, nasturtiums, dahlias - all a delicious tangle. Over a cedar tree a wild clematis drapes itself, and honeysuckle and wistaria festoon the porch.

Under a Norway spruce some Begonia rex slyly and shyly bloom. In a corner, screened by althea bushes, white August lilies hold sway. Opposite them, and surrounding the pump, are groups of white phlox, hollyhocks and more dahlias. Every space is utilized. The pump takes the place of the more aesthetic fountain and is the center around which the garden thrives. Everything leads the eye up to the life-giving pump. Perhaps it is not inappropriate.

Youth-And-Old-Age. The Zinnia.

The before-mentioned boxwood, of all shapes and sizes, lines the walk, and clumps of it are scattered about in a mysterious way as if they might be the remains of a one-time "maze," though it is unlikely that the garden ever boasted of so aristocratic an adjunct. But everything about the place gives a vague suggestion of by-gone times and people, and the ghost of many a poor hard-worked, scanty-pleasured women gardener seems to linger around plants that knew no other care.

I know another garden in the neighborhood, presided over by a Quakeress, and though its directress uses the "thee" and "thou" in speech and dresses in neat and quiet garb, her taste flor-ally, as evidenced by her plants, leans surprisingly toward the worldly, and her main idea seems to be to eclipse her neighbors and possess what they possess not. The exchange system would be universal but for the Quakeress - she is the one exception. She has a collection which she is strong-minded enough to keep to herself. She knows it is beyond compare, and she wards off traders with contempt. She showed me with pride a thriving specimen of the "Bride" rose (not "The Bride" of recent fame, but something older, a white hybrid perpetual), an immense climbing Baltimore Belle and three curious cacti, among them a night blooming cercus with one cherished bud. With this last came the information that it came from the city. My hostess, noticing how impressed I was, volunteered its further history.

"I stole it," whispered the gentle Quaker, looking fearfully around, though there was not a soul within half a mile. " I went visiting to Gale's folks in town, summer-was-a-year ago, and when we went through the hot-house there, I peaked off a bit of this," pointing to the cereus, "before I knew what I was about, and there it is. Don't do anything to it much, but it does thrive wonderful. I guess I was meant to have it".

This cereus is the special admiration of the neighborhood. All the women gaze on it with something of awe and wonder, but I do not think any of them know as much of its doubtful antecedents as the gentle reader and I do, or I am very much afraid that they would follow the example of its owner and "peak a bit".

Pennsylvania. Henry McBride.