gardens in, say, the Japanese July, and to find no flowers, it would be very hard for him to go into three in April, and see no Cherry blossoms, Irises, Wistaria, or Azaleas. All gardens may, therefore, be said to be green gardens at some time of the year, though few can be called so always.
I venture to assert that, in spite of all that one reads in gardening books on Japan, as to their coldness and sombreness of colouring, no gardeners in the world make a more intelligent effort to have a floral succession the year round than they do; for, with this poetic people, it must be understood that the autumn Maples and winter berries would be included with the flowers. And why the babies in their bright kimonos are not placed in the same category it is hard to say.
It is the greatest mistake to think, as is so often maintained, that in a Japanese garden, because its background and leading features are, as they ought to be, green, its planners have arrived at this end through a defective colour sense. It is probably from a different, a less arrogant, and a subtler colour sense than most nations have. My own theory is that different individuals, and even different races, have eyes sensitive to different parts of the spectrum. For instance, I see reds in a landscape where my sailor husband sees greens and blues. On botanizing expeditions here, in Hong-Kong, some of the
